To Train Up a Champion - Part 1
#1 of To Train Up a Champion
The big folf panted heavily as he pumped the weights on the bench press. Here he was, training for his first amateur fight ever and nothing was going to stop him. He could feel the burn in his body, telling him to stop, but he kept pressing on. With every ounce of strength he could muster, with every ounce of courage he had, he pumped the iron one more time before he saw the paws of the cheetah above him pull the weights away.
"You're doing great, Ian," said the cheetah.
Ian McGregor, son of Martin and Olivia McGregor arose from the bench. Taking a towel from off the floor, he wiped the sweat from his brow and took a deep breath. Smiling, he looked over at the cheetah.
"Got one more in than last time, huh?" said Ian, smiling with satisfaction.
The cheetah grinned at his best friend. Barry O'Brien, the son of Ian and Molly O'Brien had grown up his entire life with Ian. There fathers had fought years ago for the undisputed middleweight championship, with Ian's dad Martin winning, but despite that, they were the best of friends, just like their fathers had become.
"You're gonna slay whoever you fight, champ," said Barry giving his best friend a swat on the back. Ian smiled, giving his friend a swat back. Going over the large mirror on the west side of the gym, Ian flexed his arms, admiring his athletic build. Three quarters wolf, and one quarter fox, Ian was much bigger than his father, Martin, who had been the undisputed middleweight champion, and later, the undisputed super middleweight champion. He looked more like his paternal and maternal grandfathers, Bradley McGregor and Will McCallister. Bradley was six four, and Will was six foot six, but Ian at eighteen seemed to meet them in the middle at six foot five. He'd already defeated twenty opponents in the amateurs, and he was completely confident that he was going to beat his twenty-first opponent the following day.
"Hey," yelled Ian. "You about done with the speed bag?"
Ian was yelling at his other best friend, Zeb Jackson, the wildcat son of his father's first opponent in the amateurs, Matthew Jackson. Matthew had went on to win the undisputed light heavyweight championship, but his son had not grown up to his father's height and weight. Zeb was going to be competing at bantamweight, but despite his diminutive stature, the wildcat was a force to be reckoned with. Ian and Barry looked on with awe as the small wildcat pounded away at the speedbag with almost lightning velocity. Not only was he fast, he had incredible stamina. Zeb ended his pounding of the speedbag with a huge right paw. He looked over at his friends, smiling with satisfaction.
"All yours, patches," joked the wildcat to Ian.
"You watch your mouth, Tiny," snarled Ian, who because of his amalgamation of gray, white, red and black fur had been given the nickname "Patches" by Barry and Zeb. Both cats laughed as Ian glared at them, still walking over to the speed bag, but was interrupted when the gym door suddenly opened. A little folf cub came running over to Ian, who laughing, picked him up.
"What are you doing, stinker?" asked Ian.
Ian looked back at the door, seeing his mother Olivia walking into the gym. Ian gave his mother a kiss on the cheek before handing over the folf cub to her.
"There you are, Hunter," said Olivia. "I see you're wanting to watch your big brother, aren't you?"
"Yep!" said Hunter, who at three, was the youngest of Martin and Olivia's twelve cubs. The little folf laughed as Ian ruffled his little brother's ears affectionately.
"He's absolutely crazy about you, Ian," said Olivia.
"Well, I'll be sure to teach him how to box when he gets old enough," said Ian, now tickling the squirming little folf as his mother tried holding onto him.
"I wanna box now!" demanded Hunter.
"Right now," said Olivia. "You're going to get a bath."
"Ian," whined the little folf. "I wanna box."
"I don't think so," said Ian, ruffling his brother's ears once more. "You go with Mommy and get a bath. Why do you think I called you stinker?"
Ian whined again, but Olivia hushed him. "Your father will be coming home pretty soon."
"I know," said Ian, now flanked by Barry and Zeb. "I'm sure we'll have to hear all about Lake Okeechobee and how Dad caught a fish as big as me, and blah, blah, blah."
