by Clint Lowe
“You’ve done much more than that,” I say.
Joey stares out the window, toward the streetlights. “No I haven’t.”
“You’ve begun to learn discipline.”
“Behaving, doing what I’m told, is not going to help me.”
“More than just that kind of discipline,” I say. “Discipline to see your tasks through, discipline to stick to your agreements, your word, good routines. A man’s word is his character and routines make your life.”
“They’re not making my life nothing,” Joey says and wipes his nose on his black sleeve, leaving a glistening streak . . . ignore that.
“That’s bad English,” I tell him.
“No, Bad English is a band.”
“Did they inspire your hair?”
He rakes his hand through the mess. “What’s wrong with it?”
I move back to the bag. “Punch the bag again.”
“What for?”
I poke my head out from behind the bag. “Discipline.”
Joey huffs, then turns and punches. The bag makes a sqoosh sound, pulsing into my chest.
“Try using your legs more,” I say. “Not just reckless and throwing yourself. Technique. Power comes from the ground up. Move your legs as you punch. Legs must pivot and rotate.”
“I don’t get it,” Joey says.
“You will,” I assure him. “Next are your hips. They hold your torso and legs together and move your whole body.” I tap my stomach, sixty-three and still firm. “Your stomach muscles, your core, connect your body as it moves in one powerful force. Feel it.”
Joey punches. “I can’t.”
“Takes practice,” I say. “But once you master it, master your core and your force working together, you will release your maximum power. The principle works in other areas of life too, but it’s not yet time for that discussion.”
Joey punches away, trying to feel it. “So this is discipline. Doing the same thing.”
I hold the rumbling bag. “Part of it.”
Joey keeps punching, moving side to side. “Why does discipline matter?” Joey says, then suddenly gets one punch perfect and the bag thumps into my chest.
“That’s why,” I tell him, letting him know with a glance and nod that he punched hard. “It gets results.” I stand back for a moment and take a breath. “And discipline is needed in life. Everything worth achieving takes repeated concentrated effort. And repeated concentrated effort takes discipline, and so to achieve in life we need discipline. We need to discipline ourselves to do the hard things we don’t want to do, again and again, so we can achieve the things we want: healthy minds, strong bodies, good relationships, meaningful work, being in a strong position so we’re able to give more to others.”
Joey stares blankly for a moment, not grasping it. “But when do I really learn how to box?”
“When you have learned discipline.”
Joey’s eyes turn to a calm resolve, staring at the bag, and he keeps punching and keeps chattering like a child with endless questions. But I don’t mind that; he’s learning. “What’s there to achieve anyway?” he asks. “A good life is only for the fortunate.”
He must believe everything I have is a result of random good fortune. “There’s plenty to achieve,” I say, “but we must decide on it. And a good life is for those who choose it, make it, and live it.”
Joey punches hard and pushes the bag into my chest. I take a breather as he looks at me, tears sitting in the shadows of his eyes. “Choosing a life is possible,” he says. “But not for me.”
“Why’s that?” I say.
Joey looks out the window, glaring into the dark. “Some have got more. That’s their lot in life. They have families and money, or some kind of opportunity where they have a chance to choose. Their world’s like a vast ocean.” Joey faces me again. “All I have is puddles.”
I look at him intently. “Then swim in the puddles.”
Joey huffs, punches the bag with half a heart and half the power. “Can’t swim in a puddle.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Metaphor would be me lying flat face in the mud, scraping my arms through the water and kicking into the ground.”
I smile and laugh – quite a funny image. But Joey doesn’t see the humor, so I quickly move on. “Your circumstances may be meager. You haven’t been blessed with the vast ocean of riches and opportunities to dive into as others have, but not everyone has. And it’s not such a bad thing; the extra struggle forces you to swim harder and to grow stronger muscles.”
Joey shakes his head. “No hope for ones like me. Best we can do is survive, have a few friends.”
“Having a few friends is essential,” I say. “But you can have more. Those puddles I’m talking about-”
“You’re a puddle,” Joey says, interrupting. “My brain’s cooked. Going home. See you Monday.”
Joey grabs his bag then heads for the door. “Hey, Joey!” I call, and he turns at the exit door, bag strapped over his shoulder. “Just think about it. Let it simmer in the back of your mind until you’re ready.”
He creases his brow. “Think about what?”
I make a swimming motion. “Swimming in puddles.”
