Post by Diabhal on Jul 2, 2017 9:14:28 GMT -6
Forward step.
Jab.
Back step.
Forward step.
Jab.
Don’t commit.
Never commit until you’re sure.
Test their guard, harass them, pursue but don’t chase them until they panick.
Hit fast, hit hard, and then get out.
Hands wrapped up in tape cascaded across the canvas of the heavy bag, machine gunning distended knuckles connected to off angled fingers into the body of that hanging weight, forcing it back, almost bouncing it off the edge of those hands in tandemic rhythm. The pause, the beat, the sudden rhythm exploding along the expanse of that red bag as he bobbed and weaved, as his body danced around the bag, slipping punches that weren’t there as he threw his own, slamming his twisting fists into it.
Turn the punch as it lands, snap it.
Don’t punch it, punch through it.
Move to the side, not back. You flank, not retreat.
He never stopped moving, never stopped looking for openings, taking openings. Stopping, pausing, that was good as giving the enemy, the opponent, a free shot. No opponent was worse than himself. Too often he saw his own fists coming at his head as he weaved, as he threw his own punches. A short straight punch to the chest to drive himself back. Two left jabs, a feint for a right jab only to mask a left hook towards the liver, a swift half pivot to dodge the sailing over hand right meant for his head that never came.
Hours he’d train, and hours more he’d commit to learning from what he did. A weighted vest around his chest, weighted cuffs on his ankles and his wrists, always testing himself, his limits, his abilities, what he could handle. Pushing the envelope, pushing himself. A constant reminder of what he needed to do, what edge had to push himself at. Even as his limbs fatigued, even as his body screamed for him to stop, he didn’t, he couldn’t.
Left jab.
Left jab.
Right hook.
Left jab.
Right jab.
Left upper cut.
Constant, repetitious, each lashing blo that ended with his fist cracking across the canvas of the heavy bag was like lightning rolling out across the plains. Explosive, unpredictable and yet precise in its own oxymoronical way. Boxing with the shadows, hammering into that bag, fighting someone he was constantly battling with, that he was alway fighting against, and yet could never get the better of..
Himself.
Jab.
Back step.
Forward step.
Jab.
Don’t commit.
Never commit until you’re sure.
Test their guard, harass them, pursue but don’t chase them until they panick.
Hit fast, hit hard, and then get out.
Hands wrapped up in tape cascaded across the canvas of the heavy bag, machine gunning distended knuckles connected to off angled fingers into the body of that hanging weight, forcing it back, almost bouncing it off the edge of those hands in tandemic rhythm. The pause, the beat, the sudden rhythm exploding along the expanse of that red bag as he bobbed and weaved, as his body danced around the bag, slipping punches that weren’t there as he threw his own, slamming his twisting fists into it.
Turn the punch as it lands, snap it.
Don’t punch it, punch through it.
Move to the side, not back. You flank, not retreat.
He never stopped moving, never stopped looking for openings, taking openings. Stopping, pausing, that was good as giving the enemy, the opponent, a free shot. No opponent was worse than himself. Too often he saw his own fists coming at his head as he weaved, as he threw his own punches. A short straight punch to the chest to drive himself back. Two left jabs, a feint for a right jab only to mask a left hook towards the liver, a swift half pivot to dodge the sailing over hand right meant for his head that never came.
Hours he’d train, and hours more he’d commit to learning from what he did. A weighted vest around his chest, weighted cuffs on his ankles and his wrists, always testing himself, his limits, his abilities, what he could handle. Pushing the envelope, pushing himself. A constant reminder of what he needed to do, what edge had to push himself at. Even as his limbs fatigued, even as his body screamed for him to stop, he didn’t, he couldn’t.
Left jab.
Left jab.
Right hook.
Left jab.
Right jab.
Left upper cut.
Constant, repetitious, each lashing blo that ended with his fist cracking across the canvas of the heavy bag was like lightning rolling out across the plains. Explosive, unpredictable and yet precise in its own oxymoronical way. Boxing with the shadows, hammering into that bag, fighting someone he was constantly battling with, that he was alway fighting against, and yet could never get the better of..
Himself.