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“Apologize?” I tilt my head.
She has her hands in front of her and I think I hear a cracking knuckle. She’s nervous. She may have come on strong, but all that self-confidence has gone out the door. Her shoulders are slumped inward, she looks even smaller than she is, almost like a helpless little girl.
“I know I ruined your plans and you must be so angry,” she whispers and I realize she’s scared of me.
“No, no, I’m not,” I rush over to her and I press my boxing gloves on her shoulders. She flinches when I touch her. “Listen, I can be a fucking jackass. Any of my brothers will tell you. So, when you see me acting like a crazy, angry jackass, don’t pay any attention to me.”
“I didn’t mean - “
“I know,” I interrupt her. “I just want you to know that there’s no need to apologize. None of this is your fault.”
“I wish I could believe that,” she whispers again, her voice so quiet that it simply disappears around us.
This is the moment when girls start crying and I cringe. I can’t let her start crying. Shift her focus somehow. Make her think of something else. Show her she isn’t worthy of self-pity. She’s so much more. She just needs to see that.
“You know what I’m good at?” I ask her and I see from the look on her reddened face that she wasn’t expecting such a question
. I don’t wait for her to ask me what. “Practicality.” She lifts her left eyebrow. “I’m practical. I’m an angry jackass, but a practical angry jackass.” This makes her smile. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that we could spend the whole evening, the whole night and then days just crying over spilled milk. Or whatever they say we’re supposed to cry over. I say no. Sure, you found yourself in a shitty situation. A fucked-up situation no girl, actually no person should ever find themselves in. But it happened to you. You know why? Not because you’re a bad person, not because you deserved it in some fucked up way, not because karma is a bitch, but simply because shit happens and there’s rarely something you can do about it.” I rest for a breather and I see that she’s listening. “So, instead of saying, ‘why did this fucked up thing happen to me?’, you should find the silver lining. I mean, you’re alive, aren’t you? You’re healthy. You’re physically well. You have the chance to go back home and live the rest of your life the way you want to. Sure, they messed you up. I know how that feels. They stole a moment of your life and turned it into a nightmare. That part you can’t change. But you know what? You can change the ending. This is your fucking movie. Your fucking life. Give them that one moment. Let them have it. Then reclaim the rest of your life by moving on, by becoming stronger.”
After this dramatic monologue, I feel like I deserve a freakin’ Oscar. At least. My mouth is dry and I eye the half-empty water bottle. She is still silent. The corners of her lips are not revealing a smile, but her eyes are gleaming. She seems to look for a distraction, but doesn’t find it quickly enough. I know we’re both in an emotional hurricane right now, which threatens to consume us both. The winds are breaking through to our very core and even though it’s frightening, it’s thrilling at the same time. I know she feels the same way.
Suddenly, her body relaxes. Her mouth parts slightly and I’m not sure if she’s going to smile or talk. Either would suit me. She jerks her head upward, gesturing at the punching bag.
“Can you show me how it’s done?” she asks and I can barely believe my ears. She wants to punch? Hell yeah.
“You want to see or do?” I wonder.
“You never learn by watching,” she gives me a smile that assures me there is so much more going on underneath this calm surface that she shows everyone.
Instead of a reply, I walk over to the corner and open a small wardrobe. I find the tiniest pair of gloves I could find and I walk back to her, throwing them in her lap. She reacts instantly and manages to catch them. One point.
“Put them on,” I tell her.
“But, I’ve never - “
“Like you said, you learn best by doing,” I wink at her, then turn my back, to walk over to the punching bag.
A few moments later, she is standing next to me. I glance at the gloves. They look perfect. Good girl.
“With the punching bag, there are only two scenarios,” I tell her. “Either you’re working the punching bag or the punching bag is working you.”
“It doesn’t look that hard,” she frowns. “I mean, you just punch as hard as you can, no?”
“Thinking like a true amateur,” I chuckle, in good-nature. “You’re partly right, though. Working with a punching bag is a combo of two things. It’s good punching with good body movement. Sounds easy, no?”
“Yeah,” she nods.
“And, still, so many people can’t do it right,” I sigh. “You don’t want to practice just power. That doesn’t do you much good, because no matter how good you get with the bag, that is too different from fighting a real opponent. You know why?”
“Your opponent moves?” She gives me her best shot and I love it. She’s actually listening.
“Exactly. Your opponent isn’t a bag that’s just waiting for you to hit it and doesn’t hit back. Your opponent hits you back. Hard. And, the harder you hit, the harder your opponent hits, too. So, it’s all about skill and speed, not just punching power. Remember that. That’s crucial.”
“OK,” she nods again and I see her hands are already raising, as if they’re itching to hit.
“Alright then. If you want to punch good, you need to snap and flow.”
“Snap and flow?” she repeats, confused.
