Post by JAY IVERSON on Jun 28, 2016 22:28:31 GMT -5
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The gymnasium had once been silent apart from the occasional rustle that indicated footsteps nearby, but more recently the large indoor area had become alive with the rapid succession of gloves meeting an equally leathery surface. The source of such noise came from a singular source: a red-headed male that laid nestled in the far corner, absentmindedly punching away at the speed-bag that hung before him. A boxer in stance: his shoulders hunched forward and his arms risen slightly above his head as he quickly battered the bag with a steady pacing akin to an expert. His gaze wandered the exterior of the equipment he was currently using, his eyes sharp as his focus remained with his current work.
[break][break]
It took a passion and a dedication to participate in a sport like boxing, and was by no means an easy task for people who simply thought they could violently swing their way to the finish. The greatest boxers knew when to hold restraint, and when to tire their opponent instead of tiring themselves. Jay liked to consider himself as one such person, and believed he held a silent discipline not many high-school teenagers had. He needed that sort of withholding to survive at his own home, as lashing out would have done him no good in a household that was too busy for his problems. His eyes hardened noticeably upon thinking about it before almost instantly calming. None of it had been his parents fault, he needed to get over it and make amends. They did everything for him, he needed to return the favor.
[break][break]
For now however, he stuck with his regimen. Sweat gliding over his skin as each second passed by. It was obvious that the male had been working for what appeared to be hours. His body still keeping a relative sped after having a few quiet breaks in between. It was nice to sit back and take out a granola bar, perhaps a textbook, and simply detach himself from practice. Everything came in moderation, and overworking himself would do nothing for his physique. Now however, his soaked shirt had been removed and thrown to the floor. His relaxed, firm frame shifting ever so slightly as he continued to wail upon the bag. He wasn't missing, and that meant he still had enough in him to continue. For how long he didn't know, but he wasn't going to give up. He had a team to support, and they were going to be his family...or so he hoped.
The gymnasium had once been silent apart from the occasional rustle that indicated footsteps nearby, but more recently the large indoor area had become alive with the rapid succession of gloves meeting an equally leathery surface. The source of such noise came from a singular source: a red-headed male that laid nestled in the far corner, absentmindedly punching away at the speed-bag that hung before him. A boxer in stance: his shoulders hunched forward and his arms risen slightly above his head as he quickly battered the bag with a steady pacing akin to an expert. His gaze wandered the exterior of the equipment he was currently using, his eyes sharp as his focus remained with his current work.
[break][break]
It took a passion and a dedication to participate in a sport like boxing, and was by no means an easy task for people who simply thought they could violently swing their way to the finish. The greatest boxers knew when to hold restraint, and when to tire their opponent instead of tiring themselves. Jay liked to consider himself as one such person, and believed he held a silent discipline not many high-school teenagers had. He needed that sort of withholding to survive at his own home, as lashing out would have done him no good in a household that was too busy for his problems. His eyes hardened noticeably upon thinking about it before almost instantly calming. None of it had been his parents fault, he needed to get over it and make amends. They did everything for him, he needed to return the favor.
[break][break]
For now however, he stuck with his regimen. Sweat gliding over his skin as each second passed by. It was obvious that the male had been working for what appeared to be hours. His body still keeping a relative sped after having a few quiet breaks in between. It was nice to sit back and take out a granola bar, perhaps a textbook, and simply detach himself from practice. Everything came in moderation, and overworking himself would do nothing for his physique. Now however, his soaked shirt had been removed and thrown to the floor. His relaxed, firm frame shifting ever so slightly as he continued to wail upon the bag. He wasn't missing, and that meant he still had enough in him to continue. For how long he didn't know, but he wasn't going to give up. He had a team to support, and they were going to be his family...or so he hoped.
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[attr="class","tagsie"]MIYAKO SHIDA
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