Olivia laughed. "That sounds like your father alright. I'm going to take Hunter in for his bath. Are you going boys going to be much longer?"
"Ian's still got the speed bag, and me and Zeb are gonna do some rope jumping, then we'll be in," said Barry, putting his jump rope in his paws.
Little Hunter, now in his mother's arms, turned to looked at his oldest sibling firing away at the speed bag. The bag sounded like machine gun fire as Ian threw shots at it. Left, right, left, right. Right, right, left, left. He altered his combinations every ten seconds, still keeping the rhythm of the bag hitting his paws and the base going steadily. He knew from an early age that rhythm was crucial in boxing, and he made sure to work on his timing everyday in the gym. The sounds of the speed bag blended with the whirring of jump rope through the air and the rope hitting the floor. All three boys were busy training for the next fights, and to Ian, his next fight was going to be a very important one; one that he would be talking to his father about when he got home.
Ian, Barry and Zeb entered the McGregor household by way of the backdoor after their daily training routine was finished. Wiping sweat from his face, Ian saw the usual sight of his younger siblings watching television, playing, and just acting like typical kids. In the living room, Olivia, Barry's mother Molly and Zeb's mother, Denise were busy chatting like they always were, but what most interested him was what was happening in the corner of the living room.
"Hey, Grandpa Bradley, Grandpa Will. Who's winning?"
His maternal and paternal grandfathers were focused on a serious game of chess. Long retired from professional fighting, the two old warriors had taken up chess as a way to stay sharp. Even with Bradley in his fifties and Will in his sixties, the wolves still wanted to compete.
"I think your Grandpa Will is trying to figure out how to survive this round," joked Bradley, still focussing on the chessboard.
"Shut up. I'm trying to concentrate," growled the white wolf. Will moved his bright blue eyes and forth, surveying where his pieces stood and calculating his options. Placing his paw on the rook, he moved it forward, much to Bradley's approval, who now moved his piece into the proper position.
"Check mate," said Bradley, his voice smug.
"Wait," protested Will. "I didn't take my paw off the rook. That means I can still change my mind."
"You did too take your paw off of it, you big liar," barked Bradley. "We gotta go out to the gym to settle this in the ring?"
"Fine by me," said Will, getting to his feet.
"Ha," said Bradley, also getting to his feet. "You must be suffering from Alzheimer's. I seem to recall beating you so badly that I broke your jaw. You never even fought again because you were too chicken."
"Chicken, am I?" said Will raising his paws. "I'll show you who the chicken is, pup."
Ian, Barry and Zeb were laughing at the two wolves until Tori and Johnna came in to calm their husbands down.
"Will," snapped Johnna. "Sit down before you make a fool of yourself."
"You too, Bradley," said the vixen. "There's children present and I don't want to explain to them why their grandfathers are acting worse than them."
"Oh, we were just playing, Tori," said Bradley to his wife. "Besides, you know I could still kick his tail into next week."
"I heard that," growled Will, once again raising his paws.
"Did you?" chuckled Bradley. "Looks like you finally got those hearing aids you've been needing for the past five years."
"Enough!" Johnna and Tori yelled together. Both males growled as they sat back down, looking like pouting little cubs. Tori and Johnna turned their attention to Ian, giving him a hug.
"Did you have a good workout, sweetie?" asked Tori, giving her grandson a kiss on the cheek.
"Good as always, Grandma," said Ian, flexing his arms. "You're looking at the next heavyweight champion of the world right here."
"Of course we are," said Bradley. "He gets his fighting abilities from his father's side of the family, after all."
"What? You're out of your mind, pup. Look at how he fights in the amateurs. It's more like my style than yours."
"If that were the case, he would have tasted the canvas by now," said Bradley, grinning smugly once more at his best friend. "He's gonna be undefeated in his career, just like his Dad and me were."
