The count echoed in his head. He could hear voices around him telling the coach to stop the fight. Saying that he had had enough that he was beat. Jarrett turned his attention away from his gum shields and watched Chinedu walk away from the neutral corner and joke around with his corner.

Were they laughing at him?

Jarrett lifted his body off the canvas and onto his knees.

**“So I’m a clown am I?”
**

He thought to himself as he picked up his gum shields and popped them back into his mouth. Jarrett’s tank was empty but now he was running purely on anger. He struggled to plant his feet on the canvas continuing to talk to himself,

“Am I just a punchbag for you to play with?”

Everything else around him became insignificant, as if the only thing left in the world was himself and this man before him who had beaten him down and was now mocking him. Chinedu was still laughing around with his corner, his back turned to Jarrett. With his feet now firmly on the canvas, Jarrett extended his legs, slowly standing up.

His coach gave him a look as if to say “are you sure?” Jarrett gently pushed him aside and moved towards the center of the ring, then waited. Chinedu still had his back to him; immersed in a conversation with his trainer. They had not realised that Jarrett had got back up to his feet, which only fuelled Jarrett’s anger forcing him to explode.

He walked up to Chinedu and punched him in the back of his head.

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#

Jarrett hunched over onto his side and tongued his gum shields back onto his teeth. He could see Chinedu staring at him from the neutral corner, his arms resting on the ropes. Without breaking eye contact he struggled to his feet using his right fist for support on the blue canvas.

He wasn’t going to loose again, he promised himself…even if it was only a sparring session. He was not going to let the bastard have the satisfaction of winning. Jarrett got to his feet in time for the eight count and raised his hands above his head, a statement that he was fine….he was hurting.

The coach gave the go ahead to

Chinedu had no intention of letting Jarrett get back his composure, and steamed towards him looking to throw a killer punch which would end the fight. Jarrett could barely stand let alone try and keep his distance, he stumbled forward and grabbed Chinedu before he could offload his right straight, holding him into a clinch.

Jarrett struggled to hold onto Chinedu’s arms and took a number of uppercuts to his body. He could feel himself being slowly pushed into the corner of the ring…no escape. He could feel the heat of Chinedu’s breath against the right side of his face. Chinedu continued to drive forward resisting Jarrett’s hold.

Just as Jarrett felt the cold PVC of the corner against his back, Chinedu stopped resisting and whispered into his ear in a thick Nigerian accent “I’ve got you.” Jarrett prepared himself for the oncoming assault…but nothing happened. All that could be heard was Chinedu’s calm breathing into his right ear. Jarrett eased his grip on Chinedu’s arms.

Chinedu suddenly stopped breathing, which startled Jarrett. The prolonged silence seemed to stop time, leaving Jarrett with his thoughts; what was he doing? Was he tired? Why wasn’t he trying to finish him off? Paranoia came across him which clouded his perception…he didn’t notice Chinedu slowly twisting his body.

Like a horse bursting out of a starting gate, Chinedu thrust his shoulder into Jarrett’s face. Jarrett’s eyes began to water everything became a blur. He lifted his arms to protect his face leaving his body exposed. Chinedu’s strategy had gone to plan and he unleashed a series of violent punches to Jarrett’s body.

Like a perpetual motion machine Chinedu continued to deliver uppercuts and hooks to Jarrett’s body, never letting up. Jarrett tried to limit the damage by blocking with his elbows tucked in tightly against his ribs. He knew that the moment he brought his gloves down from his chin in an attempt to protect his body, Chinedu would take the opportunity to knock him out.

He had to hold on.

Jarrett found it hard to breathe against the constant pressure of Chinedu’s punches to his body. He was taking short sharp breaths through the small gap between his gum shields and teeth, but he couldn’t keep it up for much longer. He had to do something to try and disrupt Chinedu’s rhythm which seemed to be constantly getting faster and faster.

With most of the strength he could muster, Jarrett crashed his forehead into Chinedu’s face which forced him to step back. Jarrett tried to get out of the corner but had stunned himself with his own illegal move, and was struggling to make sense of his surroundings. He felt the movement of air on his face before the glove connected, which crumpled him against the ropes leaving him a broken man on the canvas.

