The Boxing System: I Became the King of the Ring-Chapter 18: Jamal Vs Tommy 1

The crowd exploded. The noise echoed around the training arena, bouncing off the concrete walls and metal rafters above. Fluorescent lights cast shadows around the worn canvas ring, where two young fighters were about to test everything they’d learned.

Tommy and Jamal circled each other, both light on their feet. Their sneakers squeaked against the canvas with each careful step. The sound was rhythmic. Sweat already beaded on their foreheads despite the round just beginning.

Jamal moved forward first, his left hand flicking out with precision. Pop, pop. Quick jabs smacked into Tommy’s gloves, testing his reflexes and timing. The leather-on-leather contact echoed through the gym, each impact a small test of will and preparation.

Tommy kept his hands high, exactly as Miguel had drilled into him during countless training sessions.

The big amateur gloves felt like pillows against his face, cushioning but also limiting his vision slightly. His headgear made everything sound muffled, as if he were underwater. The familiar weight pressed against his skull, a constant reminder of the protection it provided.

He circled left, trying to find space to breathe and think, his feet moving in the patterns he’d practiced a lot of times in this same training facility.

The arena was packed tonight. More people than Tommy had ever fought in front of before.

He could feel their eyes on him, their energy pressing against the ring. Some faces he recognized – kids from school, neighbors from his block.

Jamal stalked him with the confidence of someone who’d been here before. His shoulders rolled smoothly as he threw a combination – jab, cross, hook. Each punch flowed into the next with precision.

Tommy blocked the first two, his gloves absorbing the impact with dull thuds, but couldn’t get away from the hook. It thumped into his chest protector, rattling him slightly.

The crowd noise swelled like a wave building toward shore. One of the three judges leaned forward at the scoring table and made a careful mark on his scorecard.

Every clean shot mattered. Every blocked punch counted. This wasn’t just sparring anymore – this was a competition, with winners and losers and dreams hanging in the balance.

Tommy’s back hit the ropes. Bad spot. He’d been taught never to get trapped there, but Jamal had cut off his angles expertly. The braided rope pressed against his shoulder blades, limiting his movement to forward or sideways shuffles along the perimeter.

*************

Javier pressed against the ring apron just below, watching every move with intense focus. His knuckles were already white where they gripped the bottom rope. Jamal was strong and aggressive, but Javier had noticed something during the warm-ups and as the fight progressed – he dropped his left hand slightly before throwing the right cross. It was a tiny tell, the kind of detail that separated good fighters from great ones. Simple weakness to exploit if you knew what to look for.

**************

"Move your feet, Tommy!" Miguel’s voice cut through the noise from the red corner. His coach stood with his arms crossed, watching with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen hundreds of these amateur bouts. Miguel never got too excited, never shouted unnecessarily. When he spoke, it mattered.

Jamal saw his chance and unloaded everything he had. A flurry of punches rained down. Left hook, right cross, left uppercut, right hook.

Tommy tucked his chin down and covered up, pressing his gloves against his temples in the defensive shell Miguel had drilled into him. Leather smacked against leather in rapid succession. A few shots got through to his arms and shoulders, stinging but not damaging.

The crowd was on its feet now. Some people were shouting encouragement, others were just making noise for the sake of it. The energy in the room was electric, the kind that made your heart race.

Tommy shot forward and grabbed Jamal around the waist before any real damage could be done. Clinch. Both boys were breathing hard already, their chests rising and falling rapidly. The round was less than two minutes old, but the pace had been intense from the opening bell.

Up close, Tommy could smell Jamal’s mouthguard, hear his rapid breathing, feel the heat radiating from his body. This was the intimate side of boxing that spectators never experienced – the physical closeness, the shared exhaustion, the way two competitors pushed each other beyond their normal limits.

"Break!" the referee commanded, stepping between them with authority. He was an older man with graying hair and calloused hands, someone who’d officiated more amateur bouts than anyone could count. He pushed them apart with firm pressure, creating space between the fighters.

"Box!"

The command sent them back into motion. Tommy reset his stance and threw his own jab, the punch he’d practiced more than any other. It snapped out clean and straight, covering the distance to Jamal’s headgear in a fraction of a second. The shot caught Jamal square on the forehead padding, making his head jerk back slightly.

It was Tommy’s first clean shot of the fight, and he felt a surge of confidence. His timing was there. His distance was right. He could compete with this guy.

Jamal didn’t even pause to acknowledge the shot. He answered immediately with a wide hook that whistled past Tommy’s chin, missing by mere inches. The wind from the punch stirred the air near Tommy’s face. Close. Too close. One small adjustment and that punch would have landed flush.

The crowd gasped in unison, then exploded into noise. Someone yelled "Ohhh!" from the bleachers. Another voice shouted something in Spanish that got lost in the chaos.

"Pick your shots, Tommy!" Miguel called from the corner, his voice cutting through the din. "Work behind the jab!"

The advice was simple but crucial. Don’t get drawn into a brawl. Use technique over aggression. Make every punch count rather than throwing wildly and hoping something landed.

