Can you feel the hot crackle of air as you win? Your forearm, his forearm; leather hits skin.
Feeling that feeling of "I got it right!". Pacing it, timing it, angle and height.
Fooling him, feinting him, slipping his jab, blocking his cross, and smacking him back.
Then feeling the hairs of his still-outstretched arm as you slide your big overhand home with a slam.
Explosion of foot, hip and shoulder in sync. Confirmed by your spine as the shock wave comes in. A batsqueak of sadism. Fire between eyes. A bell in the background. Steam hanging high.
And then from shocked nostrils a dribble of blood as his bent nose returns to the shape that it should.
In this torn apart world where viruses rage, a punch still feels real whatever your age.
So come with me, boxers, to park or to gym. Bring gum shield and head guard and all that's within.
Let's train and do push ups, work technical drills. We'll touch gloves and spar while the planet lies Ill.
While stockmarkets tumble and industries fall and while people nurse loved ones, adrift in it all. While crowds cannot gather and travel is banned, we'll find, in our game, something closer to hand.
Courtesy honour respect and fair play. And there as we square it'll all be okay.
For my father, who died last week, age 94, and in doing so managed to miss out on it all.