I choose terrible nicknames
Last night at my G gym, I trained with Nene. Before class, I complained about the bruises on my arm, given to me by my training partner from Monday, nicknamed the Crippler as he is the only person in recent history to injure Coach whilst doing pad work; mind you, his glory is somewhat tarnished by the fact that he broke his arm one day, hitting the brick wall that is Coach’s hand. Crippler 1: Coach 1.
Anyhow, Nene realized he’d have to up his game, seeing as I was used to great partners. Turning to me, he asked: “What is worse than a Crippler?”
I said the first thing that popped in my mind: “The Clap”. (Silence). “What? I think an STD is pretty bad, no? That shit just doesn’t go away.”
Nene rejected my proposal to nickname him the Clapper. Understandably, he also wondered why I would associate the Clap with him – to determine if the problem lay with his image or my brain. Unable to explain my thought process, I tried to justify it as my subconscious’ revenge for the time Nene branded me as pretentious. Sometimes, my brain just does stuff. I can’t explain genius!
Nene had his revenge during class. We practiced throwing and blocking body punches (Nene’s specialty), and not only did he match Crippler’s bruises, one of his punches almost broke my arm (slight exaggeration, but boy, oh boy, did it ever hurt – my arm throbbed for the rest of the night, and was sore this morning).
After listening to many months of mutual trash-talking, Coach finally agreed to let me spar his right-hand man, named Cap, this Saturday. Cap was hoping Nene could psychologically break me yesterday, covering me with bruises, such that on Saturday I would be a more hesitant fighter. As the training session progressed, with Nene the Clapper slowly turning the bones in my arms to mush, Cap would yell out to Nene encouraging words such as: “Tenderize her, please!”
I considered rebranding Nene as the Meat Grinder; then I looked up the term on Urban Dictionary. Gross.
Let’s just all agree that Nene needs no rebranding, and I am henceforth forbidden from determining any nicknames, shall we?
A lesson in trash-talking
After class, Cap came up to me, and started poking my ribs and waist. He explained to me that he was trying to determine how much padding I had to protect me from the punches he was planning on landing on Saturday. Offended, I assumed he was calling me fat. Instead, he looked pleased: “Not enough padding to protect you from me. This is good, this is very good.”
There is trash-talking, and then there is Cap.
Saturday’s sparring session can’t come soon enough! After all, if I survived a week of training with the Crippler and
the Clapper Meat Grinder Nene, I am ready for regular Cap.
In the meantime, look at this poll about the best gyms in Montreal. I am not saying that one of those gyms is my G gym, but I’d like to point out that only one of those gyms is a boxing gym. And y’all should probably vote for it, just in case.