Tommy took a deep breath and stepped off the ropes, using his footwork to create distance again. Space was his friend right now. He got his range back and threw a crisp double jab to Jamal’s chest. Both shots landed clean with solid thunks, pushing his opponent back a half-step.

The judges all leaned forward, their pencils moving across the scorecards. They were watching for clean shots, effective aggression, ring generalship. Every moment was being evaluated and scored.

"Let’s go, homeboy!" someone shouted from the left side of the arena. The voice was young, probably one of Tommy’s classmates.

"Drop him, J!" came the answering call from the right side, where Jamal’s supporters had gathered.

The gym was split down the middle, loyalty lines drawn based on neighborhood, school, or sometimes just which fighter looked more impressive during warm-ups. This was local boxing at its purest – community members coming out to support their own, turning the arena into a temporary tribal battleground.

Halfway through the round, Jamal found his range and timing. A hard right hand dug into Tommy’s ribs just below the chest protector, landing in that vulnerable spot where the padding ended. Tommy’s face twisted involuntarily, his features contorting as the shot sent pain radiating through his side. He stepped back quickly, sucking air and trying to process the impact.

Javier felt his own stomach clench in sympathy. He could see his friend had felt that shot deeply. Tommy’s left arm dropped slightly, an instinctive movement to protect the tender spot where the punch had landed. But he didn’t panic or lose his composure. He reset his guard after a few seconds and got back on his toes, moving and breathing through the pain.

This was what separated real fighters from people who just liked to hit things. The ability to take a hard shot, process it, and continue fighting smart instead of emotional.

The final thirty seconds of the round ticked down on the arena clock. Tommy stayed mobile, pumping his jab to keep distance and prevent Jamal from getting set for another big shot. His legs felt good beneath him, his wind was holding up, and his confidence was building with each successful exchange.

Jamal grew impatient as time ran out. His punches got wilder and more telegraphed, looping hooks that Tommy could see coming from a mile away. Desperation was creeping into his technique, the kind of rushed urgency that usually led to mistakes.

Tommy saw an opening and seized it. He slipped inside a big right hand, ducking under the punch and firing back immediately. Left hook to the body, right hand to the body, then a quick jab upwards that popped Jamal’s head back cleanly.

It was a perfect combination, the kind they’d practiced on the heavy bag a lot of times. Each shot flowed into the next with beautiful timing. The crowd erupted in appreciation, recognizing the technical skill on display.

Jamal’s eyes went wide with surprise. The combination had caught him completely off guard, landing cleaner than anything either fighter had thrown so far. He rushed forward in the final seconds, swinging for the fences with wild, desperate punches that mostly hit air.

The bell clanged loud and sharp, cutting through all the noise and chaos like a blade.

"Time!" the referee called, stepping between them with his arms spread wide, creating a human barrier between the fighters.

Both boys stumbled back to their corners, their chests heaving from exertion. Sweat dripped from their hair onto the canvas, leaving dark spots that would dry before the next round began. Their legs felt heavy, their arms tired from three minutes of constant motion and tension.

The first round was in the books. Now came the crucial minute between rounds, when corners would give advice, fighters would catch their breath, and everyone in the arena would try to figure out who was winning and by how much.

**************

Javier had watched every single second with the intensity of someone studying for the most important exam of his life. He’d seen how Jamal got more aggressive when things didn’t go his way, abandoning technique for power. He’d watched how Tommy stayed calm under pressure, never letting emotion override his training.

His own nerves were building steadily. His fight was next on the card, and everything he’d just witnessed would inform his own strategy. The lessons were right there in front of him – stay composed, trust your training, and never let your opponent dictate the pace of the fight.

**************

In the red corner, Miguel gave Tommy water from a squeeze bottle and spoke quietly but intensely. "Good work out there. You’re boxing smart. Don’t let him drag you into a brawl in round two. Use your feet, keep breathing steady. This round is yours if you stay disciplined."

The advice was precise and practical. Miguel had seen enough amateur boxing to know that fights were won by fighters who could maintain their game plan under pressure.

Across the ring in the blue corner, Jamal’s corner was much louder and more animated. His coach pumped him up with aggressive encouragement, slapping his gloves together and shouting over the crowd noise. "Keep pressing forward! He’s starting to fold under pressure! You hurt him with that body shot!"

Two different philosophies on display – calm technical advice versus emotional motivation. Both had their place in boxing, depending on what kind of fighter you were and what the situation demanded.

*************

Javier still gripped the ropes with white knuckles. The anticipation was almost worse than actually fighting. At least when you were in there throwing punches, you were too busy to think about being nervous.

Tommy looked across the gym through the forest of spectators and caught Javier’s eye. His mouthguard was stained slightly red from where he’d bitten his tongue during one of the exchanges, but somehow he managed a quick grin.

That grin said everything without words. It said the first round had gone well, that he was ready for round two, and most importantly – that Javier was going to do just fine when his own time came.

Your turn next, the grin seemed to say. And you’re going to be ready.