When Joe's fist hit the punching bag, he felt a sudden pain in his hands. It was harder than he expected. Fighting on the street was very different. Here the moves were not random; they were controlled, calculated and ruthless.
Kimura stood behind him, watching silently. He neither praised nor warned. He just observed. This silence made Joe a little uncomfortable, but also curious. What is he thinking? Am I good or bad, he wondered. But then he said to himself, "I don't need anyone's appreciation. "I'm doing this for me."
The punches came one after the other. Right, left, right... his breathing was irregular. He could feel his body trying to get into an unfamiliar pattern. With each blow, he was letting out another anger inside him. Anger at not being able to help his mother in time. Anger at his father's abandonment. The anger of hungry days, of being despised, of being forgotten.
Before half an hour had passed, he stopped breathing. His back was drenched with sweat. His hands were shaking. He knelt in front of the sandbag and bowed his head. Was that it? Am I that weak?
Kimura came over to him. He took an old towel out of his pocket and threw it over Joe's shoulder.
"The first day is like that. You don't get anywhere until you embrace the pain," he said. "But you're off to a good start."
Joe looked up. Even those two words were too much for him: you started well.
No one had called him "good" for years. No one had cared what he did, what he thought, what he felt. But here someone had watched. Someone had seen. This little sentence spread through Joe like a thin warmth.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Joe said as he stood up.
Kimura nodded. "But wrap your hands. That's the last time you work with bare fists."
Joe smiled slightly. "Okay... master."
Master. The word sounded strange even coming out of his own mouth. But it was true. Kimura was showing him a path for the first time. He was opening a door to what his fists could become.
That night, as Joe goes home, his hands were burning, but inside... inside he was a little lighter. He was tired, yes. But it wasn't the first time he'd been tired for nothing.
And nobody knew it, but that night, Joe dreamt of a ring for the first time.
Under the lights... an opponent... the audience silent...
And his mother, in the very back row, watching him with proud eyes.