Week Eighteen - Monday Who: Sasha (Open) When: Monday afternoon Where: Boxing gym What: Working it out. How:The trick is to keep breathing…
A good, really good, heavy bag session was nearly a carnal experience. Certainly there was something satisfyingly primal about the feel of impact, the very sound of it. The snapping crack of a jab. The bang of a solid hook. The smash of a straight right. The heavy bag took it all with nary a whimper. It was primal and liberating, an animal gut-deep gratification.
For some.
For Sasha it was just sweat. Sweat and order, the mathematics of worthwhile physical exertion. Rapt and unsmiling, the petite brunette delivered a concrete uppercut to the bag. The hit landed as it should’ve, quick and firm, wrapped knuckles away from the leather even before the echo evaporated.
She could feel the drill working her arms, shoulders, back, hips and legs. Everything working together as she punched. That unanimity was one of the main reasons Sasha thought to find the boxing gym instead of the fencing strip when the thunder rolled.
“Impact psychology” is what one trainer called it. Modern people had an installed reluctance to defend simply because of the implied risk of being hit. Impact training desensitized against the aversion. Kostya hadn’t wanted to run Sasha through the sore ordeal of grinding out the disinclination, but he hadn’t a choice; no way to learn systema methods otherwise. The practice was above all a method meant to function under fire. The strikes and kicks most applicable to heavy bag drills were gross motor skills: simple, large muscle actions that didn’t deteriorate under stress. It was a lesson in not breaking.
And Sasha was nothing if not a dedicated student.
The gym had a sound system. Sasha had twisted the volume dial demonically high. Neo-tango music tore the room, competing brilliantly with the thunder crackling outside. Sometimes Sasha let her movements take up the rhythm; other times she ignored it with deliberate resolve. Dreizen lay stretched out in a nearby corner. He knew better than to approach his keeper during these moods. The Doberman’s eyes were peaceably closed. He didn’t mind thunder.
Purity of focus isn’t only about what you see and do, Kostya said. It also about what you don’t allow. Concentration without contemplation. Purpose without intricacy. Stay “clean”, don’t get fancy. Chin tucked. Don’t weave about. She sighted down her punching arm as if down the barrel of a gun, and hit. Once, twice, three—back. Repeat. Pour your mind into the moment as you would wine into a glass. Feel the punch’s power come from the ground, through the legs, and off the hips. Jab, cross, jab again. Follow through to the last inch—back. Breathe.
Another bout of thunder burst through just as the tango music ebbed between tracks. Sasha didn’t flinch, didn’t falter her extension, but she felt it lance her stomach. A steady, cold ache had been nestled there since morning. The dreams preceding it weren’t exactly sweetness and light either. Thick, red dreams that sucked the air out of the room and the moisture out of her mouth—it was a familiar ailment.
Sherry. It had to be. Nobody else could poison her blood like this. What are you up to now, baby sister? Sasha leaned her forehead against the bag, feeling the telltale ache inside bloom.
Stuck in her thoughts and running on bad adrenaline, Sasha neglected one of her own key rules; she didn’t pay total attention. So when a polite hand tapped her shoulder, she didn’t think and she didn’t respond—she lashed out.
“Chyort voz'mi!*” The Russian tumbled out before the realization. “I mean, damn. Sorry, sorry, seriously, I’m sor—um, hello? Hey, yo, anybody home? Aw, hell, not again…”