Post by Adrian on Mar 16, 2009 16:21:53 GMT -5
Adrian let the towel fall from his face, and he slung it over his shoulders, leaving it to rest there for the time being. He was decked out in regulation boxing shorts and no shirt, and was sitting in the corner of a boxing ring. His cornerman, some guy Adrian had only recently met here in San Francisco, was barking comments and observations, but Adrian didn't hear a word he said. His boxing mask gave him enough protection, but still the other boy's blows were getting through a few too many times. Adrian just wasn't fast enough to keep on his feet.
The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the third round. Adrian hopped back up to his feet, slipped in his mouthguard, and moved to the center of the ring. His opponent, a young up and coming Latino boy, was dancing around the ring, certainly better on the speed side of things than Adrian. The boy held his ground, moving lightly on the balls of his feet to keep motion, but remaining fairly rooted to the spot.
"Stick and move, stick and move!" a man said, and Adrian couldn't tell if it was from his corner or the Latino boy's. He assumed it was the latter, his corner man would certainly know him well enough to realize that sticking and moving wasn't his strategy.
The boy struck first, swinging a quick one-two combo. Adrian's raised guard was more than enough to block it, and Adrian twisted his torso with the shots, ensuring he took them on the side of his arms each time. Quickly, Adrian shot out his own right jab, but it was like his opponent was ready for it, throwing a left hook at the same time. Adrian was undefended, and took the hook clean on in the jaw. He tucked in just in time to ensure he wasn't KO'ed, but he hurt like a bitch. This only served to enrage the youngest Hanlon, and he shot out another, much harder right hand, before the boy could retrieve his hook. The punch connected, and Adrian swung in a left hook, using the sudden shock of connection to score another hit. His anger visible on his face, Adrian started raining blows left and right on the boy, forcing his opponent to grab him up in a clinch, would would cause a break in the action. Adrian, not wanting to have to give separation due to an official's call, broke away, allowing the boy a bit of space on his own accord.
The Latino responded in kind by powering forward with a hard right uppercut, knocking Adrian straight on the chin and sending him to the ground. He was dazed, he forgot where he was, all he could hear was counting.
"1! 2! 3! 4!"
Adrian was trying to piece his scrambled thoughts back together, registering what had just happened. In his mind, though, he was at school, fighting Mathew, or Stu, or even Kate. This was a real fight, and they would be jumping on him soon, taking him to a ground battle. He had to stay here, ready for them, they wouldn't expect him to invite ground combat.
"5! 6! 7!"
No one came, and Adrian couldn't figure out why. Suddenly, it hit him: He wasn't at school, he was at the gym. An amateur boxing bout. He'd just been knocked down and was almost out for the count! Adrian tried to surge his body upwards, and got to a seated position, before the energy he had just gave out, and he fell back down to the mat.
"8! 9! 10!!!" The bell rang, and the Latino youngster's hand was raised in victory. Adrian, barely able to pull himself together, rolled from the ring under the bottom rope.
-----The Next Day-----
Adrian, dressed to kill as per usual, stood in front of an almost palatial estate on the near outskirts of San Francisco. His Bugatti was parked in the circular drive, and his eyes went down a card in his hand, matching the address on the card with the one on the estate. After making perfectly sure that the two were one and the same, Adrian reached up to take the enormous knocker on the door and knocked three times with it.
He waited a bit, longer than he had expected to. Finally, an elderly looking man in a tuxedo opened the door.
"May I help you?"
"I'm here to see Sir Wainsworth," Adrian said, eyeing the man before him, who appeared to be some sort of butler.
"Mmm, yes, I see," said the older man, not necessarily condescendingly, but most definitely scrutinizing. "And if he is to ask who, exactly, has come to visit him?"
"Tell him his former pupil Adrian Hanlon has come to say 'hi'," Adrian said, making sure to speak his name a little bit louder than the rest of the sentence.
"Did he say HANLON?!" a bellowing voice called out from just past the door. "By God, man, let him in!"
The door would open fully, and the butler would give a sweeping motion with his hand, inviting the boy in. As he came inside, he became swept up, lifted off the ground in a huge bearhug. Adrian wanted to be surprised, but knowing his former trainer, he was anything but. When he was finally set back down, he turned to regard the mountain of a man who stood before him. Dark complected, but with sharp features, and a hatchet-shaped face, the legendary boxer, Sir Bradford Wainsworth. He smiled the warmest smile you would likely ever see a man perform, and welcome Adrian into his home.