He had nothing left. He stared at his gum shields which lay on the canvas centimeters away from his eyes. He felt a droplet of sweat travel across his face and onto his nose.

He would have to find the determination to GET UP before he was counted out.

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Everything around him went black, he could hear his coach’s voice, counting in the distant background.

His head was groggy… he felt as though everything around him was spinning but in complete darkness.

He could hear a voice somewhere in the distance telling him to get up.

His body began to take over, wanting him to slip into unconsciousness.

Get up

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As Chinedu came within range he decided not to take the opportunity to throw the right. His experience shone through; never stand toe to toe with a brawler. He feinted a move to the right and swiftly switched moving to the left. He watched as Chinedu’s overhand right hit nothing but air, and saw that he was now off balance.

Jarrett instinctively saw the opening and threw a double jab then a right straight, then moved back maintaining his distance. Chinedu stumbled slightly, the punches taking advantage of his lack of balance. He regained his footing and stood up straight, ready to move forward like a tank.

Chinedu rushed forward again, willing to take as many punches Jarrett could throw at him just to land one. Jarrett peppered him with Jabs, trying to force a gap between them, every now and then throwing a right then changing direction to circle around him.

Jarrett knew that Chinedu was waiting to throw a power punch; he just had to keep alert and make sure he didn’t get close enough to take the opportunity. He circled around him watching out for the right fist. It suddenly shot out, hooking towards his head.

Jarrett ducked to find that Chinedu had deceived him with a fake hook and had set him up for the uppercut which landed flush. Jarrett was lifted off the canvas; his head snapped back so violently that he thought it was knocked off. Jarrett crashed back down to find himself looking up at the ceiling. His eyes closed he could hear his coach making the count from outside the ring. He had to

FIND the will to GET UP.

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#

Jarrett’s timing was perfect. He threw all his bodyweight into his right cross, his waist and shoulders turning into the punch, pivoting the momentum through the ball of his right foot. Chinedu’s guard was no where to be seen and Jarrett’s fist landed cleanly on the left side of his chin.

Jarrett watched as Chinedu’s head was snapped to the left, throwing sweat into the air. He was so preoccupied with whether or not Chinedu had been hurt that he didn’t see the large overhand right looking to connect with his temple. Jarrett’s split second reaction was to slip to his right.

His attempt to slip the punch was futile, Chinedu’s punch connecting with the side of his head. His whole body dropped to the canvas, his head resting against the material, he could smell the sweat. He could hear his coach making the count from outside the ring. He had to

FIND the will to GET UP.

⇨ Next

⇦ Back

Jarrett stood in the blue corner looking across the ring at Chinedu in the red. About fifteen minutes earlier there was a little commotion from the Nigerian camp, as Jarrett who was two weight classes below their fighter had refused to wear head gear and would not agree to fight under the 3 knockdown rule. Jarrett figured that Chinedu being the heavier man would have no problem flooring him, but keeping him down would be a different story.

Everything was resolved however when Jarrett told them that they need not worry about him getting hurt, as Chinedu was slower than his Grandma and wouldn’t get close enough to hit him. Chinedu then proceeded to throw his headgear on the floor and jump in the ring.

Chinedu rushed across the ring looking to end the fight quick. His hands were low looking to punch from his chest, with exploding power. Jarrett stayed where he was, assessing the situation. He saw Chinedu’s chin exposed and his footwork square on.

**No defence whatsoever.
**

If he got the timing right he could land with a right straight when Chinedu came into range.

⇨Throw the right straight

OR

⇨

⇦ Back

He had a very dark complexion and was heavily muscled. His footwork was almost non-existent, but he made up for it with the amount of raw power he had. He was a heavyweight slugger, and looked like he could knock out a cow with one punch.

The stranger continued to pummel the bag unrelenting, as everyone went back to what they were doing, secretly watching out of the corner of their eyes. A small smile came across Jarrett’s face as he continued to watch. The new arrival was strong.

The large black heavy bag which was being battered around like a rag doll was affectionately nicknamed “The Rock.” Rookies, often looking to prove themselves by hitting the biggest thing they could see, often made the mistake of choosing the Rock to work on for a two minute round. What they didn’t anticipate was the bag felt like you were hitting concrete, and was nearly unmovable.

