Chapter 1

I have a bad habit of overcommitting.

A clubbing blow from an overhand right to the temple hammered this point home for me.

Even through my headguard and my opponent’s gloves, it felt like a wooden mallet, smashing my head to the side.

I threw a hard right cross in reply. I think it glanced off his shoulder just before that mallet hit me again.

I know the plan. I should fall back on my defence, pick a few jabs off, and wait for my chance.

The plan wasn’t working.

The boxing match was over five rounds. It had been close – probably two rounds each – but he’d had the better of me in the last, and the clock had nearly run down.

I should put in my best effort and let the judges call it. But I know what the call is, so I’ve rolled the dice.

I planted my feet in the middle of the ring and just started swinging.

It’s more of a brave last stand than, you know ... boxing.

So, I keep swinging, hoping one big punch will bring it back my way. I think a couple of my shots even landed before a third mallet knocked me to a knee.

I haul myself up and in the direction of my opponent, but the referee is blocking my path. His hands are waving in front of my face.

I stumble back to my corner as the bell rings.

“Well, that was fucking stupid.” Harry sighs under his breath as he checks me over. “Turned a points loss into a TKO because you forgot how to fucking box.”

I spat out my gumshield before panting, “I was losing ... had to go for it.”

“You really didn’t ... you stood more chance with the judges than you did doing ... that...” He takes my silence as a cue to continue his encouragement. “Look, kid, you’re eighteen months younger than anyone else here and you made it to the semis – which is where I said you’d make it to.”

“The semis aren’t enough, you know...”

“Oh, I fucking know all right. I told you, you weren’t ready, but fuck me, what do I know, I’ve only been doing this thirty years.”

Harry was a great trainer. He’d coached a string of boxers through the youth system to the Olympics and pro careers. I was lucky he put up with me.

He squatted down in front of me, making me meet his gaze. “Another year in the gym and I’ll have you ready to wipe the floor with this lot.”

I could feel my shoulders slumping. The real defeat here wasn’t losing this match – it was what that meant. “The Olympics will be over in another year.” This was a qualifier for ... well, another qualifier. It was a long road and one I needed to be further down than I was.

“I told you from the start. Keep training, and in another four years...”

I stopped listening.

I’d gotten good at that over the years, tuning out people who said I wouldn’t make it or I was trying to move too fast.

I mean, he was right, but this was my dream.

You’re supposed to achieve your dreams, aren’t you?

That’s how the movie always goes.

Dig real deep and try real hard and you’ll make it in the end.

I was ten when I watched the Olympics with my dad. The 100-metre sprint. The running was exciting – a rush of adrenaline and a close finish – but then they got to the medal ceremony, and I didn’t really get it. Medals were for soldiers or brave people ... not people who ran fast. I’d asked my dad why they got medals, and his answer lit a fire that never quite went out.

“That gold medal means he’s the very best in the world.”

I’d always enjoyed sports – my parents put me in kickboxing and kendo classes, and I played football and ran cross-country at school – but I’d never been competitive.

That changed overnight. There was a very best in the world, and they got a medal.