Fighters Training Fight Story
For most of the
guys at Rusty's, Yuri Petrovich remains a mystery. Most don't even try to
pronounce the Russian heavyweight's name--they just call him Ox...and he lets
them.
From the day he arrived some seven years ago, Ox has kept his life divided into
two clean categories: inside the gym and outside the gym. Of course, all that
changed a few months ago when Ben Foster's grudge against Chuck Henderson came
along. Since Ben knew Ox as the bouncer at Winks, that clean separation of Ox's
life had threatened to collapse. But both Ben and Chuck have shown no signs of
telling anybody that Ox works in a gay bar.
With good reason. Ox had knocked Chuck out in the parking lot, and Ben had seen
the big guy plow through fifteen guys single-handed. As the heaviest of Rusty's
heavyweights, Ox weighs well over 300 pounds and stands slightly over 6 feet
tall. While other muscle gods might fall more easily, Ox has a tree trunk of a
neck and a cast-iron gut. Those who spar with him or have full out fights with
him swear he can't be hurt. Few are willing to step into the ring with him more
than once. Rusty had to order specially reinforced heavybags so that they'd
outlast Ox's training sessions.
In exchange--or so it seems--Rusty calls in the occasional favor. Beating up
Chuck had been one. Another has been training Rick Logan. At first, Ox just told
the kid to match him routine for routine. Rick took to it right off, and Nature
gave him a growth spurt to boot, packing some thirty odd pounds onto the kid's
chest, shoulders, arms and lats. And Rick credited all of that to Ox. Ox just
kept working, and Rick kept pace with him. Ox soon took a greater interest in
mentoring the boy, working with him directly. One afternoon, after Ox had held
the heavybag steady for Rick, Rick offered to do the same for Ox. The Russian
smiled and nodded. Rick braced himself as best he could. Ox kept the punches
light for a while, just to see how much Rick could manage. Before long, Rick
complained, "I know you got more than that. C'mon." So Ox let the guns fire.
Rick managed to hold on for a couple of punches, but after that the bag swung
wildly as Ox's punches slammed into it. The big guy was careful, but Rick had a
pretty wild ride. After about twenty seconds, the kid let go of the bag and
dropped to the floor, laughing. Then Ox turned the heat up full blast, rocking
the bag with hard combinations. Rick watched from the floor, awestruck. The bag
swung out over him several times, but Rick studied Ox's stance, the flow of his
punches.
They became friends, practically family if you wanted a good word for it.
Although you couldn't guess Ox's age just by looking at him, you could see a
paternal nature to his instruction. Ox's usual stoicism melted when matched with
Rick's playful yet determined attitude. It wasn't unusual to see Rick doing
chin-ups on Ox's unshaking outstretched arm, or for the kid to get a running
start, leap onto the big guy's back from behind, climb up onto his shoulders,
and finish with a handstand, young hands steadying a lean body from the firm
foundation of Ox's massive delts. No one else had quite the same relationship
with Ox, and Rick felt privileged to have it. As for Ox, he still didn't say
much to most of the guys, but the kid could almost always make him laugh.
Ox chose Mix Jeffries for Rick's regular sparring partner. Mix didn't
complain--his own growing invincibility had started with one body punch from Ox.
After he'd survived that, no one else's punches seemed to register. Rick's
growth spurt ended with him at 139. He keeps pounding back the protein shakes
and working the weights, but he's hit a plateau. Maybe he'd spent too long
trying to stay at bantamweight and that'd messed up his metabolism. Maybe
genetics were against him. But the kid can't see himself getting as big as he
wants to be. He's strong, sure--just ask Mix about that--and he's got good
speed, too. Rusty's been counting on that--he has trained Rick to swarm an
opponent, fast and hard, and Rick has the stamina to sustain that kind of attack
for a full round without burning himself out. But he wants more.
