Soap For The Fighter
You know who he is. The beady eyes, the slight smirk and the long stare when he suggest you should partner up to do some 'Light Sparring'. "Lets just go easy and practice some technique" he says with insidious intent. The first jab comes light and drops your guard. No, not your guard that you've honed in from the hundreds of hours of training. It's the guard that you've put up since you shared your packet of chips and your 'friend' took the last one. It's that feeling again. It's safe, it's warm, it feels like trust and security.
BAM! the haymaker hits clean, aching your jawline. Your ears are ringing, your vision blurred. Are you on the ground? How did you get here?
It's happened again. Your gullible sense of goodwill has been taken for granted and beaten like a baby seal. It hurts. You look up at training partner's false guise of concern. His words mumble, his arrogant thoughts are loud and clear "You can't handle me"
You get to your feet. Rage under control. Ready to touch gloves. "Switch partners!" your coach yells..
"I saw what happened, are you okay?" your next partner ask with an attentive face. "I'm fine" you reply with bravado. "Okay great, lets go light" he replies to you.