Laziness as a way of life.

There are two sides to a good life. Side one is getting around to starting on projects that make us feel like our life has value. Side two to a good life is simple, unadulterated fun. You’ve got to be able to have a good Tuesday afternoon for no particular reason and not let minor annoyances get the better of you.

It’s possible to have both. But we must be able to draw a line in the sand. It’s up to you to decide where that line is and to remove it. No one else is doing this for you.

Enough moralising and philosophy. Let’s get to the fight!

Part 1 — The Unexpected Win

You stand at the centre of a 10,000-capacity sporting arena in shorts and generously padded gloves that are useful for one thing only. Millions of dollars and energy have been ploughed into tonight’s event. There’s been weigh-ins, interviews and sponsorships. Twitter punditry. Many opinions and discussions have been exchanged. All the usual machinery and hype. Tonight is big business.

People are eagerly awaiting the two of you to try to punch and incapacitate the other to win the lawful and violent contest.

The arena is at full capacity, but the thousands-strong crowd are one background swell to you, surrounding the canvas island in the middle upon which you stand. On the island is another man wearing the same attire in different colours, prowling the opposite corner. He is the champion, you are the challenger.

You are very much the underdog. The bookies have you at 30–1 and physical comparison backs this expectation up. The champ stands seven inches taller than you and has a three-inch reach advantage. His is a chiselled and athletic physique. Yours, to be frank, is rotund and ungainly by comparison.

Armchair analysts and pundits alike predict this to be a one-sided affair. They will all turn out to be wrong.

Rounds one and two are rather boring on the face of it, but the commentators keep the energy going. The champ uses his main armament, the right jab, to keep you at bay. Frustratingly, you return fire but the only pads of your gloves connect, failing to unload fight-altering kinetic energy. Salvos of quick-fire hooks are even less effective, finding the air between the two of you and wasting fractions of precious stamina.

People are waiting to see their expectations play out. The two of you reach a cautious stalemate, and the commentary starts to rely on history rather than anything remarkable in the ring.

One of the commentators remarks, about the champ, “you can also just sense him winning for the moment”.

But there is game-changing dynamite in wait, there have already been silent flashes of it. Nearly everyone, and crucially the champ, will fail to register the danger before it’s too late.

In round three the champ comes into close range and delivers a volley of punches. This change in momentum jars your composure and a blow to your face topples you backwards. The punches were entirely non-concussive but the arena is energised by this turn in events. And so is the champ, who experiences a confidence boost. He does a thing of pulling up his shorts as he walks away while you are down on the canvas, but this is not actually possible to do with boxing gloves on and in fact, he’s doing it because, ya know, he’s the boss around here.

Whilst bringing your body upright in time for the count, the champ is seduced by the prospect of finishing business early tonight. However, the chemistry between the two of you is asymmetrical. For one, you were the underdog after all, and have less to lose than the champ. And two, you took no consequential damage; your head is clear and your reflexes are unaffected. In the moment, you feel a mixture of mild annoyance and embarrassment at having been pushed over, but your body and mind are not affected in a meaningful way.

The champ’s known more for outworking his opponent over multiple rounds than for explosive early finishes. He will go in for the kill, bolstered by an eager crowd. But there is no wounded animal to finish off and the momentary fancy begets you a huge tactical advantage.

The ref asks you to raise your arms in front of you, to show willingness and ableness to continue in the fight. No problem sir.

Emboldened, the champ comes forward to deliver a volley of punches drawn from muscle memory, practised hundreds of times in training. He comes in, but you are anticipating this. You have shifted your weight and are balanced. Your arms are up straight in that quintessential defensive stance. The crowd is going wild and the commentators are talking up the end of the fight. But the punches only sting your forearms, and the two of you get into an ineffectual tangle.

The champ switches to southpaw and drops the jabs from the equation, firing the power punches only; a left overhand and a right hook. The first slides over your shoulder. And for the second you shift your weight instinctively as if you were holding up an invisible hula hoop, just for a split second. With the leverage from your midsection, your head weaves smoothly to evade the powerful short-range hook.