"Adrian, my boy, it's been years, it feels like! What brings you here today?"[/i] Bradford pulled up a chair for Adrian to sit at, and took one himself. The butler, Maxwell, came up with coffee for the both of them. Adrian took his cup gratefully, with a nod of respect, and turned back to face Bradford, taking a sip of the coffee. He smiled at the taste and texture. Kopi Luwak... you old codger, and you pretend this money means nothing to you.
Sir Bradford Wainsworth was a man in much the same station as Adrian himself. Born and raised by a wealthy British nobleman, Bradford took up the gentlemenly art of boxing as a pastime. When he became quite skilled, however, he entered the professional arena, fighting and earning enough to more than triple his father's fortune, and once his father passed away and he received his inheritence, Sir Bradford became extremely well-off. However, unlike Adrian, he only showed it in the most material of fashions. While he had expensive tastes, Wainsworth never in his life put anyone beneath him due to their social status or anything of that sort. Always willing to give anyone a chance, Wainsworth not only pumped millions of dollars into various charities every month, he also did personal volunteer work, of which he was almost as well-known for in his native England as he was for his boxing. It was these acts of good-will, coupled with his late father's noble status, that earned the man knighthood, and the 'Sir' honorific before his name.
Bill Hanlon had witnessed one of the man's boxing matches Stateside, and had quickly offered to pay him vast sums of money to train his son, Adrian. Wainsworth initally refused, but when Bill invited him to dinner, and Bradford saw the boy, something in him changed, and he offered to train him for much, much less than Bill had originally offered.
Sir Bradford, you see, witnessed a spark in the boy, a potential that he knew his failed father was completely overlooking. Bradford's father used to talk about the old Hanlons, and from the stories he told, Bradford could easily see the light of the older Hanlons, even through the stubborn obstinance. What was Bradford's angle? None at all, really. He simply felt like the Hanlon name was much too prestigious to be dragged in the dirt the way the current generation had, and if there was a chance to reclaim the name for its former glory in Adrian, Bradford would do whatever he could to ensure it.
Thus began almost a decade of boxing training, with no lack of general attitude adjustments here and there. Bradford never out and said it, but he did all he could to make Adrian become a true modern gentleman. The youngest Hanlon took much away from the training, but he still had quite a ways to go, in both fields.
"I came here to resume practice with you, sir," Adrian said, smiling.
"Really? That's GREAT, my boy!"
Bradford had retired from boxing some years ago, but, even so, Adrian could tell he kept himself in peak physical condition, almost as if he was waiting for the time when Adrian came back to him.
Adrian mused on that a moment, thinking about why, exactly, Bradford had come to San Francisco to begin with. Of all the places to live, it seemed quite coincidential. He shook his head, and listened to the older man, who had begun to speak again.
"If you'll excuse me, dear boy, I am having guests in attendance tonight. You are more than welcome to join us; however, I assure you it will be quite the bore for a spry youngster such as yourself. Just a bunch of washed-up old folks drinking brandy and reminiscing about the better days before a round or two of golf."[/i]
"I appreciate the invitation, Sir, and believe me, it sounds like quite the riot, but I just wanted to see you, in person, and ask you about my training. If you're busy, I'll take my leave of you."
Bradford nodded and laughed mirthfully, patting the boy on the back. It was a hard pat, but Adrian, falling back into old patterns, was used to the man's strength and demeanor, and had prepared himself for it. "Ahhh, Adrian, I'm so glad you found me here. Meet me here again, every Sunday afternoon after Church, alright? I'll see how you've improved, and where you've faltered, and we'll make you even better than before."[/i]
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate your help."
"By all means, my boy, please call me Brad."[/i]
Adrian thought it was a joke. NO ONE called him 'Brad'. Brad was a common name, nothing at all that someone like him would have as a name. "I insist. We're friends, and friends have no need to address me in such formal terms."[/i]
"Alright, Brad," Adrian said, testing the word in his mouth, trying to see if it fit the bearlike man before him. It didn't. "I'll see you Sunday." He got up, thanking him for the coffee, and made his way to the door. Bradford bid him goodbye, waving at the doorframe as Adrian got into his car and turned the ignition, pulling out of the driveway, a satisfied smile on his face.
