“Hey, Uncle Steve, take it easy, man! Be a little gentler,” Romka hissed, barely dodging my left jab.
“What?”
“Wake up, thinker! I’ve got a date tonight… You smash my lips, how am I supposed to kiss her?”
Uncle Steve—that’s me. There was a character like that in a kids’ poem, known for being super tall. Romka’s my regular sparring partner and, aside from the half-heavyweight Dimka Kalyuzhny, pretty much my only one. He’s tall, lean, wiry, with long arms, just as a boxer in the cruiserweight division should be—where 89.5 kilos is the hard limit. One extra bun or a couple of burgers the day before a weigh-in, and you’re bumped up to heavyweight. That means stepping right into the not-so-friendly arms of guys who don’t even know the word “diet.” Sure, the ref won’t let you hug it out for long—clinching is illegal in boxing—but it’ll still end with the lighter guy, down by twenty kilos or so, getting pummeled like a baby once he’s too tired to keep running around the ring.
When Coach “Foma”—aka Eugene Nikolaevich Fomenko—pairs us up for training, he’s killing a few birds with one stone. He forces me to move around to land a hit on my opponent, and he keeps Romka counting calories to stay in his weight class.
It’s only in movies that scrawny nerds or delicate girls can knock out huge dudes with a light tap to the chest, as if the laws of physics just vanish. In real life, those heroes would just dislocate a wrist or ankle. Don’t believe me? Go ahead and punch a wardrobe, or something softer, like a sack of flour or sugar. Heck, even wail on a mattress with all you’ve got. But us “wardrobes” have our own issues hitting a target that moves too fast. Different inertia, you know…
Romka’s no delicate flower, though. If he lands a punch, you’ll feel it. So, with roughly equal skill, my extra thirty pounds of muscle force us both to think more with our heads and feet than our gloves. That’s exactly what Foma and Gerasimovich—our other coach—want from us.
But we’re not exactly new to the gym either.
After about a week of sweating it out and getting in sync, we came up with a system to fake a sparring session. And if one of us had a good reason to take it easy—like Romka today—we’d crank that system up to eleven.
There was nothing groundbreaking about our little invention, just a basic paired kata made up of about fifteen punches, blocks, ducks, and dodges. From the sidelines, it looked impressive and slick, but energy-wise, it was more like dancing. The key was not to mess up the sequence or accidentally catch a counterpunch… which almost happened just now because I wasn’t paying attention.
Honestly, Romka’s to blame for that. Having a cheering squad at competitions is one thing, but we had a strict no-girls-at-training rule. They’re a distraction.
When you’re working the heavy bag in the gym, you can mostly ignore outsiders. But once you step into the ring, there’s no avoiding it. The ring’s elevated, so the legs of people standing on the overhanging balcony end up right in your line of sight, just above your opponent’s head. Whether you want to or not, you’re gonna glance over.
After a couple of punch combos and a shift in position, while looking Romka dead in the eyes, I can’t help but catch—out of the corner of my eye—a fancy balcony railing just a few yards away, right above his ginger head, and a dozen equally well-shaped pairs of girls’ legs. And considering it’s summer and miniskirts are back in style, I can take in this dazzling view all the way up to where those legs meet the rest of the body.
“I’m gonna kiss you in a whole different way in a second…” I hiss angrily, jerking my head. “Why the heck did you drag all these Barbies here? Showing off?”
“Psychological warfare…” he mutters back, half-whispering as we lock into a clinch, his eyes involuntarily darting toward the girls.
“What?”
“Leska won’t budge, man. Get it?” Romka pants into my ear. “Everything’s fine, sorta. She likes me, I like her—but after a week, we’re still stuck at just kissing. I push a little, and it’s instantly, ‘Oh, I’ve gotta go… Oh, not today.’”
“And what’s that got to do with boxing?”
“Don’t be dense, dude! It’s a warm-up. She sees me all muscled up and tough, gets worried about me, and boom—her heart skips a beat. Plus, I read somewhere that the smell of a guy’s sweat is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Girls go crazy for it.”
“I’m not gonna comment on your toughness, but as for the sweat—you’re onto something. There’s enough stench in this gym for everyone. Bring a whole platoon if you want… they’ll smell it for days. By the way, that redhead over there? Not bad at all…”
“Which redhead? Irka? Nah, she’s a blonde, I think. Or do you have a better view from down there?” Romka cracks up.
“Ivan!” Foma’s deep voice cuts into our heart-to-heart. “Don’t you think this sweet little duo takes us for idiots?”
“When you think something’s off, you cross yourself…” Ivan Gerasimovich grumbles. “I’ve been watching them for a while. I was even thinking of pitching this performance to the federation for City Day.”
“What freaking City Day?!” Foma growls. “Who am I supposed to take to the championship? This synchronized skating and swimming duo? Get the jump rope. We’re gonna whip the nonsense out of these fakers.”
And there’s another reason why bringing girls to training was a bad idea.
Fomenko and Kozak are old-school Soviet coaches, convinced that the best way to motivate an athlete is a sparring session with them personally—or a jump rope applied to the backside of slackers and goof-offs. Luckily, they only resort to one-on-one sparring in the most blatant cases of breaking rules or discipline. But they don’t hold back with the jump rope. To be fair, they only use it when it’s deserved. And in my five years here, I can’t recall a single guy getting genuinely mad at the coaches over it. Even though plenty of us are masters ourselves now and compete not just locally but internationally.
Still, admitting you’ve earned a lesson and not taking offense at their teaching methods is one thing. Getting whacked on the butt in front of a girl you’ve got your eye on—or any girls, even total strangers who aren’t that cute—is a whole different story. What kind of toughness can you brag about after that? What kind of hero can you pretend to be? And both coaches are already by the ropes! The “teaching tool” is swinging casually in their clenched fists. Help!
Romka’s face goes red, then pale, and his eyes turn downright wild. Looks like the guy’s seriously smitten. He won’t survive the humiliation.
“No need for that, Eugene Nikolaevich,” I step toward Foma, who’s looking dead set on dishing out punishment. “Please. We’ll work hard now, no messing around. Don’t embarrass the guy. His girl’s up on the balcony. His fiancée. I swear, we’ll put in the work. Three rounds of three, good enough?”
Foma shoots an irritated glance at the gallery, where excited whispers and the scent of wildflowers, crushed fruit, and other perfume concoctions waft down, then looks at Romka and gives a nod.
“Fine. But you owe me, boys. You’re gonna work full contact. Now, to your corners. Five minutes to catch your breath, then back at it. Ivan, take the blue corner. Help Steve shake it off and loosen up his neck—must be stiff from staring up at those girls’ legs. I’ll handle our Romeo here.”