In the crook of Franklin and 3rd hunched Uncle Nicky's Gym - a squat and robust building plastered with posters and signed in large looping letters that shone blood red at night. But it was only the late afternoon, and in the greying light, Nicky's name looked more like coils of bruised spaghetti. Surrounded by towering husks, Uncle Nicky's stood defiant, pumping dance beats through its open doors, while the rest of the neighbourhood wrapped itself up in a pall of urban decay.

Jim felt naked as he stepped inside, and struggled not to wince as he was greeted by the sour tang of many an unwashed crevice. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks: it was the last bastion of manliness at the edge of the world, where women and soap were the stuff of legends. In the centre of the bustling space rose a square-shaped ring - which was, to Jim's mind, one of the most baffling nonsenses in the sporting lexicon - where glistening giants clashed, exchanging body blows and grunting like rutting stags. Around the ring, spectators barked guttural notes of approval, while on the periphery of the room, lone wolves pounded smooth hanging bags with an enthusiasm usually reserved for a mortal enemy.

"This is a mistake," Jim decided.

"What are you talkin' about? You're gonna love it." Joe Lewinski advanced in a sort of daze, enamoured by the contest unfolding before them. Jim saw him flinch when a particularly bone-crunching punch found its mark. Yet, where his father flinched, Jim's stomach performed somersaults.

"Dad, I really don't think this is right for me. What about kayaking... or golf?"

"Golf?" repeated his dad, somehow turning it into a curse, "Donald Trump plays golf. You're not going to impress Aimee swingin' a stick."

Jim wilted and his sweatpants almost fell down. He refastened the chords with a double knot and, when a breeze swept in from the street, he despaired to see his pants snap about his bony legs like billowing sails. His shirt he filled out like a chode in a tube sock. Not for the first time he wondered why he ever elected to open his big mouth in the first place. After all, it was all conjecture, wasn't it? The Aimee thing.

A sound that should only ever be heard in frozen meat factories was met with a cheer. Only one of the duelling titans was still standing; the other was slumped in a tangle of ropes. Once the excitement subsided, a man called out and started his approach from the other side of the room, parting the crowd with the grace and magnitude of a battleship. Nikolai Paltrowicz had always been a large man, but in the years since their last encounter, it seemed he had developed a girth to match his formidable height. When he descended upon Jim and his dad, he bellowed like an ox and in turn clapped each of them in an embrace that felt like a death sentence. Buried beneath a wave of middle-aged man musk, Jim detected an obnoxious whiff of cologne, and couldn't quite decide which odour was worse. But there was nothing worse than the bristly tickle of kisses from a man with a moustache.

"Cousin, you have been away too long! Don't tell me you have thrown in the towel on the shipping business for one last shot at the title, because that ship has sailed, I think."

"I'm too old and too wise for that, Nicky," he heard his dad say, "I just want to hit a few bags with Jim, if that's alright."

"Like you need to ask," Nicky gave a phlegmy chuckle, and planted hairy ham-hands on his hips to inspect Jim, "You've grown, little Jimmy. So you wanna follow in the old man's footsteps, eh? Left-hook Lewinski, we called him back in the day."

"Oh, yeah? Well, Glass-jaw Jim is what they gonna call me if I put one foot inside that ring. I ain't got no real boxing aspirations, Uncle Nicky. I just wanna be more... more, you know?"

To emphasise his point, Jim struck a pose he assumed was something imposing but instead figured he looked like yokel smuggling sheep under his arms. Once his uncle had extinguished the flickering embers of amusement from his face, he gave a sagely nod, "Well, if little Jimmy wants to become big Jimmy, he has come to the right place for that as well. I have just one rule - your father knows this."

"Everyone fights," his dad nodded his approval.

"Not me," said Jim, feeling suddenly ill.

"Not yet. I'll let your old man train you up a bit before we bloody your pretty face. Joe, your boy's welfare is in your hands."

"Don't I know it?" his father's hand perched on his shoulder, it felt like a continent, "Come on, Jim, it's time you learn to punch."