The champ fires this sequence again, eager to take advantage of the expiring advantage. But you already learned to evade them. After hula hooping successively for a couple of beats, two more power punches sail innocuously through the air in front of your head. On that last punch, the champ’s weight and posture are shifted to the left leaving a vulnerable opening. On the offbeat, before he can recentre himself, your blistering hook lands cleanly on his right temple delivering the real cargo.

Blunt head trauma is a two-part process. Part one is the deliverance of a force, the punch in this instance. Part two is the brain jiggling about inside the casing of the skull. Evolution did not design for brains to jiggle, and its this second phase which causes the damage.

Imagine putting an egg into a sealed glass jar filled with water, and then shaking the jar vigorously. The jar moves directly in sync with your arm, but the egg does not. The force exerted by the arm has to go through the water first. The acceleration of the egg lags behind the jar because of the water and this exact same principle is happening with head trauma.

Under controlled laboratory conditions, the egg is meant to survive this ordeal. The hard casing protects the embryo inside. But things are different for the brain inside a skull. The beautiful soft tissue squishes and contorts against the hard casing meant to protect it, disrupting the singular and majestical organ with its orchestra of countless neurons.

The head trauma physics are all over in tiny fractions of a second, but the hook sends a shockwave through the champ, completely putting the brakes on his forward assault. It’s so out of sync with expectations, the effects take a good few moments for those watching to register it and for the commentators to articulate the shift in dominance.

Swiftly indeed, the tide has turned. You are now pressing forward with fire, sensing the advantage in real-time and not on a flight of fancy as he was doing less than a minute ago. He can still cover up and while, crucially, his legs can still support the defence at first, the damage is done and both of you can sense this. The sweet prospect of victory bays at you, and you must move forward and punch, punch, punch. The champ is felled by the lively onslaught, the first knockdown of his professional career.

Similar to you, the felling blows themselves were unbalancing, not concussive. So when he hits the canvas, he is quickly able to get back up. He makes a point of using the whole count to recover because that’s what he learned in training, and he waits on one knee in front of the referee looking him squarely in the eye as if he is about to pull out a ring and propose. But instead of pulling out a ring, at the eight count, he stands fully and convincingly.

This was sort of performative, however, and the truth is there are lingering mental and physical effects from your original hook. There is a demand to readjust tactically and this requires an ability to discern what’s actually happening and act accordingly. The champ puts on a brave face, but the truth is he is disheartened and shocked. He will not be able to get over this fact and make crucial readjustments. The champ’s mind will never find its fight-ready equanimity again tonight.

The one-minute respites in the corner are an appreciated part of a boxing fight. In that one minute, the team must attend to any cuts and bruises, make an overall assessment of their fighter’s ability to continue and give relevant advice.

The champ’s corner certainly did recognise what happened in round three, and they advise him to stay on the outside, for now, keeping you at a safe distance with his lengthier jab. This is surely the safest bet and as the fight progresses into the later rounds, the champ’s superior cardio can realise its equity.

So, in rounds four and five, the champ does this. It looks similar to the first two rounds and were someone to start watching now, they might not assume the taller more muscled figure to be in charge. But the power dynamic between the two fighters is unstable. The champ has lost his bearings and you are fired up. Appearances are deceiving.

In round six he finds the courage to try to reassert himself. This is a fight-ending blunder. When he comes into the inside, it is the urge to fight rather than defend that wins. Wisely and instinctively, you cover up for the initial blast, but now he’s coming into close range all to eager, and it’s only a matter of time before you can reply to his attack with interest.

Another volley of hooks from the right and left, followed by a straight right seals the deal. He makes it up for the count and signals his wish to continue to the referee. He feels defeated but he’s not going to be seen surrendering. The referee senses this in his demeanour and he calls the fight. Naturally, he protests for a second but it’s a done deal. You have won by technical knockout.

You’ve been suddenly, unexpectedly rocketed to the status of an undisputed champion.

Stay tuned for part 2.