Your hands are taped tight and your arms, slick with sweat, knife through the air. Your shirt is off. Your feet shuffle. Your shoulders are pistons, pumping your jabs and hooks and uppercuts through the empty space in front of you. All around you jump ropes skip and heavy bags thud and speed bags patter.
The humidity in the boxing gym is insufferable. You’re deep into the mental game now. To push yourself, you think of your favorite boxers and your favorite boxing movies and your thoughts drift to Rocky II.
In your mind, maybe you’re the Master of Disaster and the King of Sting himself, Apollo Creed. Maybe you’ve retired more men than social security. And maybe one day you’ll have the body of an NFL linebacker and go the distance with your own Rocky Balboa.
For eight years, this was how Corey Calliet lived and trained: as a boxer. But then, like…