"Why I oughta . . ." said Will, rising to his feet once more. His advance was halted by Johnna, who smacked him over the head with a rolled up newspaper. Will sat back down, rubbing his injured head. Bradley laughed at the older wolf and was promptly swatted over the head by Tori, who'd been given the newspaper by Johnna.
"Ow," said Bradley, rubbing his head. "One of these days, woman . . ."
"One of these days, what?" asked Tori, her paws at her side, glaring at her husband. "Just you lay a paw on me and I'll have Ian knock your meager brains out."
Bradley looked over at his grandson. Ian sighed. "Afraid I'd have to knock you out if you hit her, Grandpa."
The gray wolf reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. "How much do I gotta pay you to hit her?"
"Trust me, Grandpa," said Ian, trying not to laugh. "She pays me more than you would, so just take it easy."
Bradley was about to protest, but was interrupted when the front door opened and in walked Martin, Ian O'Brien, Matthew Jackson and Oliver McCallister, Olivia's twin brother.
"Daddy!" yelled several of the younger folf cubs as they ran towards their father. Martin knelt down, opening his arms and giving his kids a great big hug. He'd been gone for seven days, and that was a long time for the younger cubs to go without seeing their father. Rising up, he saw Olivia walk over to him, giving the golf a kiss.
"Hi, honey," said Martin.
"How was Lake Okeechobee?" asked the white she wolf.
"Wonderful," said Martin, going over to "his" chair and sitting down. "Nice weather down there in the Everglades. I think we should live down there in the winter, better than what we get here in upstate New York, you know."
"Great fishing, too," said Ian O'Brien, his Irish accent easily identifiable.
"Yeah," said Oliver, sitting down next to his brother-in-law. "Lots of large mouth bass, redear sunfish and bluegill."
"And alligators," added Matthew, going over to sit down.
"Ha," said Bradley, folding his arms. "I could beat the brains out of any alligator with my eyes closed."
"Oh, you'd be screaming like a little girl if you ever came near one, Brad," joked Will.
"Do I have to . . ." Bradley looked over at Tori, who was still holding the newspaper in her paws and scowling at him. "Oh, never mind," grumbled the former heavyweight champion.
The younger Ian walked over to his father, giving him a hug. "Nice to have you home, Dad."
"Nice to be back," said Martin. "Although you need to take a shower, son. You stink."
"Yeah," said Ian, rolling his eyes and hearing his younger siblings giggling. "I just got in from the gym."
"After you get cleaned up, I'll tell you about the fish I caught; must have been as big as you."
Ian walked to one of the house's many bedrooms, but not before making eye contact with his mother. Both of them grinned, knowing they were spot on when Martin made his claim about the fish he caught.
The arrival of the fathers was met with a big dinner that night. The ladies all fixed a fantastic Italian meal, with lasagna, garlic bread, fish that had been bought fresh from the local store and even some red wine for the adults. By the time the meal had ended and the kitchen was cleaned, the younger folf cubs of the McGregor household had been put to bed, but Ian, being eighteen and graduated, was allowed to stay up late, as were Barry and Zeb. They sat around the living room late into the night. Ian was always intrigued listening to the fight stories his grandfathers told. Not only that, but Ian was fascinated that his paternal grandfather had actually known famous boxers like Mufasa Ali, "Grizzly" Greg Shavers and many more who were no longer living. Ian had grown up never knowing a time when he wasn't aware of boxing, or that his family had a wonderful legacy, which really only took off with his late great-grandfather, "Mighty" Martin McGregor. Ian hoped he could continue that legacy. It was all he wanted right now.
"I tell you," said Bradley, taking a sip from his wine glass. "You should have seen the time I beat up Klaus Schmidt, Ian."
"Oh," said Will, shaking his head. "He was a mouthy motherfucker, wasn't he?"
"Will," snapped Johnna.
