Chapter 2: Lucky in Engineering, Unlucky In Love

The light was dim, giving the place a back-room feel, and the stench of sweat hung heavily in the stale air, making it difficult to breathe. It didn't bother me much though.

It had taken a while for my head to clear up, and the punching bag had to pay the price for it as I pummeled the leather cylinder with all my might. The coaches glance followed my every move, and his grin made it clear that he was more than pleased with my performance. Of course he was oblivious to why I was going medieval on the thing.

"Break!"

It was hardwired into every boxer's brain that this command meant you're expected to stop whatever you're doing and step back, which I did. I felt droplets of sweat running down my temples and cheeks and some had gotten into my eyes, which stung quite a bit, but I weathered the pain. It was a good way to drown out the turmoil in my head.

Coach Witherspoon was a fifty-something-year-old man with chiseled features and a nose that had been remodeled a few times during the many fights of his career. Even at that age he still looked extremely fit, and by the look of things he was no stranger to the various torture machines in the gymnasium. His arms dwarfed some people's legs.

While I was shaking my legs and arms to relax my muscles I could see him giving me the once-over.

"That's not the first time you've done that, is it?"

His dialect was as southern as it gets – ass-end of Texas, probably. I bumped the gloves together and continued my relaxing exercises. I shook my head.

"Bay County Sectionals and Tallahassee Regionals champion in '38," I replied and the man's eyes went just a little bit wide. I had a pretty good idea which obvious question would be coming next.

"And you weren't drafted for the national team?"

Again I shook my head and stopped moving.

"I stopped after the Regionals for personal reasons. Besides, my ambitions are in the Engineering sector."

"And why take it back up now?"

I looked at him and decided to tell him the truth, even if it wasn't as glorious as some excuses could have sounded.

"I have some ambitions in the Engineering Corps. For that I need to ace my final year, and for that I can't afford to struggle for a Silver grade in Track and Field if I can score Gold in something I'm reasonably decent at."

The weathered face of the coach was split by a wide grin. "You're not the first to tell me that. Young freshman came in here today and told me a similar story. I can't wait to see the two of you sparring. But first we've got to whip you into shape. You've got a great technique and your punch needs a weapons permit, but your stamina, springiness and reflexes are rusty."

"Well, I've spent the last three years wrestling engineering books," I admitted. "Got a training program for me?"

It didn't take the coach long to come up with one.

"One hour interval training every morning; make sure you get in at least fifteen kilometers in that time. Push-ups during lunch break – start with twenty and work up to fifty - and one hour rope training or shadow-boxing in the evening."

Now that sounded like a training program. No matter how that year would work out, I'd end up being fitter than I ever was.

When the coach left to look after the beginners' training group, I directed my attention back to the leather bag and continued pummeling it fiercely.

Every fiber of muscle in my body was reminding me just how much my fitness had deteriorated over the last three years, but I was determined not to start my training program by looking for excuses, so I continued walking up the stairs. However, I stopped on the fourth floor, one short of where we were living. I checked that my uniform was arranged properly and propped up the small bouquet of flowers in the crook of my left elbow.

I pushed the doorbell and waited. The apartment's inhabitant was eighty-two years old, so expecting an immediate response would have been a bit preposterous. After a while the door opened slowly.

"Good evening Mrs. Zelenkova," I said in my best 'good-boy' voice, and gave her the flowers. She looked at me with a smile. The old lady didn't get many visitors, let alone visitors with flowers.

"Did you do mischief, young Kosmonaut?" she asked me in her Slavic dialect, and amusement was dancing in her weathered eyes. "Come in, please."

Mrs. Zelenkova had come to San Francisco in her youth from a place called Plzen in Europe, and could look back on a long career as a ballet dancer. She was a one-meter-sixty fragile-looking woman, and the hardships of what ballet dancing asked of a human body had left her shuffling her feet when walking. Her small body was bowed with age.

But her mind was still alert and she could still stare people into silence with her grey eyes that could fix you like lasers. Although she'd been over here for more than half a century she'd never lost her Slavic accent with its shortened vowels, raspy H's, rolling R's, and W's that became V's, and she had never become true friends with the grammar of Human Standard. She also insisted on calling me a Kosmonaut, the Russian word for space-farers. And she wasn't even Russian. But that word had been adopted by most East European Countries, like her native Czech Republic.

"Sit," she said and waddled off into the kitchen.

