Jazzy
I’ve been back to the gym this week every night so far. I feel pretty good injury-wise, knock on wood. I’m still aware of it but it’s past the point of me needing to baby it. It’s time to move on and be cautious.
There’s a guy named Lance who’s the crossfit trainer at the gym. His setup is what really sold me on the gym itself. It reminds me a lot of Gym Jones where the actors from 300 trained to kill all sorts of people.
Yesterday I tried some olympic ring dips. Holy mother.
I tried these and immediately after I pulled my feet off the ground my entire body started shaking for stability. If you ever get the chance try them out.
Later on I had class and I held pads for a kid named Don who’s about 6′6″ and easily over 225. At one point one of the instructors told me to hold the pad for his push jab more towards the middle of my body. I did so and his punch pushed the pad back into my lovely prissy face. Immediately after I had to brace both pads for a front kick and nearly ate the pads again.
Next on Fox: When weak dudes enter tough sports.
At the end of the night I was in the locker room getting my stuff together when a grisled old black dude walked in pulling at his boxing gloves.
“Sup, baby.”
“How you doing, man?”
“Training hard. Training hard. I should have been a champion.”
He then went into his life story. He fought a couple champions 7 or 8 years ago. Both outweighed him by at least 40 pounds. Then he hit the bottle and fell out of boxing. Got back into it recently. He runs with the garbage truck every day on it’s different routes. 10 or 11 miles. Every day. “Great shape… great shape.”
He was sweating and sniffling and had no bottom incisors. He had a speaking voice like Ray Charles and a flattened boxer’s face.
His name is “Jazzy… everybody knows me” and he’s fighting in January somewhere in Charlotte. I’d love to see him go mangle somebody younger and bigger. There’s nothing like the characters you meet in fighting gyms.
