“You need to train like you’re 16-years old again. The anger gets you through those last few reps.“
The above quote comes courtesy a gymnast turned martial artist, and my PT coach, Blake. Yesterday was Ginger Day, and perhaps this explains why he was in an especially malevolent mood.
And yes, this hate-fueled approach is beneficial in getting you to finish one of Blake’s torturous super-sets, but it’s not going to do you any favours in the ring.
“Lose your temper, lose the fight.”
This is one of the many maxims written on the Armoury’s walls, and something that I’ve read dozens of times while skipping, or resting with my face pressed to the concrete floor…
I’ve never had to apply it though. Normally my fuse is pretty long. Normally I don’t have people punching me in the face.
Dave is a professional male-model. Dave is tall and built like something off of a Men’s Health cover. Only prettier. The two of us had thought that it would be a good idea to finish off the evening with a few quick rounds of sparring.
I quickly grew tired of Dave’s jab, a punch that hurts my nose and flicks my head back, and is often followed with a right. Deciding that the best defense is attack, I launched forward, faked with a left, and then tried to plant a straight right through his moneymaker.
But it was not to be. Dave stepped back, and my overextended arm exploded in thin air, messing up my rotator cuff something terrible and setting me up for a barrage of punches that I had to fend off one-handed.
Now whenever I type on the YUIOP side of the keyboard, my arm hurts. Likewise using the mouse, brushing my teeth and wiping my arse.
Dave’s face is as gorgeous as ever…