Street Grit, Gym Bonds, and Weigh-In Fire
They said he came from the streets, but damn if Young-hoon hasn't come a long way with his English lately. He used to bury himself in studies, but now he's all-in on the language. I hadn't planned on hitting the books myself, but thanks to him, I've been brushing up on Spanish and Japanese in my downtime.
My fight's coming up, but Colin's is first. That meant dragging Young-hoon along to Las Vegas with me. With just five days until his bout, Colin was laser-focused on training.
"Didn't you say this opponent's an outboxer?"
"Yeah."
I flashed back to helping Diego train, mimicking this guy named Andrew. Never tried his steps and punches in a real scrap, but if I ever got back into boxing, that's how I'd move.
Colin pedaled away on the bike, no music, pure concentration. Everyone's got their own training style, but I could never go that monk-mode. I'd at least watch fight footage or blast some tunes.
Colin's got no flashy physical gifts beyond a slight edge, but his mental toughness is on another level. He trains like slacking off for a second means death, and Whittaker's pouring everything into him because of it.
Spotting Young-hoon grinding in the corner, Colin hopped off the bike.
"Spar with me."
"Young-hoon's an infighter like you."
"Still better than nothing."
Young-hoon asked about intensity. Colin boldly called for full sparring, so Young-hoon naturally passed. Probably scarred from getting worked by me— he avoids full goes now.
Whittaker chimed in, watching it all.
"Sparring with MMA guys won't help."
He's right. Our stances and setups are worlds apart from the start. Especially Young-hoon— I drilled him to keep his upper body squared up front. Forced him to develop southpaw power until his left matched his right. The more frontal your torso and legs, the easier it is to check calf and oblique kicks.
Of course, it's a stance loaded with flaws. You lose rear-hand power, and your forward-back mobility and evasion range tank. So I built in minimal safeguards for flexibility. And I trust Young-hoon's talent to exploit it.
Bottom line: zero help for Colin right now. Young-hoon can't switch stances on a dime like me either.
"Sparring with him won't do shit for you. Ask Leon instead."
"Nah."
At some point, Colin started dodging spars with me. He's blowing up like a supernova these days, but probably hates eating shots from an MMA guy. Especially after I crumpled his ego.
Young-hoon hasn't been playing much lately either, but sparring like this would be gold. We strapped on the sparring gloves, and Young-hoon paused his workout to watch from the sidelines.
A guy just a year older than me. From our first meeting, hyung— Leon Becker— never felt like a fellow student. He was straight-up a street thug, fist cocked after I got jumped.
But the more I knew him, the more adult he seemed. To a kid like me scrambling just to survive, he became a lifeline raft. He pinpointed my talents, pointed me down the right path.
Hyung even pulled my mom out of the fire. Reworked our toxic family vibe in a single week— something I'd never fix in a lifetime. I don't expect to repay that. I just grind to meet his expectations.
Because if I don't show talent, he'll drop me. I never want to plunge back into that endless, unknown sea.
"Leon's my masterpiece."
Leon. Hyung's English name too. Whittaker in front of me— the man hyung calls his mentor.
Hyung's benefactor is mine too.
"Masterpiece?"
"Yeah. Absurd physique. Reflexes, fight IQ— nothing lacking."
Hyung never spelled out my talents exactly.
"Leon rates your eyes high, but check this fist."
"..."
"Think you can dodge it?"
Looks casual, tossed lightly. But Whittaker demonstrates the physical talent he's talking about. The slow jab accelerates from long range, adjusts trajectory, then explodes on target.
Paang!
A jab he could throw ten thousand times a day without strain. Simple arm flick, but the massive fist's mass turns even it brutal.
"Truth is, Leon doesn't need reflexes or fight IQ."
"Huh?"
"Even with amateur reflexes and smarts, that bum-rush punching alone would've made him champ."
Whittaker, who calls physical talent the absolute king in boxing.
Colin instinctively evaded hyung's punches. Not reacting— moving before they extend.
So reflexes are trainable... Then why'd hyung push me into fighting?
Whittaker had the answer.
"But watching recent MMA fights, I realized talent ain't just body."
"Huh?"
"Boxing's steps and upper-body fakes predict, punches only. Pour all focus into one thing, react to that monster jab."
"..."
"MMA? Punches, elbows, kicks, knees, takedowns, subs. Too much to track. Reflexes are the foundation."
WFC draws the special ones. I glanced at hyung dodging Colin's punches. His speed's tough for even me to track. But hyung grins, plants his feet, twists his head to slip, counters nonstop.
No gauging his level. Colin's a pro boxer on a streak too. Makes hyung shine brighter.
"Your reflexes... Seem like the key trait for someone Leon molds."
"..."
"He thought you his best student. Pisses Colin off."
"...Huh?"
"His idea of peak talent's Leon, but Leon says you're greater."
Never dreamed hyung rated me that high.
"Got me curious too."
"..."
"Wanna see the talent Leon spotted. Your body's trash, just decent shoulders and eyes— wonder if MMA's different. Show me?"
"I'll give it everything. Won't disappoint..."
"Good."
Whittaker smiled warmly at me. No clue why, but I get a bit why hyung calls him mentor.
Young-hoon couldn't stick for Colin's fight— school started, so he flew back to Korea solo. Let me watch it ringside. Mine's in Vegas too anyway.
Colin's hit supporting-act status now, with real buzz. Probably his crisp style. And yeah, he's handsome— plays a part.
Opponent's rear hand was sharp, but everything else trash. Still, solid evasion and defense explain his rank. Colin struggled; Whittaker barked nonstop instructions.
Colin kept planting body shots. Trailed most rounds, but 8th-round body-uppercut combo landed clean.
Peok!
Sweat explodes like a bomb. Follow-up overhand hook smashes home.
Jjeok!
"Wooooaaahhh!!!"
Pre-regression, boxing bored me stiff. But sweat-soaked, swollen-faced Colin gasping? Not half bad. Whittaker leaping in joy made me a tad guilty for MMA. He never quit on boxing.
Post-fight, Tahar hit the hotel to help my camp. Whittaker doesn't love him bailing for Dominic's camp, but showing up means the world.
He'd studied Austin's moves— perfect sparring mimic. My name's finally buzzing. But promo ideas? Dry. Smartphones ain't widespread yet. Just fight well now.
Ranked status? Got me on posters with opponent. Signed as Leon— bulk sloppy for convenience.
Water cut, visualizing Austin. Tahar, Whittaker, Colin assisting. They look oily— scarfed something tasty outside. Was I like that pre-fight?
Weigh-in day: nailed weight clean. Decent crowd for photos, thanks to my profile. Flexed cut muscles, face-off time.
Austin shoves fist at my chin. Inches away— stared at it, then him.
"What're you lookin' at, string bean?"
Want a scrap? Shoved my fist at his temple.
"Nah. Just a friendly tip."
"...?"
"Look at what's in front of you. This is a fist."
Wrist thickness to head-sized mitt— he flinched. Leaned in close, stared down.
"Tomorrow? Tool to remodel your face."
"Fuck off."
Austin glared back, fire rising in his eyes.