Six hours a day. Six days a week. For six months.

The Trip Six Plan was what Coach said Juan had to use. “You got to hit the bag if you want the belt,” he said. Did Juan want it? Yeah, he did. So Juan did what Coach said he had to do. He came to the gym, worked the bags, got in the ring, hit the mitts, jumped the rope, stretched his arms, went to work, left work, came back to the gym, did it one more time. Six hours a day. Six days a week. For six months.

It was his first pro fight, so it meant more. Juan knew he had to prove his worth. That first fight, that’s where he would make his rep. It had to be great. He had to be great. Tire that guy out, knock him down, and watch him quit. But if that guy did it to him, none of this would be worth it. So Juan trained.

He lost ten pounds. Then ten more. Then he trimmed the last two. He was sleek. Grease him up, and no hit would stick. He was strong. Each punch would put a hole through a guy on the street. But that’s not the point of all the work. Juan was no thug. He trained so he could be the best at this sport. But he knew: he’s not the best yet.

The night of the fight came. Juan broke a sweat, and Coach rubbed him down and slipped on his gloves. Juan popped in his mouth guard. Slapped his head. Moved up. Touched that guy’s gloves. Heard the bell. Threw a jab.
It hit.

Jab. Jab. Hook. The flow can’t be stopped. A bell rang. He put the flow on pause. A bell rang. He threw the flow on again. Jab. Cross. Jab. Slip. Uppercut.

That guy stepped back. No, he tripped. No, he fell. A bell rang. A white cloth flapped. The crowd screamed. It was done.

Six hours a day. Six days a week. For six months. All that work for just six minutes. Juan wanted to relax. But he knew: he’s not the best yet.