Another Monday comes, another sparring session with Mix, but it's clear the
kid's heart just isn't in it today. Mix cuts him no slack, so Rick takes a lot
of hits he'd usually avoid. Ox stops the session. The big guy says nothing--he
just walks over to the heavybags and starts pounding away. Rick's body droops.
Mix comes over to take the kid's headgear and unwrap his hands. "Something up?"
he asks.
Rick meets Mix's eye. "It's true Ox hit you, one in the gut?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he did."
"And you got stronger? You got bigger?"
"Stronger, yeah. Not bigger, though, not really."
"You think he'd maybe do that for me?"
Mix isn't sure this is the best idea. "I didn't really ask him to do it."
"Think he would if I asked him?"
Mix doesn't commit to an answer--he just shrugs. No point in talking the kid out
of it. Rick doesn't wait for a response anyway. He's on his way to the
heavybags. Ox is still whomping away, so Rick waits. He watches the bag bend,
twist, ride high and fall hard. Ox meets each swing with another heavy blow.
Sweat gleams against muscle, traces its path across taut, hardened skin. Ox
stops the routine, steadies the bag, pulls off the training gloves and tosses
them to Rick. The big guy stands there, fists on his hips. "You train, you don't
train. If you train, you train. Yes?"
Rick nods. "My head's not in it today, that's all."
"Then go home."
"No, I'm--" Rick stops, caught in the Russian's angry glare. Maybe this is the
right time to ask for a punch in the gut. "Sorry. But I'm stuck at 139, and it
sucks."
"Is good weight for you. Very strong for your size. Is your body to decide. If
you do no grow, you do no grow."
"I'd like to try something. It's a little extreme."
"Drugs?"
"No, not drugs." This is the time, he thinks, don't blow it. "I want you to hit
me like you did Mix."
Ox doesn't answer. It's hard to tell what he thinks of the idea. No smile, no
frown--no change from his usual stoic demeanor. Rick maintains eye contact, and
he's just about to say something when the big guy finally speaks.
"Go home."
So he does. Rick knows better than to press the issue, so he doesn't bring it up
during his workout the next day. He keeps his focus on the work at hand. In a
way, it's as if he'd never mentioned the idea, almost as if he'd never even had
the thought in the first place. He works the mitts with Rusty, then goes to
finish his workout with a session on the heavybag. Ox stops him and says, "Go to
ring."
Rusty's waiting for him with wraps and gloves. Ricks gets no answer when he
asks, "Who'm I sparring? Where's Mix?" When he's geared up, the only other
person in the ring is Ox...and Ox is gloved up, too. The heavyweight's t-shirt
is hanging on the ropes near his corner. Somehow Ox looks even bigger with his
shirt off. "But I didn't ask to spar. Just one in the gut is all."
"And that was stupid, too. No more stupid than this, though." Rusty sounds worse
than he looks--he doesn't approve, but he's allowing it. "You know how he
fights, right?" Rick nods. "So you earn the punch. Make him the heavybag today.
When he thinks you done enough...he stops it. That's if you really wanna do
this. The Doc ain't too happy, but he didn't like it when Mix got beat, either.
Your dad...he said it's up to you, but he thinks it's stupid, too."
"You asked my dad?"
"You're seventeen. Of course I asked your dad. You shoulda asked him, too. But
it's your call. You up for this or not?" Rick looks at Ox--how can he score
anything against the big guy? How much is enough? In the end, though, he nods.
Rusty puts headgear on the kid, but Ox goes without. There's no bell--Rusty just
waves Rick in. Ox waits in his corner, gloves at his sides, game face on. No
help there.