He had since learned from Mathew that, to ensure victory in this newest arena, he would need more than just the ability to box. He would have to become unorthodox. Even so, to complement it, he also needed to become better at Boxing than all these other kung-fu masters were at their Eastern martial arts.
He needed to hone perfection.
The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the third round. Adrian hopped back up to his feet, slipped in his mouthguard, and moved to the center of the ring. His opponent, a young up and coming Latino boy, was dancing around the ring, certainly better on the speed side of things than Adrian. The boy held his ground, moving lightly on the balls of his feet to keep motion, but remaining fairly rooted to the spot.
"Stick and move, stick and move!" a man said, and Adrian couldn't tell if it was from his corner or the Latino boy's. He assumed it was the latter, his corner man would certainly know him well enough to realize that sticking and moving wasn't his strategy.
The boy struck first, swinging a quick one-two combo. Adrian's raised guard was more than enough to block it, and Adrian twisted his torso with the shots, ensuring he took them on the side of his arms each time. Quickly, Adrian shot out his own right jab, but it was like his opponent was ready for it, throwing a left hook at the same time. Adrian was undefended, and took the hook clean on in the jaw. He tucked in just in time to ensure he wasn't KO'ed, but he hurt like a bitch. This only served to enrage the youngest Hanlon, and he shot out another, much harder right hand, before the boy could retrieve his hook. The punch connected, and Adrian swung in a left hook, using the sudden shock of connection to score another hit. His anger visible on his face, Adrian started raining blows left and right on the boy, forcing his opponent to grab him up in a clinch, would would cause a break in the action. Adrian, not wanting to have to give separation due to an official's call, broke away, allowing the boy a bit of space on his own accord.
The Latino responded in kind by powering forward with a hard right uppercut, knocking Adrian straight on the chin and sending him to the ground. He was dazed, he forgot where he was, all he could hear was counting.
"1! 2! 3! 4!"
Adrian was trying to piece his scrambled thoughts back together, registering what had just happened. In his mind, though, he was at school, fighting Mathew, or Stu, or even Kate. This was a real fight, and they would be jumping on him soon, taking him to a ground battle. He had to stay here, ready for them, they wouldn't expect him to invite ground combat.
"5! 6! 7!"
No one came, and Adrian couldn't figure out why. Suddenly, it hit him: He wasn't at school, he was at the gym. An amateur boxing bout. He'd just been knocked down and was almost out for the count! Adrian tried to surge his body upwards, and got to a seated position, before the energy he had just gave out, and he fell back down to the mat.
"8! 9! 10!!!" The bell rang, and the Latino youngster's hand was raised in victory. Adrian, barely able to pull himself together, rolled from the ring under the bottom rope.
-----The Next Day-----
Adrian, dressed to kill as per usual, stood in front of an almost palatial estate on the near outskirts of San Francisco. His Bugatti was parked in the circular drive, and his eyes went down a card in his hand, matching the address on the card with the one on the estate. After making perfectly sure that the two were one and the same, Adrian reached up to take the enormous knocker on the door and knocked three times with it.
He waited a bit, longer than he had expected to. Finally, an elderly looking man in a tuxedo opened the door.
"May I help you?"
"I'm here to see Sir Wainsworth," Adrian said, eyeing the man before him, who appeared to be some sort of butler.
"Mmm, yes, I see," said the older man, not necessarily condescendingly, but most definitely scrutinizing. "And if he is to ask who, exactly, has come to visit him?"
"Tell him his former pupil Adrian Hanlon has come to say 'hi'," Adrian said, making sure to speak his name a little bit louder than the rest of the sentence.
"Did he say HANLON?!" a bellowing voice called out from just past the door. "By God, man, let him in!"
The door would open fully, and the butler would give a sweeping motion with his hand, inviting the boy in. As he came inside, he became swept up, lifted off the ground in a huge bearhug. Adrian wanted to be surprised, but knowing his former trainer, he was anything but. When he was finally set back down, he turned to regard the mountain of a man who stood before him. Dark complected, but with sharp features, and a hatchet-shaped face, the legendary boxer, Sir Bradford Wainsworth. He smiled the warmest smile you would likely ever see a man perform, and welcome Adrian into his home.
