Spencer sits me down in a seat like this is Sunday school and draws on a dry-erase board to the constant playback of the fight.The fight.Executioner at his prime, Sugar losing favor.Spencer isn’t about to analyze what I looked like, or even how hard I worked leading up to the fight. No, he zeroes in on the omission.Punches not thrown.Punches not blocked.This is what I did wrong, and I might have won the match but Spencer would still sit me down for an hour-long lecture. Clean KO or biggest loss, Spencer will still preach; he will show me where I went wrong.“To start with, how many times have I said to land first attack?”First attack meaning first jab, first impact—Like it’s some kind of competition.Wait a minute…When isn’t it a form of competition?When are we not fighting to better understand ourselves?“I agree,” my go-to reply during post-fight analysis lecture holy-shit-how-long-is-this-going-to-take-please-blow-my-brains-out come on I understand, I understand. How is this helping?We’re wasting time.I should be training. ROUND ONE X hops forward, two-stepping around the ring taunting me.I put my fists up. SHELL I play it defensively.I do not land the first punch.First punch is a jab. JAB X leads jab, jab, jab, jab, all of them absorbed.
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