So Rick uses what he knows. He knows better than to hope shots to the head will
do any good, so the target is Ox's gut. Rick also knows better than to throw all
his strength into his first punches--he risks a sprain that way, maybe even a
broken hand, and humiliation besides. So he jabs at the Russian's abs, targeting
them in turn, aiming at the tendons between them. Ox doesn't respond, but Rick
doesn't stop. This is how he'd work the heavybag anyway, light punches to full
strength over a extended period of time. Slowly, he increases the heat and the
speed. He notices a slight twitch when he hits a spot on Ox's left side. It's
too much to hope for, and there's no way Rick's punches have done any damage,
but it could be a weakness, an injury from some other fight. Rick hits the spot
again, and there's another twitch. He punches the full round of Ox's abs once
more, just to be sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing. Once more he hits
the spot, once more there's a twitch. Rick launches the swarm strategy, aiming
for the same spot from lots of angles. He can't believe his eyes, but Rick sees
a small welt developing. Ox betrays nothing--just the slight involuntary twitch.
Rick slows down the speed and hits the target with all his power. Ten punches
later, the kid's almost done--his shoulders ache, his fists feel detached from
his arms, and his eyes burn from the sweat. He keeps at it even as his strength
wanes. Then he hears an impossible sound--Ox giving out a slight grunt as each
punch lands. This fires Rick up a little longer, but not much. The gloves are
too heavy now. He lets his gloves fall--not really a decision, because he can no
longer hold them up--and he looks up, ready to ask Ox if that was enough.
In a typical fight, Ox would smile at this point, denying any injury before
launching a few quick bombs of his own. Now, though, Rick sees a difference. Ox
isn't smiling...he's crying--not sobbing buckets, just a few drops spilling down
the hardened jawline. Not from pain--the bruise will give Rick some extra
respect in the gym, but it's nothing special. When he locks eyes with Ox, Rick
knows the reason--Ox doesn't want to hit him. He has to, but he doesn't want to.
The big guy says, real quiet, "Am sorry." And then he tosses a hard, short right
into Rick's gut.
Rick has no time or strength to prepare himself. He doubles over, collapsing
over the fist as it lands, then yields to its propelling force. Ox remains in
his corner. Rick hits the canvas halfway across the ring. Between the exhaustion
from his attack on Ox's gut and the shock and pain of Ox's punch, Rick has
trouble breathing. It's as if his abs have gone dead and won't support the
movement of his lungs. By the time he can breathe, Rusty's there with the Doc,
and Mix is standing by with a bucket. Good thing, because Rick's next physical
response is puking. Rusty wipes the kid's face, and the Doc holds a cold
compress against Rick's gut. They help him lie flat. The gym is quiet, or at
least Rick doesn't hear much--the pain overrides other sensory imput. They keep
him prone for a few minutes. Nobody's saying much. Rick keeps his eyes closed
and concentrates on the cool of the compress. They move him back to the Doc's
office and apply ice packs all around his gut. Rick's not sure about the Doc's
instruction--"visualize the muscles relaxing" sounds a little too weird. But Mix
is there to tell his story, to say this is the same advice he'd been given.
Then Rick's alone in the Doc's office. Almost alone. Ox is there when the kid's
eyes open. Something has changed between them, and Rick doesn't know what to
say.
Ox breaks the silence. "You have good father."
"Yeah, he's cool. Didn't know Rusty told him about this."
"Yes. Is brave, too. To protect you. Very brave."
"Protect me?"
"He says yes to Rusty only if he can hit me first. I tell Rusty to let him. This
is important to you. I am bouncer at a bar--you know this, yes?" Rick nods. "I
do not use weapons there. I do not carry gun. But I have club. A small one. I do
never use it, just show it to those wanting for to fight me. They walk away. I
give club to your father to hit me. Here." Ox points to the bruise. "We do this
for you to be strong. Is not over. You must train. But..." Ox places his t-shirt
on Rick's chest. "This one is yours. Give to your father, then come to train.
Yes?"
Rick manages a nod. Ox runs a huge hand through Rick's hair, then holds that
hand against Rick's face. In spite of the quick ice-down, a substantial bruise
is developing across Rick's gut. The heavyweight feels the tears rising again,
an impulse he does not often feel.
Only for family. Only then.