Jarrett loved watching newbies trying not to loose face, working on the Rock for the full two minutes when their reasoning would tell them to stop after the first punch. They would then act tough as they walked away from the bags then disappear into the toilets to find the skin on their knuckles ripped to shreds.

As Jarrett swigged a bottle of water his coach stood beside him, both of them watching the slugger work the bag. “He’s Nigerian; his names Chinedu Okolo” the coach said, “He’s in England on a tour. Some people say he’s going to be the next heavyweight champion of the world. I agreed to let him train here for his next upcoming fight.”

Jarrett smiled, “he’s strong, what’s his record?” The coach turned his head to look at Jarrett, “13 wins and no losses…” Before he could finish his sentence Jarrett turned his head to look back at the coach, “All by knockout!” The coach smiled and nodded his head, “you up for a sparring session?” Jarrett pulled on his 8 ounce gloves, his left glove needing help to get on with his teeth. He replied while biting onto the leather

“I was born ready.”

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Battered and bruised
A trophy in my hand,
I stumble into the changing room
Hardly able to stand.

I took a serious beating
Hit like never before,
Devastating combinations
Which made me hit the floor.

There’s no smile on this boxer’s face
Not even a little grin,
My heart’s wrapped in emotional despair
Another fight I didn’t win.

Now regret fills the air
What could I have done to win the fight?
If I trained twice as hard
Would things have turned out right ?

They say its good experience
Well that…I’ll have to see,
Next fight I’ll be prepared
I want the taste of victory.

⇦ Back

He looked at his hands in the mirror. His hand wraps were tight, just the way he liked it. His hands fixed into fists. He threw a combination of punches aiming at his reflection. He was fast. As if responding to his own attack he then weaved his head from side to side, rolling his body, his guard up by his chin.

His form was immaculate. Simultaneously attacking and defending; hit without being hit. He put his whole body weight into every punch, twisting his hips with his legs. He was light on his toes, effortlessly bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to instantly change direction when required.

The boxing gym was filled with the loud monotonous sound of a speed bag being worked, bouncing off the board in a three hit pattern. Jarrett watched Ryan in the reflection of the mirror ; he had been at it for half an hour. He knew that Ryan’s mind was somewhere else, contemplating his first fight. He had lost.

Jarrett left him alone; he knew all too well the feeling of a loss. You doubt yourself, asking if you can you really hack it as a boxer? It’s the question that drive’s you crazy. Do you get back on your feet, grit your teeth and get on with it? Or do you never step in the ring ever again?

Jarrett snapped out of his contemplation when a large smack echoed across the gym. The drumming sound of the speed bag had stopped and Ryan was standing motionless looking in the direction of the heavy bags. Another crash from the heavy bags reverberated against the wooden floors and concrete walls, and everyone stopped what they were doing.

Buried in the heaviest bag in the gym was the gloved fist of a stranger. His dark eyes fixed on the bag, an intense stare. He struck again, another crash as a left hook sent the bag flying to the right where it was met by an uppercut which lifted the bag a foot into the air. It fell back down straining the chain that supported it, shaking the whole framework that held the punch bags.

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I dedicate this story to my father, who raised me on his stories of being a London Underground Train Driver. I guess all those train stories rubbed off on me. Miss you Dad.

Jarrett Sinclair

**He is an athletically built man wearing a grey tracksuit with red trainers. He is sitting forward on the edge of his seat studying his reflection, every now and then gently touching his cheeks with his fingertips. His face looks swollen and painful to the touch. He continually cracks his knuckles.

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Luke Ashley

He is wearing a pair of dark blue jeans with white trainers and a smart black duffle jacket. He sits motionless on the train staring at his reflection in the window in front of him. He looked as though he was contemplating something; as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders

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Alexis Cole

He is a young man dressed completely in black, his hood up, casting a shadow on his face. He sits on the very back of the train, legs sprawled across the seats. There is a slight look of paranoia in his eyes as he nudges a red rucksack beside him, closer to his body.

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