boxing analyzes

It was just another one of my workout days. I was alone, jogging, stretching, and throwing punches in the park. "Jab, jab, stretch," I muttered, bouncing on my feet. My hips twisted as I threw punches—right, left, right, left. I thought I looked like a champ.

That is, until I heard an unfamiliar voice say, "Hey, kid! You should join a junior boxing class. But with that sloppy technique, you wouldn't last a round."

I stopped mid-punch and turned around. It was an old man, leaning on a cane but smirking like he'd just won a fight.

"Old man, what are you talking about? You're too old to understand anything about boxing," I shot back.

SMACK!

The old man hit me on the head with his cane. "Hey, you brat! Respect your elders!"

I rubbed my head, glaring at him. "Alright, fine. But what do you know about boxing anyway, Grandpa?"

He chuckled and then, out of nowhere, dropped his cane. "Watch closely, brat."

Before I could even blink, the old man started moving—his fists a blur, his body light as a feather. He threw jabs and hooks with speed and precision that made my jaw drop. "What… how… you're just a regular old man!" I stammered.

"Regular old man, my foot!" he snapped. "I've been boxing since before you were even born, brat. You think you're good? Your punches are as soft as a marshmallow."

I crossed my arms, defensive. "Well, I don't just want to punch, alright? I want to stretch while I fight. You know, focus on flexibility and flow."

The old man raised an eyebrow. "Ohhh, I see. You're talking about a technique that's dangerously good but nearly impossible to master."

"Really?" I asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Yeah," he said, stroking his chin. "I've never mastered it myself, but maybe you…" He trailed off, squinting at me. "Take off your shirt."

"What?!" I yelled, stepping back. "No way, old man!"

SMACK! Another hit to the head.

"Quit whining, brat, and just do it!"

Grumbling, I reluctantly took off my shirt. The old man stared at me, nodding thoughtfully.

"Interesting," he muttered. "You might just have the potential to pull it off. But it's gonna be hard. You'll need my training."

I brightened. "Alright! So you'll teach me?"

"Nope," he said, smirking. "I'm just an old man. Why should I waste my time on you?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Are you serious right now?"

He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Fine. I'll teach you. But first, you've got to call me 'Master.'"

I groaned. "Really? Fine, whatever. Teach me, Master."

"Wrong!" he barked. "Call me Master Shinza, you brat!"

"Alright, alright. Master Shinza," I said begrudgingly.

"Good," he said, his smirk widening. "Now, get ready, because I'm about to turn that marshmallow technique of yours into steel."

And just like that, my journey into old-man boxing began. Turns out, Master Shinza was more than just a grumpy elder—he was a legend.