"Adrian, my boy, it's been years, it feels like! What brings you here today?"[/i] Bradford pulled up a chair for Adrian to sit at, and took one himself. The butler, Maxwell, came up with coffee for the both of them. Adrian took his cup gratefully, with a nod of respect, and turned back to face Bradford, taking a sip of the coffee. He smiled at the taste and texture. Kopi Luwak... you old codger, and you pretend this money means nothing to you.
Sir Bradford Wainsworth was a man in much the same station as Adrian himself. Born and raised by a wealthy British nobleman, Bradford took up the gentlemenly art of boxing as a pastime. When he became quite skilled, however, he entered the professional arena, fighting and earning enough to more than triple his father's fortune, and once his father passed away and he received his inheritence, Sir Bradford became extremely well-off. However, unlike Adrian, he only showed it in the most material of fashions. While he had expensive tastes, Wainsworth never in his life put anyone beneath him due to their social status or anything of that sort. Always willing to give anyone a chance, Wainsworth not only pumped millions of dollars into various charities every month, he also did personal volunteer work, of which he was almost as well-known for in his native England as he was for his boxing. It was these acts of good-will, coupled with his late father's noble status, that earned the man knighthood, and the 'Sir' honorific before his name.
Bill Hanlon had witnessed one of the man's boxing matches Stateside, and had quickly offered to pay him vast sums of money to train his son, Adrian. Wainsworth initally refused, but when Bill invited him to dinner, and Bradford saw the boy, something in him changed, and he offered to train him for much, much less than Bill had originally offered.
Sir Bradford, you see, witnessed a spark in the boy, a potential that he knew his failed father was completely overlooking. Bradford's father used to talk about the old Hanlons, and from the stories he told, Bradford could easily see the light of the older Hanlons, even through the stubborn obstinance. What was Bradford's angle? None at all, really. He simply felt like the Hanlon name was much too prestigious to be dragged in the dirt the way the current generation had, and if there was a chance to reclaim the name for its former glory in Adrian, Bradford would do whatever he could to ensure it.
Thus began almost a decade of boxing training, with no lack of general attitude adjustments here and there. Bradford never out and said it, but he did all he could to make Adrian become a true modern gentleman. The youngest Hanlon took much away from the training, but he still had quite a ways to go, in both fields.
"I came here to resume practice with you, sir," Adrian said, smiling.
"Really? That's GREAT, my boy!"
Bradford had retired from boxing some years ago, but, even so, Adrian could tell he kept himself in peak physical condition, almost as if he was waiting for the time when Adrian came back to him.
Adrian mused on that a moment, thinking about why, exactly, Bradford had come to San Francisco to begin with. Of all the places to live, it seemed quite coincidential. He shook his head, and listened to the older man, who had begun to speak again.
"If you'll excuse me, dear boy, I am having guests in attendance tonight. You are more than welcome to join us; however, I assure you it will be quite the bore for a spry youngster such as yourself. Just a bunch of washed-up old folks drinking brandy and reminiscing about the better days before a round or two of golf."[/i]
"I appreciate the invitation, Sir, and believe me, it sounds like quite the riot, but I just wanted to see you, in person, and ask you about my training. If you're busy, I'll take my leave of you."
Bradford nodded and laughed mirthfully, patting the boy on the back. It was a hard pat, but Adrian, falling back into old patterns, was used to the man's strength and demeanor, and had prepared himself for it. "Ahhh, Adrian, I'm so glad you found me here. Meet me here again, every Sunday afternoon after Church, alright? I'll see how you've improved, and where you've faltered, and we'll make you even better than before."[/i]
"Thank you, sir, I appreciate your help."
"By all means, my boy, please call me Brad."[/i]
Adrian thought it was a joke. NO ONE called him 'Brad'. Brad was a common name, nothing at all that someone like him would have as a name. "I insist. We're friends, and friends have no need to address me in such formal terms."[/i]
"Alright, Brad," Adrian said, testing the word in his mouth, trying to see if it fit the bearlike man before him. It didn't. "I'll see you Sunday." He got up, thanking him for the coffee, and made his way to the door. Bradford bid him goodbye, waving at the doorframe as Adrian got into his car and turned the ignition, pulling out of the driveway, a satisfied smile on his face.
He had since learned from Mathew that, to ensure victory in this newest arena, he would need more than just the ability to box. He would have to become unorthodox. Even so, to complement it, he also needed to become better at Boxing than all these other kung-fu masters were at their Eastern martial arts.
He needed to hone perfection.
