“Don’t call me Irish,” he says as he springs to life like someone put a quarter in him. He kills the rest of his cigarette before jogging around the ring. “Call me Johnny”.

Johnny starts doing arm circles.

“No, don’t call me Johnny, that’s too childish. Call me John.”

John stretches his hamstrings, biceps, and neck.

“Who the fuck nicknames himself ‘Irish’?” He says.

I take a deep breath before attempting to humor him. “You?”

“Wrong. You can thank Michael for that.”

I cannot stand this man.

He stops his warmup routine and eyes me from head to toe. “Cesar Alvarez, 18 years old and already has his shot at the pro’s. You got nowhere to go but up, kid”. He turns around and walks back to his corner. “You know, you and me are a lot alike”.

With his back turned I massage the bridge of my nose. My temples are burning and my knuckles are aching more than ever. I have never wanted to break someone’s face in more than him.

He grabs a pair of gloves resting on the ropes.

“Put these on.”