The Good Foot

As many of you know, I'm being trained in the sweet science by Uncle Toby (you can read more about that here). As we get more into it, and now that the crunches, the hip-ups and the barrel rolls are, or close to, second nature, we've progressed into more actual punch-throwing and footwork. What I've found is that boxing is very much like dancing in its movement. And I don't dance (you can read more about that here). It's not that I can dance, but choose not to, it's that I can't dance. I simply can't make my legs and arms move in any sort of combined fashion that is not completely embarrassing to me and my family, and this is a hindrance when on the heavy bag or, like tonight, in the ring. I'd like to dance. I'd like to be able to move as gracefully as Ginger Rogers across a ballroom floor or a canvas-covered platform. How many times have I wished to take my bride by the hand and move with her to the sultry sounds of Mel Torme? But my legs, hips and torso just don't want to work with me, which is why Uncle Toby, just like Kristy, has his work cut out for him. I may not ever vie for middle-weight champion, or whatever weight class I am, or King of the Tango, or whatever title the dance world offers. I might actually never be a contender. And while I may not be able to glide like Ginger Rogers, with the ab work and strength training, along with what punches and footwork I have been able to pick up, I'm fairly certain I could whip her ass within three rounds. Or, maybe four.