"Wrong, wrong, wrong," you shame the hopeful athlete, "I thought you wanted to be champion?"

Out of the huffing and puffing comes a response, "I do, coach, I swear!"

You stew for a moment longer than is comfortable, on purpose. "Well, then, what the FUCK WAAAS THAAAAT? MY NONNA CAN THROW A BETTER LEFT HOOK." Teeth clenched, you stare at your pupil dead center in the face, then you force your eye to twitch when you have their attention. Pointing at the swinging bag: "ten more reps, let's go. And don't get sloppy, or else I'm takin' off my fuckin' belt again."

The athlete hammers away with precision timing and accuracy - right jab, right jab, left hook, weave! right jab, right jab, left hook, weave! right jab, right jab... The vinyl-on-vinyl rhythm continues on the speedbag as you turn around and fetch yourself the umpteenth beer out of your nonna's garage refrigerator. The cap hits the floor as the tenth rep ends. "Good. Now, thirty more."