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So, choomba, this time my sparring partner's pretty much my age, but twice as wide. I don't know how long he's been hitting the gym, but he looks like he's been doing it since birth. His muscular body looks much better than my skinny, scrawny frame. But being twice my size and strength doesn't guarantee a win. No matter how much of a beast the dude is, a fight without a strategy is like a party without booze.

There he goes again, kicking my left leg with his shin. My poor little leg is already aching, but hang in there, baby, I just need some time.

Honestly, I prefer punching. I barely used my legs, and yeah, that's on me, no argument here… but right now, that's my advantage! He knows I don't use my legs, so he's trying to chop my left one down with a series of kicks. Thing is, I've almost figured out his movement pattern. When he kicks, he drops his hands a little, leaving his face open. I just need to nail the timing, choomba. Just fucking nail him at the right moment.

We circle each other like we're dancing a slow dance on neurostimulants. My left hand taps lightly against his gloves. Testing the range — gotta make sure I don't miss when it counts.

And then — there it is. His pattern. His hands drop again, and his right leg fires out like an artillery shell. That's when I land a right hook to his liver. And then his leg hits its target.

I almost lose balance. Foot twists, knee buckles, but a second later, my dear leg is back in stance.

The pain sucks, choomba. I can feel I'm not gonna last long, but I don't need to. I hit him in the liver on purpose, so my amigo would expect another shot there and drop his elbows even more.

We circle again after the exchange.

A left hook from him. I duck under the punch and land a right to his body. Damn, even with the gloves on, the knuckles are cramping up from the pain. As I emerge from under his arm, I throw my own left hook, landing on his ear. The punch isn’t particularly strong, but I need to rile him up so he falls back into his old pattern of behavior. I jump back and feel that my left leg isn’t quite as willing to do its job anymore. Hang in there, sweetie, just a little longer.

We close in, trading light blows. And then the familiar pattern: his hands drop, which means the heavy artillery is on its way.

The jab reaches its target before his low kick connects with my leg.

Dull, loud smack.

Knockdown!

The bastard lands on his ass, blood streaming from his nose. Bingo-bongo, choomba! The tactic worked.

Whistle.

“Time!” the coach shouts.

I catch my breath and realize that a stupid grin won't leave my face. Outside the window are huge snowdrifts and people—like little ants—scurrying about their business.

"So what the hell were you doing?" comes a grumpy voice behind me. "Why weren't you using your legs?"

I turn around and see the coach standing in front of me. A dark-blond guy in his thirties, he was as tall as me and built like a damn Superman.

"I was using my hands," I gasp, gulping air. "And I think I did pretty well."

"You call that pretty well?" He grabs the edge of my boxing glove and smacks left leg.

"Ouch!"

"You're gonna be limping all day."

"But I took him down!"

I glanced at my opponent, who was wiping blood off his face.

"So what? Your footwork is terrible…"

"I'm turning my weaknesses into strengths!" I interrupt.

"We go to practice to fix, not turn."

Fix problems, not turn them into advantages?

***

“…So, obviously, we should start with ourselves. After all, if everyone starts with themselves, the problem will disappear,” concludes a timid, nerdy freshman, ending his hesitant speech.

Choomba, today I'm the photographer, sitting in the conference hall of the regional library. They're doing some kind of roundtable thing. So you've got a prosecutor, an investigator, a uni professor, and a bunch of bureaucrats sitting around thinking, "What the hell do we do about corruption?"

No bullshit, I showed up a little late — only a couple hours — but what I'm hearing is both kinda funny and seriously annoying. For the last hour, they've been telling an audience of soft-faced students to start with themselves.

Start with yourself!

Fix yourself and fix the world!

Students with chubby cheeks and dainty hands raise their hands, eager to share their oh-so-important opinions! In reality, they’re just parroting what the others at the table have said, hoping the professor will appreciate it and go easy on them during the exam.

“Can I say?” I blurt out.

