Ippo couldn't stop thinking about the tapes.
During breakfast, he replayed Ali's combinations in his head. While helping his mom load the morning catch, he found himself mimicking the footwork he'd seen Robinson use. Even on the way to school, his mind was filled with images of powerful punches and incredible defensive moves.
The boxing world had opened up something in him that he couldn't shake.
"Ippo, you seem different today," his mom had said that morning, noticing how distracted he was. "More... energetic."
He'd just smiled and said he'd slept well, but the truth was he'd barely slept at all. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those fighters moving with such confidence and skill.
First period was math, and Ippo stared out the window while the teacher droned on about equations. In his mind, he was analyzing the way Duran had cut off the ring, forcing his opponent into corners where he could unleash devastating combinations.
"The pressure he applied was incredible," Ippo thought. "Every step had purpose, every movement was calculated to—"
"Makunouchi!"
Ippo's head snapped up. The entire class was staring at him, and his teacher looked annoyed.
"Since you seem so interested in whatever's outside that window, perhaps you can solve this equation for us?"
Ippo looked at the blackboard, then down at his desk. Sitting right on top of his math notebook was a boxing magazine he'd bought that morning on impulse. The cover showed a fierce-looking fighter in mid-punch.
His face turned red as several classmates snickered.
"I... uh..." Ippo scrambled to hide the magazine, but it was too late.
"Boxing, Makunouchi? Really?" The teacher shook his head. "I expect you to pay attention in my class, not daydream about violence."
"Sorry, sensei," Ippo mumbled, stuffing the magazine into his bag.
But even as he tried to focus on the lesson, his mind kept wandering back to the tapes. The way those fighters moved, the confidence in their eyes, the respect they commanded...
During lunch, Ippo sat alone as usual, but instead of feeling lonely, he found himself reading the boxing magazine. The articles talked about training methods, fighting techniques, the mental preparation required to step into a ring.
"Boxing is stupid," he heard someone say at a nearby table. "It's just guys hitting each other. What's the point?"
"Yeah, it's barbaric," another voice agreed. "Only idiots would choose to get punched for a living."
Ippo looked up from his magazine, feeling a surge of irritation he'd never experienced before.
"It's not stupid," he said quietly, but loud enough for them to hear.
The table went silent, surprised that the usually quiet "fish boy" had spoken up.
"What did you say?" one of them asked.
Ippo stood up, still holding his magazine. "Boxing isn't stupid. It's... it's an art. The technique, the strategy, the dedication it takes... these fighters are incredible athletes."
The group exchanged glances. This wasn't the Ippo they knew—the one who never spoke up about anything.
"Whatever, fish boy," one of them said dismissively. "Still looks like mindless violence to me."
Ippo sat back down, his heart pounding. He'd never defended anything before, never stood up for his opinions. But something about those words had genuinely angered him.
As he looked back at the magazine, he realized the fighters in those photos reminded him of Takamura—strong, confident, unafraid.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of half-listened lectures and boxing daydreams. When the final bell rang, Ippo didn't head home like usual. Instead, he found himself walking toward the bridge where he'd been beaten up the day before.
He wasn't sure why he was there until he saw a familiar figure jogging toward him.
Takamura was in full running gear, sweat glistening on his forehead as he maintained a steady pace. When he spotted Ippo waiting by the bridge, he slowed to a stop.
"Kid? What are you doing here? Don't tell me those punks came back for round two."
"No, nothing like that," Ippo said quickly. He pulled the videotapes from his bag. "I wanted to return these and... thank you."
Takamura took the tapes, studying Ippo's face. "You watched them?"
"All of them. Twice." Ippo's eyes lit up with excitement. "Ali's footwork was incredible! And the way Robinson threw combinations—each punch set up the next one perfectly. And Tyson's power..."
"Slow down there, kid," Takamura said with amusement. "Sounds like you got bit by the boxing bug."
Ippo took a deep breath, his expression growing serious. "Takamura-san, I want to become a boxer."
The words hung in the air between them.
"I want to train and become strong. I want to compete in real matches." Ippo's voice grew stronger as he spoke. "Yesterday you said I had a feel for it, that I had potential. I've been thinking about it all day and I—"
Takamura's hand shot out, grabbing Ippo by the collar and pulling him close. His expression had turned dark and angry.
"Are you kidding me right now?" Takamura's voice was low and dangerous. "You think this is some kind of game? Some spur-of-the-moment decision because you watched a few highlight reels?"
Ippo's eyes widened at the sudden aggression.
"Boxing isn't a plaything, kid. This isn't a world where some bullied little weakling can just decide he wants to be tough and magically transform overnight." Takamura's grip tightened. "Real boxing will chew you up and spit you out. It'll break your bones, scramble your brains, and crush your spirit."
"But I—" Ippo started.
