Six Rounds Minimum

Dropped a South Melbourne heavyweight's mouthpiece onto the canvas tonight. Same mouth that cracked my jaw four days ago. That's the sentence I've been carrying since I walked out of the change room. I read him. Twice on the right hand. Clean left hook. His mouthpiece hit the floor before his knees did. The floor erupted and I wanted to stand in it for ten more seconds but the round was over and Rob was already looking at me the way he looks at me when I do something right.

Then the wet patch. Near the speed bag. The ankle I rolled three weeks ago folded under me like a hinge. I caught the ring post with my right hand and the bad shoulder didn't take the weight. I keep coming back to that. It didn't take the weight. I don't know how. The angle was wrong, the floor was slick, the ankle was already taped and I still went down. But the post held. The shoulder that was clicking louder than yesterday held me up while the rest of me failed. I think I'm allowed to be furious about the floor and grateful about the post at the same time.

Told Rob six rounds minimum in September on the way out. I don't say numbers out loud. I said it anyway. First time I've put a number on Voss in front of another person.

Three posts tonight. The ankle. The mouthpiece. The nod. I don't know if I'm documenting the build or asking someone to notice I haven't dropped yet.

Shoulder is clicking. Going to sleep with it iced and the ankle wrapped and the September number still in my mouth.