My voice rang out loud enough that even those dozing off at the back of the room seemed to perk up a little.

“Yes, of course,” replies the professor, a short woman in her forties with a neatly trimmed bob.

“Now I’d like to address the audience,” I blurt out, turning my back on the roundtable participants — perhaps showing a slight disregard for them. “Ladies and gentlemen! Who among you litters on the street?

The audience hesitates slightly; some begin to laugh, while others look at the professor in bewilderment.

“Raise your hands, don’t be shy, the prosecutor is in a good mood today!” I quip, turning to the man in the blue uniform, who straightens up in chair and assumes a more formal posture.

One person raises their arm.

“Great! Now I'd like everyone who sees garbage all over the city every single day to put their hand up!” I turn to the crowd dramatically.

The audience shifts uneasily again, and for a second it feels as though we live in different cities. But soon one young man put up a hesitant hand, followed by another, and then another. The entire room is a sea of palms.

“Thanks, folks! And now…” I turn back to face the roundtable.

The professor blushes slightly and darts her eyes around the table, apparently trying to gauge their reaction.

“Friends, I’d like to introduce you to the people who started with themselves!” I say to the table, gesturing toward the room. “But has the city really become cleaner? Has the trash disappeared from the streets? So maybe the ‘Start with Yourself’ strategy isn’t as effective as you’ve made it out to be today? We all dream of a utopia. After all, if every person on the planet gave me just one ruble, I’d have seven billion rubles! If every person on the planet stopped littering, the streets would probably become cleaner. But somehow, it’s not working out that way for us. If I understand this roundtable thing correctly, we should be looking for real solutions here, not clinging to some outdated, useless utopia.”

I notice an elderly man sitting at the roundtable, wearing a jacket and shirt, leaning back in his chair and smiling.

“Folks, are there any independent journalists or entrepreneurs on the panel?” I ask, looking at the professor. “Or is everyone here somehow tied to government work?”

“Yes,” the woman replies curtly and clears throat.

I realize the game has dragged on a bit, and maybe I was a little too harsh. Time to dial it back. Let’s try the “nice guy” tactic (that’s when you turn classic abuse into gaslighting)!

“Well, look, the idea of a roundtable is really cool! But I think we should develop it and include different perspectives — not just one side, maybe. I’d be happy to help you!” I'm not happy, and I won't help. “Thanks for your attention!”

Those last words clearly brought the professor back on track, and she, straightening her blouse, began to speak:

“Yeah, you’re right, it would be great to broaden our perspectives at this roundtable!” she remarks, completely ignoring my impassioned speech about trash, “and I think we can do that together! Now, let’s move on to the presentation of the diplo...”

After that, everything gets boring and stifling again. I click the camera shutter and think to myself, somewhat detachedly, that not every flaw can be turned into a strength. And it’s not always worth accepting them and just living with them. Sometimes a problem needs to be fixed, not just twist it around like a pair of old sneakers with no tread left.

Once I’m out in the open air, I light up a cigarette. You know, choomba, I miss training. Even though I was always walking around with a busted-up face, I loved fighting, thinking about strategy, mapping out the fight. It was a wonderful experience. I kinda miss it. Maybe I should start an underground fight club, like Tyler Durden? That'd be a fun experiment. I'll come back to that idea.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, “Where can I find your contact information?”

It's the professor lady who ran the roundtable.

“It would be great to see journalists here more often!”

Oh, I realize they seem to have mistaken me for a journalist. Well, well…

“You work with the library, right?” I ask.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then everyone over there knows me. If you need my contacts — they'll give 'em to you," I finish, knowing full well they won’t give a damn thing because there’s nothing to give. Bingo-bongo, choomba.

“Good, then we’ll be in touch!” the woman sums up and walks away with an overly businesslike air.

“We won’t be in touch,” I reply after her in a half-whisper and smile sardonically.

I usually end up in all kinds of stupid shit, but not this time. Guess I'm getting old.