KO

Four AM in Philly. Frost on the concrete, breath fogging in the dark, and somewhere a transistor radio kicks into "Gonna Fly Now" while a broke club fighter in grey sweats sprints the seventy-two steps of the Art Museum. That's KO. That's the cartoon bald eagle on the top side — red gloves cocked, beak bared, stars and stripes snapping behind him like Mickey's screaming in his ear to get up, get up, GET UP.

Flip it. Grey speckled carpet on the slow side — the heavy bag, the meat locker, the body work that wins rounds twelve. Slick canvas up top for when you need to dance, sting like the bee, float past a blocker who thought he had you read. Ali on the fast side, Rocky on the slow side. Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth, and this bag is the punch.

Round one, corner's out, bell's ringing. Lace 'em up, step through the ropes, and put the four-hole to sleep. Let's get ready to rumble.