Trash Talk Sparks and Unearthing Talent
I'm the type to offer solutions rather than sympathy. My SNS provocations drew massive attention from Koreans. Thanks to that, Thierry got some spotlight too.
"What the hell is this kid doing, trash-talking like that? Beating up a young punk like him feels kinda off."
Brown had told me plenty of people wanted to see me fight him. Seeing him yap like that was just ridiculous. He didn't have my firepower, but to boost my ticket sales, people needed to crave this story, to be hooked. That's business, whether Thierry got it or not—it wasn't my problem. I just wanted my next fight locked in ASAP.
In the training room at home, I stripped off my shirt. Sweaty and pumped, I set up the camera, flashed a playful grin, shrugged my shoulders, and snapped the pic.
I toned it down a bit. Couldn't go too overboard right out the gate.
Thierry saw my post and lost his shit for real. Guess mentioning his parents hit too close to home for a 17-year-old, even if it was light banter.
I lounged on the sofa, snapped a pic with my hand down my pants to show off my abs and that V-line.
People back then found my shit shocking—the likes were going insane. He started the racism, so I was innocent. Just prayed Mom never saw it.
Summer faded into fall in the States. The SNS beef with Thierry died down. Guess he instinctively knew my mouth was too filthy. Koreans even swarmed his page with terror attacks. Hiding behind anonymity brings out that spicy Korean side.
Thierry was probably vowing to kill me for sure. Focused on training, winter hit and I headed back to Korea. Young-hoon was there grinding jiu-jitsu. I asked Dad about his talent.
"How's he doing?"
"He's working hard."
"I said I'd raise him. Give me the real scoop on his talent."
Young-hoon's body had improved for sure. But his natural core was still pathetic. Compared to me or Dad, no real power there. Not built for raw strength anyway. His shoulders had developed nicely, though—that I liked.
"Jiu-jitsu... he's a bit above average."
"Compared to other trainees?"
"He's serious about it, so he stands out. But in a scramble, it takes him too long to pull off the right technique."
Dad wanted to say nice things, but straight-up told me his talent fell short for MMA base. Jiu-jitsu hates overthinkers. Techniques need to fire on instinct; if thinking's a habit, you're too slow in the heat. WFC guys never miss that split-second window—like when my ankle got turned once.
Still, fight IQ shines more in striking. And he didn't seem the type to lose his cool.
"Then cap his jiu-jitsu offense here. Just teach defense sporadically."
"Hmm... kinda a waste, though?"
"He's not like me—he's gotta go all-in on one talent. Drop the grappling offense. Defense only."
Dad and Young-hoon nodded.
Next, the taekwondo dojo Mom recommended—the one I used to hit often. Chatted with the head instructor, Mom's college buddy.
"How's Young-hoon's kicks?"
"..."
"Be straight—it's not like we're quitting. I need to know his style."
"For the effort... average."
Young-hoon bit his lip. Two "averages" after fighting for that shot—must've stung. But no excuses to me.
"Yeah? Nothing lacking?"
"Power's weak... but patience is top-notch."
"That's what I demanded."
"..."
"So to see if it's truly elite, we need more time."
The instructor nodded at my cold take.
"Just like his mom."
"Cool. Sign him up another six months. Make those kicks move like fists."
"Uh? Y-yeah."
I dragged Young-hoon out to Whittaker's boxing gym next. He was hanging his head.
"Am... I talentless?"
"Sparred anyone in jiu-jitsu?"
"No..."
"And already calling no talent?"
What I saw in him wasn't obvious yet. Hell, six months non-stop grinding was enough to impress me. I stopped walking; he looked up.
"Since we're on it—what's your bar for talent?"
He couldn't answer. I slung an arm over his shoulder.
"Feather or lightweight? Barely anyone hits your 'talent' standard."
Sure, a few naturals exist—but you don't need 'em. Lightweight's full of volume punchers for a reason. McGregor said it: accuracy beats power, timing beats speed. What I saw in Young-hoon covered that and more.
"I've got something specific from you. Just do what I say."
"Yes, sir..."
"You're already passing. Both gyms said you're grinding."
"..."
"Talent? We'll find it on the side."
Boxing gym echoed the same: "He's diligent." No standout talent—disappointing, sure. Time to invest, though. I grabbed punch mitts and hopped in the ring.
Thwack.Thwack.Thwack.
Powerless punches, awkward speed. Basic, but repetitive—you could feel the reps. Same rhythm, same force every time.
"Faster."
He could go quicker, but max effort still sucked. Slow it down? Even worse. So I threw an unannounced jab at Colin's dodge speed.
Whoosh.
Reaction time. That's what I saw in him. He ducked his head way too much, almost predictive. No fakes fooled him. Felt like he only reacted to fast punches... better than mine, even.
Never saw this in the fight world pre-regression—he'd wasted it.
"Mitts won't cut it for you. Let's spar."
"Pardon...?"
I warmed up, popped in my mouthpiece, gloved up, and climbed in.
"Get comfy."
Basic stance—fixable. Basics first anyway.
"Find your rhythm."
I shadowboxed a beat, snapping punches with light waist and shoulder pop. His eyes lit up watching.
"Reach is similar for everyone. Know his attack range = yours."
"Got it."
"Copy me, attack."
"Huh...?"
"Pros can't touch my face. Don't pussy out."
Stepped, slipped his jab clean.
"Did I throw like a retard?"
Crack! He crumpled, stunned—first time, shocked face. Stood slow. Improvement came gradual, but punches sped up a tad.
I let his fist graze my nose without over-retreating, building distance sense. Then light counters in flurries.
Reacted to each, but body lagged—he ate 'em.
Crack!Crack!
"Guard up when punching."
His next: slipped the jab with a sway, ducked the hook with ducking and weaving plus footwork. Straight? Slipped by turning. Fed him punches nonstop.
Pop!Pop!Pop!Pop!
No sting on my hands—he reacted to all. Adapted to my speed? His punches quickened too.
Didn't plant any real—wouldn't help. One round down, his bounce-back steps already sharper. Grinned watching. How'd the coaches miss this overflowing talent?
Made me wanna raise a disciple... kinda got why Whittaker was obsessed with me. No physical gifts, but this talent? Real deal. Power? Knee strikes and elbows cover it in MMA.
Showed him taekwondo sparring too, minus jiu-jitsu. Realized then: he sets limits by the people around him. Maybe goals, not limits.
Properly demoed kicks. No boxing-level shift, but reactions solid. Sparred light, pressed him—he ignited with passion.
Taught yoga for recovery after.
"Widens range of motion, but flexibility exposes weak spots."
"Urk..."
"Can't fix that. But gains outweigh."
Stiff guys panic in armbars. Flexible? Don't feel it till it snaps. No hardcore yoga yet—just softeners for muscles, tighteners for ligaments and tendons.
"Flex will patch some power gaps too."
"Yessir."
"Push to your limit every time."
"Gahhh..."
Training Young-hoon through Korea's winter, the cold closed in.