Up the stairs, around the corner and through the door.

Up the stairs, around the corner and through the door. The kid followed tight on the heels of his older brother.  His eyes grew wide at the majesty of the gym. Ancient posters adorned every inch of the walls, long perished heroes welcomed him into this timeless space. His senses reeled at the things he’s yet to know. The smell of aged leather, the creaking of boards beneath his feet. The odor of sweat and fear and pain. The old coach spoke to him. “Turn your shoulders”, and he turned. “Extend that jab” and he jabbed. “Move your head”, and he flexed and twisted . He did all this with one eye glancing over to his brother, trying his best to emulate his moves and his sounds. The coach couldn’t help but smile to himself at these valiant efforts. Maybe this kid has really got it?

“Move your feet”, the command was clear. A grimace came across the face of the young puncher. “What’s wrong kid? You getting tired already?” “Nah coach, my feet hurt. These shoes, they’re my brothers old shoes. They’re too big coach, way too big, my feet are sliding inside and they hurt real bad.” The coach, unflinching in his rigid ways, called the command again. “ move your feet”.

That evening the sun set in the western windows of the gym and rays of golden light cut the dust over the faded ring. In that magic hour time holds still and it could be yesterday or tomorrow or a hundred years ago. A silence settles over a place that’s rarely still. The bags sway mutely on their chains, possessed by the spirit of a thousand punches. From the small corner office the coach calls upon a friend, a long time boxer and pugilist to the core. They speak in private to improve the kids luck with his feet.

Up the stairs, around the corner and through the door. The come in side by side, one bag of gear between them. Ali looks them over with his champions grin , Norton and Holmes glare down from above. Cotto and Margarito stand in a permanent stare down behind a pair of boxing shoes sitting on the bench. The coach steps from his spot near the window at the corner of the ring. A perch that’s worn so well you can see his shadow there even when he’s not in that familiar pose against the ropes. “Gear up and let’s get on that jump rope” his voice rings loud and clear. He shares a glance with the kid and nods at the bench, the shoes sit warmed by the morning sun. Without a word he laces them on and walks to the mirrors to join his brother. The old leather ropes whip the ground, popping to the quick tempo of two hungry fighters. The coach eyes his timer, they can’t see that he hasn’t started it yet. They don’t know it only works properly half the time anyways. But he holds it in his big hands and watches them lift their feet and spin the ropes. The kid is really flying today, a smile passes over his face as he tries to outrun his brother. The ropes whip faster and faster to a frenzied pace, those new shoes lost in a blur of movement and energy. The ropes tangle and they both rest, laughing the way only brothers can share a laugh. The coach smiles at them for a moment before he makes the call, “ Keep that rope moving!!”