"Oh, hush, sweetheart," said Will, waving his paw at the white she wolf. "All the little ones are in bed and I'm sure Ian, Barry and Zeb have heard that word before."
"He was a mouthy motherfucker," said Bradley, taking a gulp of the dark, red wine. "And a dirty fighter. I remember him intentionally hittin' me below the belt with hard right. Your Grandpa Will started screaming at the ref to take a point away from that hyena. He also tried to tell me to take the full five minute rest, but I wouldn't have it." Bradley now rose to his feet. "I remember pressing that ugly bastard against the ropes and pounding the shit out of him like there was no tomorrow. Right, left, right left! Before I know it, I've knocked him through the ropes and here comes his mouthpiece flying into the center of the ring. After the ref waved his arms showing that the fight was over, I looked down and saw about five of Schmidt's teeth lying on the canvas next to it. Ha! Schmidt, what a piece of shit. Hahah! I like that one. Schmidt the piece of shit, shit the piece of Schmidt," said Bradley slurring his words.
"Okay," said Tori, grabbing her husbands arm and sitting him down. "Come sit down before you fall down."
"Fine," said Bradley sitting down. He reached for his wine glass, but the vixen snatched it before he could take hold of it.
"Hey," said the drunken wolf. "I was drinking that."
"Not anymore you're not," ordered Tori. "You're cut off because you're making an ass of yourself."
"Martin," said Bradley. "Tell your mother that I'm fine and she'd better give me back my wine before I take my paw to her."
"Sorry, Dad," said Martin, trying to avoid laughing at his intoxicated father. "But tif you hit Mom,
I'd have to kick your tail."
"That so?" said Bradley, still slurring his words. "A super middleweight's gonna kick my tail, huh? Bring it on. Ouch."
"Behave yourself, Bradley," scolded Tori as she waved the rolled up newspaper in her paws.
"Why you gotta keep hitting my head, vixen?" asked Bradley. "I'm gonna have a headache if you keep that up."
"You'll have one in the morning anyway from all that wine you've drank," said Tori. "Now sit there and be quiet."
The three younger adults in the room were trying to avoid laughing at the scene, just like Martin had been doing. The older folf tried to redirect the conversation.
"Gotta big fight coming up tomorrow, huh, Ian?" asked Martin.
"Oh, about that, Dad," said Ian. "I wanted to make an announcement about that."
"Ah," said Martin. "What's the big news?"
Ian rose to his feet, addressing everyone in the living room. "After my fight tomorrow, I plan on signing a contract to turn professional. I want to start my quest for the heavyweight championship."
Everyone gave there approval, save one "Ian," said Martin. "Could I see you in the kitchen, please?"
"Sure," said Ian, following his father out to the dining area. Martin whispered to his son, not wanting the others to hear what he was saying.
"What do you mean you're turning professional after tomorrow? You've only got twenty fights to your name so far."
"And I've won all of 'em," said Ian in a whispered voice like his father.
"I don't think you're ready for the pros yet," argued Martin. "I had over fifty fights before I turned pro. You still need more experience, Ian."
Ian rolled his eyes. "Dad, you don't know what you're talking about. Look at me, I'm in great shape, I've got great boxing skills . . ."
"I don't know what I'm talking about?" asked Martin, getting annoyed at his son's assessment of his own boxing knowledge. "I won the undisputed middleweight title before you were born. I know what I'm talking about. You got out there right now and you're gonna regret it."
"No I'm not," said Ian, growing just as annoyed as his father was. "I'm not a little cub anymore, Dad. I'm an adult and I can make my own decisions."
"I know that, son. I just want you to hear me out . . ."
"I've heard enough," said Ian, stomping out of the kitchen and back to his room. Martin considered going after his son, but thought better of it. He just sat there sighing, thinking about what a mistake his son was making, but as Ian said, he wasn't a cub anymore, and Martin could do nothing to stop him. He would just have to hope that things would turn out for the best.