South hook on the counter

The slow-mo is the worst part. Not because Voss's promo did it well — they did it well, credit where it's owed — but because I watched it twice at the counter and both times I saw the half-second my hand drops before I throw. I knew I did that. I didn't know it was that visible. Now I know. Now Voss knows I know. Now the whole broadcast clip knows.

I taped in front of the kids' class. Two of them saw the banner photo — the CONER one, not the south hook one. One laughed. I heard it from the ropes. I didn't look. If I'd looked I'd have done something with my face I couldn't put back, so I kept my eyes on the tape and I let a ten-year-old boy laugh at my gym's name spelled wrong and I swallowed it like a pill.

Ninety minutes of pull-counter work after. Danny on the mitts. The clip running behind my eyes on a loop the whole time. The timing was tighter than it's been in three weeks. That's what the anger buys me. I hate that anger buys me anything. I hate that it bought me my best pad session in a month.

Jules rotated in this morning for the cutwoman reps. I watched her face while Danny was calling the combinations. Nothing. I don't know if nothing means clean or nothing means careful. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.

Danny still hasn't answered the question. Ninety minutes of mitts and I couldn't find the seam between work-talk and real-talk. Tomorrow, five a.m., closed session, no phones. I'll ask before we put the gloves on.