Chapter2

When Morris and I walked into the boxing gym, everyone in the training area stopped what they were doing.

After all, he looked like a homeless man who had just crawled out of a dumpster. Wool was still falling out of the holes in his sleeping bag, his hands, wrapped in tape, were bleeding from frostbite, and the soles of his sneakers were almost falling off.

"Vince's gone mad," someone whispered.

"He actually found a homeless man to box with."

"Poor guy, he lost his mind after Jason dropped him."

I heard it. Morris heard it too. But I didn't turn around. I just led him to the innermost ring of the gym, the one I used for Jason ten years ago. Now Jason is on the bigger ring next door, with a more professional team, more advanced equipment, and a more expensive nutritionist.

I changed Maurice into a clean set of training clothes. It was my own spare clothes, a little big, but wearable. Then I wrapped his wrists with straps.

His hands were cold, and frostbite had made his skin rough, but when I touched the calluses on his knuckles, I knew I hadn't misjudged him.

"How many fights did you fight in prison?"

"I can't remember exactly. Anyway, I beat up everyone who tried to bully me."

How many matches did you win?

"We won everything."

He said this without any boasting, as if stating a fact.

I like this attitude.

"Then why were you sleeping at the bus stop?"

Morris remained silent for a moment.

"Because nobody wants to sign a homeless person with a criminal record. I've been to many boxing gyms, and they look at me like I'm a pile of shit. Some people won't even let me in."

"And now?" I finished wrapping the last loop of the wristband.

What do you think the way I look at you is like?

Morris looked up, and for the first time, a glimmer of light appeared in his cloudy eyes.

"It's like watching a boxer."

"right."

I patted him on the shoulder. "Because that's who you are."

I led him to the punching bag. It was a heavy punching bag weighing 180 pounds, its surface mottled from countless punches. Jason had used this punching bag for ten years; every improvement he made was etched on it.

"Hit it."

Morris looked at the sandbag, then at me.

How do we fight?

"Hit them the way you beat up the people who bullied you in prison."

He nodded. Then he stood in front of the punching bag and assumed a standard boxing stance—I didn't teach him that; he learned it himself, or rather, he was forced to learn it in prison.

He took a deep breath.

Then he threw his first punch.

The sound of that punch hitting the sandbag silenced the entire gym.

It wasn't the dull thud of a "thump".

It's a "click".

Like a tree branch snapping underfoot. Like bones shattering. Like the sound of a heavyweight boxer delivering a powerful blow to the ribs.

In the boxing ring next door, Jason stopped jumping rope.

He turned his head and looked at Maurice, at the sandbag, at the trembling indentation on its surface.

Tara stood by the boxing ring, holding a sports drink she had prepared for Jason, the cap still unscrewed. Her expression shifted from mockery to surprise, and then to something I knew very well—shock.

She was scared.

Because she knew what that punch meant.

Morris didn't stop. He unleashed a series of punches—a left jab, a right straight, a left hook, and a right uppercut. Each punch landed on the same spot on the sandbag, each punch deepening the dent in its surface.

By the tenth punch, a fist-shaped indentation had formed on the surface of the sandbag.

By the twentieth punch, the sandbag started to shake.

By the thirtieth punch, the chains on the sandbag made a metallic scraping sound.

The entire boxing gym gathered around. They stood by the ring, watching Maurice, watching the punching bag that was almost falling apart. No one spoke; only heavy breathing and the sound of the punching bag being hit could be heard.

Jason's entire coaching staff turned to look at them. Their expressions changed from mockery to shock, and then to disbelief.

Because they knew that Jason, whom they had trained for ten years, had never thrown a punch like that before.

Morris stopped. He was panting, sweat streaming down his face and dripping onto the floor. His hands were trembling with a thrilling excitement.

I walked over and handed him a towel.

"That's all for today. From now on, you'll train with me."

Then I turned around and faced the boxing ring next door:

"Some people train for ten years, and hitting the punching bag is like giving them a massage."

"Some people learn to respect the competition from day one."

Jason's face darkened. He slammed the jump rope to the ground and turned to walk towards the locker room. Tara followed him out, leaving the sports drink by the boxing ring, the cap still unopened.

The crowd slowly dispersed, but their gazes had changed. They no longer looked at Maurice as a homeless man, but as a real boxer.

A boxer who could change this gym, change this industry, and change everyone's definition of "talent".

That night, Maurice slept on the gym floor, covered with his worn-out sleeping bag. I sat in my office organizing training plans, and through the glass window, the empty space at the bus stop across the street gleamed coldly under the streetlights.

I wrote down my first training goal on the schedule: win my first professional match within three months.

Then I looked up and gazed at the open space outside the window.

A year later, Maurice will have a billboard there. It will have his face on it, his gold belt on it, and a line of text on it:

From the bus stop to the top of the world.

Jason's posters will be torn down and thrown into the trash can.

Just like ten years ago, he threw my boxing gloves into the trash can.