Having nothing better to do, I looked around her place. The wall was full of pictures from her youth, showing that Mrs. Zelenkova had been a stunningly beautiful creature; and seeing some of the brutal moves she'd had to perform made it quite obvious why she had become so frail with age.

An old cabinet, definitely from before World War III, was filled with prizes she'd won in her long career. The furniture in general looked like something you'd find in a museum. The small rivets lining the armrest of the ancient armchair I was sitting in were testament that it was actually made by a craftsman, not some machine in mass production.

She came back and I sat back into the armchair when she stared down my attempt to take the tablet from her. The old lady was a bit sensitive about the limitations that came with age, and whatever she could still do on her own she insisted on doing herself. I still remembered how long it had taken for her to accept my offer to do her grocery shopping for her.

Thanking her for the cup of coffee she'd put before me, I lifted it and inhaled the scent. Like everything else, Mrs. Zelenkova didn't like industrially produced stuff, so she bought her coffee freshly roasted (but also hideously expensive) from a small company in Colombia. Its taste was exquisite and really exposed the shortcomings of the swill that was served by the experimental food re-sequencers in the Academy's Mess Hall.

"What can I do for you, young man? Your new girlfriend has already brought me my groceries."

I needed to compose myself a bit. I should have known that the sweet old lady would jump to conclusions. She too had been teasing me about the lack of a female companion ever since I'd moved here.

"I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, Mrs. Zelenkova. Lizzie is my younger sister. She got a scholarship here in 'Frisco, and since she's only sixteen my parents wanted her to live with me until she's eighteen."

"Oho, then my eyes not bad yet, there was resemblance," she replied with a smile and kept her glance on me while drinking her coffee. "But you need a woman, young Kosmonaut. I had long life and would have been sad life without husband."

I certainly hadn't come to discuss my messed up love-life with the old lady, but I saw the glimmer of joy in her eyes. She'd been living alone since her husband died four years ago, and she probably found it refreshing to have someone to look after; and hell, someone who'd been around since shortly after First Contact could perhaps give me a clue how to clean up the mess I'd made of my life.

"It's not so easy, Mrs. Zelenkova," I said vaguely and looked down into my cup. She observed me carefully.

"You have broken heart, have you?"

A probably somewhat wry smile appeared on my face. She didn't quite have the hang of that question tag malarkey, which made her speech funny at times, but also strangely endearing.

"It's not my heart that's broken," I admitted with a shake of my head. A blush of shame appeared on my cheeks. "I broke a woman's heart three years ago and as if that's not bad enough, I met her again today."

"We make stupid things when we young," she said without any judging tone in her voice, and refilled my empty cup. "You still love her much, do you?"

I sighed deeply. Having seen her again for the first time had hit me like a lightning strike. She filled my every thought, but that was a bit pointless anyway.

"I don't think it really matters. She hates me. Can't say I blame her for that."

Her glance fixed my face and for several moments she didn't say anything. Then, suddenly, she smiled again.

"If she not love you, she just forget you. Girl is afraid of broken heart again. Anger is good for hiding behind. You must repair her heart, young Kosmonaut. It not as easy as repairing my old stove, but you must try if still love her."

"If I had an idea how," I sighed. "I've repaired your kitchen appliances often enough, it's something where I know what I'm doin'. But a hyper-spanner isn't gonna help me much this time, is it?"

"First repair own heart, then repair girl's heart," she Yoda'ed with final authority, and we drank our coffee in silence as I tried to sort through my conflicting thoughts.

"But you did not come to ask about girl, did you?" She broke the silence after several minutes.

"Oh, no, even though your advice is much appreciated, ma'am. I came to tell you that I must train every evenin' and since it involves rope jumpin', there's going to be some noise. I've got a mat, but it's probably still goin' to be audible. Since it's directly over your bedroom, I wanted to ask when to train so's to not interrupt your sleep."

"Oh, don't worry, young Kosmonaut. My ears not good as my eyes, and I only go sleep after midnight. Just train and I say if too loud."

I smiled at her in gratitude and thanked her for the excellent coffee. As she said good bye, I extracted the promise from her that she'd please give me or Lizzie a call if she needed anything.

Mrs. Zelenkova's wisdom had been a bit abstract, but at least I had some sort of idea what to do. Now it was a matter of putting the theoretical concept into practice.

At 0530 in the morning, Golden Gate Park was still pretty much deserted, so I could do my 15K interval training relatively undisturbed and without disturbing others, as at that time of the day I had Keezar Stadium all to myself. The coach had used a few connections to get me the code for one of the side entrances.