"Half-hearted resolve will get you killed in there. You think because you can hit a heavy bag hard that you're ready to face someone who's been training their whole life to hurt people?"
Ippo felt tears starting to form in his eyes, but not from fear. From frustration, from desperation, from something deep inside that refused to be crushed.
"I want to be a boxer," he said firmly, his voice not wavering despite the tears. "I've thought about it. I want to be strong like you, Takamura-san. I want to be a new person."
Takamura's expression remained hard. "Being strong isn't—"
"How does it feel?" Ippo interrupted, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. "How does it feel to be strong? So strong like you? To never have to be afraid, to never have to run away, to be able to protect yourself and the people you care about?"
The raw emotion in Ippo's voice made Takamura pause.
"I'm tired of being weak," Ippo continued, his voice breaking. "I'm tired of getting beaten up and not being able to do anything about it. I'm tired of watching my mom work herself to death because I can't help enough. I'm tired of being nobody, of being nothing."
Takamura stared at the crying teenager for a long moment. Something in those tears, in that desperate honesty, reminded him of his own journey.
Finally, he released Ippo's collar and stepped back.
"You really want to know what strength feels like?" Takamura asked.
Ippo wiped his eyes and nodded.
"Follow me."
Takamura led him to a large tree in a nearby park. The branches hung low, covered with green leaves that rustled in the afternoon breeze.
"You see these leaves?" Takamura asked, pointing up at the branches.
"Yes."
"Watch carefully."
Takamura stepped into a boxing stance, his left hand extended. Then, with lightning speed, he threw a series of jabs at the hanging leaves. His fist moved so fast it was almost a blur, and with each precise strike, he plucked a leaf from its branch without damaging it.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
In less than ten seconds, he had five perfect leaves in his left hand.
Ippo's jaw dropped. "That's... that's impossible. How did you—"
"Speed. Precision. Timing. Control." Takamura showed him the undamaged leaves. "These are the fundamentals of boxing. Anyone can throw a wild punch. But to hit exactly what you want, when you want, with just the right amount of force—that takes real skill."
He turned to face Ippo directly.
"If you really want to be a boxer, if this isn't just some emotional reaction to getting beat up, then prove it."
"How?"
Takamura pointed at the tree. "I want you to catch ten leaves. Just like I showed you, using jabs. You have one week."
"A week? But that's impossible! I don't know how to throw a proper jab, I don't have the speed—"
"Then you better learn." Takamura's expression was serious. "Boxing isn't about wanting it, kid. It's about doing whatever it takes to get better, every single day, no matter how impossible it seems."
He started walking away, then paused.
"If you can catch ten leaves in a week, I'll consider training you. If you can't..." He shrugged. "Then you're not cut out for this world."
"But how am I supposed to—"
"Figure it out. That's part of the test."
Takamura resumed his jog, leaving Ippo alone under the tree, staring up at the countless leaves swaying in the breeze.
For several minutes, Ippo just stood there, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task. Catch ten leaves with jabs? He could barely throw a proper punch, let alone with the speed and precision Takamura had displayed.
But then he thought about the tears he'd just shed, about the raw honesty of his words. He thought about the fighters on those tapes, about the confidence he'd seen in their eyes.
"One week," he said to himself, stepping closer to the tree.
He raised his left hand, trying to mimic the stance he'd seen Takamura use. His form was terrible, his balance was off, and when he threw his first jab, he missed the leaf by several inches.
The leaf barely moved.
He tried again. And again. And again.
Each attempt was a failure, but each failure taught him something small. His stance needed to be wider. His arm needed to extend more. His timing was all wrong.
By the time the sun started to set, Ippo had been practicing for over an hour. He hadn't caught a single leaf, but something had changed. The desperation in his movements had been replaced by determination.
"One week," he repeated, throwing another jab that missed its target.
But this miss was closer than the last one.
As he walked home that evening, Ippo's mind was no longer filled with fantasies of boxing glory. Instead, it was focused on a single, seemingly impossible goal.
Ten leaves. Seven days.
The real test had begun.
That night, Ippo lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his left arm aching from hours of throwing jabs. His mom had asked about the strange bruises on his knuckles and the way he kept moving his shoulder, but he'd just said he was helping a friend with something.
Which wasn't really a lie.
He thought about Takamura's words, about boxing not being a world for the weak. Maybe the older fighter was right. Maybe this was all just an emotional reaction to getting beaten up.
But then he remembered the feeling of hitting that heavy bag, the power that had surprised even Takamura. He remembered the confidence of the fighters on those tapes, the way they carried themselves like they could handle anything.
Most of all, he remembered his own words: "I want to be a new person."
Ippo sat up in bed and looked at his reflection in the dark window. The same face stared back—soft, uncertain, forgettable.
But maybe, just maybe, that could change.
"Ten leaves," he whispered to his reflection. "I can do this."