Herald on Sunday reporter Kieran Nash has stepped up for his toughest assignment yet - training for a corporate boxing night on November 5 to raise money for charity. Over the next few weeks, he will share his pain with readers.
Have you ever wondered what it's like to go to Satan's disco? I've been, partied and lived to tell the story.
A couple of weeks back, an email came through the office. It told of a wondrous event - a corporate fight night at which average Joes would take each other on in the ring in one night of glory.
But it's not just about the glory - all funds raised go to charity KidsCan to help Kiwi kids living in poverty.
Those interested would be in for 12 weeks of hard training. Naturally, they would have to share their experiences with hundreds of thousands of readers.
Was anyone keen?
Predictably, the Rocky-montage delusion took hold. Hell yes, I'm keen. This is my destiny. Nothing shall stand between me and glory.
Except a few things.
The last workout I had consisted of a packet of smokes, a dozen beers and two quarter pounders.
When I owned my last pair of running shoes, Nike was cool because Jordan still played basketball.
I can also count the number of fights I've had on one finger.
So, with that background, I headed for my first training session at Ringside Boxing, next to Les Mills on Victoria St in Auckland city.
I walked in and saw a young girl tapping feebly at her bag. "C'mon," I thought, with all the scorn of a novice bystander. "Hit the thing. You're not trying to give it a back rub."
Oh, how those thoughts would haunt me.
An instructor quickly showed me the basics: left and right jab, hook and uppercut.
Then class started.
First up was a series of exercises, most of which I had to copy off the person next to me as I had no idea what they were.
Then it was on to the bag.
A hundred jabs. A hundred hooks. A hundred uppercuts. Combos. Power. Speed.
More exercise drills.
Then press-ups. Not the wussy ones you do when no one's watching - real press-ups. On your knuckles.
Ten of those and I was buggered.
Next (and I thought these only existed in martial arts movies) press-ups with claps in between. On your knuckles. Then one-armed press-ups. On your knuckles.
I looked up at the clock. Fifteen minutes had passed. There were another 45 minutes of pain to go.
During the remaining time, what had started as a steady river of hefty blows trickled to a stream, eventually drying out to smattering of feeble taps.
Compared with me, the girl I had scorned earlier was beating the crap out of her bag.
At about this time, I thought I would black out. But luckily I pulled through the encroaching sea of black and back to reality - to Satan's disco.
The fire spread from my lungs to every muscle, even to my eyeballs. It was all how I'd picture a club in Hades.
Then it stopped. We were allowed our drink bottles.
I was shaking. I looked up at the mirror. My head looked like a freshly peeled tomato. But I'd made it.
Bring on the next session.
