In the afternoon, he invited me to go check out the gym the operator at the carnival had recommended. I accepted, hoping he was going to keep his word about not fighting, and soon we were in his car and on our way.
Soon, we were driving into the town center. I turned to Hunter. “No more detours to get our fortunes told, okay?”
“You don’t wanna check in with our friend Trinity?” he asked, smirking.
I shook my head until my hair was in my eyes.
“Fine. Not sure we’d have time anyway. This gym is only open for another couple hours.”
“Okay. Did you call to let them know you were coming? What’s your plan with this anyway?”
Hunter laughed. “I called, yeah. The guy on the phone was pretty short with me, though. He seemed cool with me coming in but definitely wasn’t promising anything.”
I shrugged. “I guess that makes sense. So what are you thinking you’re going to do there?”
“I dunno. Just wanna check it out I guess. Get a feel for the place. I don’t wanna fight like I was before or anything, but maybe it would be a good spot to work out. Or maybe I can work there. Gotta find some way to start paying for myself sooner or later.”
“Fair enough,” I said. I was skeptical of anything coming from this, but Hunter taking steps toward a plan for a long-term future was promising enough for me.
A few minutes later, Hunter pulled over and parked in front of a sign that read “Clint’s Gym.” The place looked like it hadn’t changed since the nineties.
”So you think you talked to Clint?” I asked after we’d gotten out of the car.
Hunter looked up at the sign. “I’m guessing. Guy had the voice of someone who yells a lot.”
“Maybe you’ll be yelling a lot too when you start coaching,” I said.
I hadn’t been sure how serious I was, but Hunter took me at my word. “Yeah, maybe.”
He seemed to be lost in thought as we walked to the entrance, so I kept my mouth shut. We got to the glass door, opened it, and went inside.
My first impression centered on how rundown the place was. The second was that it reminded me a lot of Hunter’s gym in Studsen. Bigg’s had some more recent music, maybe, and there seemed to be more wrestling, but that was about it. The two places were pretty close.
Hunter began surveying our surroundings the instant we were inside. Seemingly in a trance, he made his way past the unoccupied front desk and to the entrance to the gym area, where the sound of leather hitting leather could be heard.
When we walked in, the pungent smell of disinfectant practically punched me in the face. How on earth were they using so much of the stuff? I looked around and saw a bucket in the corner. Holy cow.
Hunter seemed unfazed by the smell or anything else. His eyes scanned the room, taking in all the activities being performed.
There were almost a dozen people in all working out in various stations. To our right we found a series of small and big punching bags being hit by fighters of various sizes. To our left were a couple of mats. One of them was in use, and the two wrestlers seemed to be drilling a move where one of them would try to grab the other guys legs and the other guy tried to stop him from getting a good grip.
“What are they doing over there?” I asked Hunter.
Hunter looked over briefly. “Takedown defense,” he answered, before screwing up his face in skepticism. “Kinda.”
I watched as the guy attempting the takedown was successful and nodded. Logical enough name. When I turned to ask Hunter what he meant by “kinda,” I saw he had turned his attention to the room’s centerpiece.
It was the sparring ring. The thing looked even older than the one in Bigg’s. Its ropes were fraying on the far side especially, the wood along the side was chipped, and it even looked like the floor was slightly uneven. Nevertheless, two fighters—who looked to be about sixteen—were in the ring with helmets, fighting each other under the instruction of a third man. I didn’t need to be told the third man was Clint.
He wore a pressed, crisp maroon polo and had his nearly white hair cropped close to his head. His tall, thin frame bounced around the mat like that of a young man, and his voice barked instructions with startling intensity. If I had to guess, I would say he was in his late sixties, if only because I couldn’t imagine him being any older given how spry he was.
One of the boxers appeared to make him so irritated he pulled him aside and stepped in his place, showing him the correct footwork. He threw some practice punches on the other fighter and had the other fighter throw some punches back to demonstrate the technique.
“Son, you can throw ‘em faster,” he barked. “You won’t hit me.”