22
I
WAS WITH Z. We were confronting the heavy bag in Henry
Cimoli's boxing room. Both of us wore light speed-bag
gloves.
"You're hitting it
with your arms," I said.
He was stripped to
the waist, the sweat glistening on his body.
"You get your power
from your legs," I said, "and from your stomach and waist. Watch
me. . . . You keep him off you with a left jab, say."
I
demonstrated.
"Then, I'm
exaggerating the movement and slowing it down so you can see it . .
. In a crouch, like so, feet solid under you, and you lead with
your right hip a little, that twists your body a little at the
waist, and you torque the right cross around behind the hip, as
your body unwinds, and all of you, once you got it mastered,
explodes into the punch."
I hit the bag, very
hard. Z nodded.
"If I can remember,"
he said.
"You don't
remember," I said. "You do it until it becomes muscle memory. Like
riding a bicycle."
"Crees don't ride
bicycles," he said, and went into his boxing stance. He put a sharp
jab on the bag that made it jump, then led a bit too much with his
right hip and delivered a right cross, hard into the heavy
bag.
"Good," I said.
"Coupla thousand more reps, it'll be as natural as
breathing."
"Almost there," Z
said, and hit the bag again.
"Gimme ten more," I
said.
Which he did. When
he stopped, he was puffing but not a lot. I nodded at the stool
near the ring, and Z went and sat.
"You doing your
intervals?" I said.
"Four times a week,"
he said.
"How's that
going?"
"I'm up to fifteen
intervals," he said.
"We can do some
intervals on the heavy bag, too," I said.
"Hit it fast and
slow?" Z said.
"There's a couple of
approaches," I said. "You been spending time with
Henry?"
"Yeah."
"Can't hurt," I
said.
"Not drinking much,
either," Z said.
"No harm to that," I
said.