FIN // TWO // KELLY DONAGHY

kel donaghy
sixteen
female
district two

It's not uncommon for children my age to train with their parents after school, particularly because most of our parents are qualified trainers to begin with. My mum works in the Nut doing Ripred-knows-what, always away on some top secret mission or other, but my father's life ambition has been to train me to be the best from the day I could first put on a pair of boxing gloves. They were far too big for my tiny fists - I've always been fairly short and stocky for my age (but I suppose all the fighters have) - but I complied nonetheless. It was exciting for me, in a life which I always assumed would never change, to have this knew skill to learn in stages, every day of training different to the one before.

I hate school. I'm not smart - it's the truth, and learning new things isn't exciting for me at all. Getting an F on a project means no more to me than any other grade, although perhaps when professionals come to our lessons to check our individual progress I do get a little embarrassed. Of course, I know there are more important things than being top in school (though some of my peers' parents wouldn't agree) and so the feelings slip out of my easily distracted mind fairly quickly. In my order of priorities, doing what I love comes right at the top. Some people care so much about what is right or fair that they forget to have fun. Other people invest all their passion in playing at being adults and never find a purpose that sparks enjoyment. I understand, and I think it's something that I've known my whole life, that what really matters is the balance between the two.

Boxing - my combat of choice out of my father's arsenal of skills - gives me that balance, between what is useful and what is fun. Almost every day for the past four years I've run out of school to meet my dad at the Training Center, hastily changing out of whatever frock I happen to be wearing into the clothes more suited to fighting. I love wearing dresses, because of how masculine I can seem when I'm hunched in a squat, lean muscles pulsing in my arms as they rest in a defensive stance in front of my shallow collar bones. The contrast delights me in an almost ironic way when, after a long practice, I can tug my short, blonde hair out of its tie so it hangs in curtains around my flat, clammy forehead, and skip off to put my dainty day wear back on. Sweating is a sure sign of a worthwhile session, but I try my hardest, when I'm out of the ring, to stay clean. As a result, my face is clear of oil and spots - even at this age where we've all began to accept our deteriorating natural hygiene a little more.

The first thing dad did when he began to teach me to box was to clear up some common myths. In history lessons, when we'd study old books called 'comics', fighting was always portrayed as this quick succession of powerful blows that left one man unconscious for a few panels, and the other walking away carelessly. Now, I look at those illustrations and smirk, knowing firsthand how different the truth is. At the time, however, that was all I had to go off, and my very first fighting lessons soon saw that view corrected. We started fighting soft, so there was no chance of me getting injured past a throbbing backside at the end of the day, but quickly I understood how dangerous rough fighting could be. Common sense, something I have naturally in abundance, is developed with a skill like boxing. I look at kids my age and older fighting on the streets and have to suppress my urge to stop them, to show them how dangerous it can be. I have my whole life ahead of me, and getting overworked through long fights, or getting knocked out altogether, can be fatal.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not afraid of getting hurt, and I know my dad would never wrap me up in padded armour just to sugar-coat the reality of boxing. It's dangerous, and takes tolerance and hard work. I had to learn dedication and perseverance the hard way, through the swelling of my small, brown eyes - already too close together - and innumerable split lips, now leaving them perpetually scabbed. I naturally walk with my knees slightly bent, on the balls of my feet - and it's almost like I'm always ready for a fight.

Defense is more important than attack, though, and dad has been very strict in warning me never to go looking for trouble. In the Career world, "picking on someone your own size" never applies. It wouldn't be that way in the Games, so they don't encourage playing fair. The oldest kids fight the smaller ones, both to show off to their friends and to train the youngsters for their potential opposition in the Arena. I usually fight my dad, who may lower himself a little to go easier on me but certainly doesn't treat me like a novice. I'm trained to defend myself against jabs and hooks, and know the signs to look for as an opponent is deliberation where to aim. I'm fast, too, so dodging an attack and responding with a cross of my own is a tactic I employ well.

Tactics like that are what make up my life. It's as if, even when I'm out of training, everything is a strategy. The quickest way home from school, to avoid my cousin and his brutish friends that I know skulk around to smoke and mug younger kids on their way home, is a fine example of this. That was one of the first reasons I contemplated combat sports, so that I'd never have to relive the family dinners with my parents and my mother's sister's family, who always picked on me for being the youngest, and an only child. Now I see how stupid it was for them to target me for something I had no control over. My ever-busy mother decided that one child was enough when I was born, despite my dad's wish to start a larger family, and it's no one's fault that they had children after my aunt and uncle did. Who cares, anyway? As good a fighter as I am now (even though there's still so much more to learn) I'm sure I could take him down if he decided to try anything. He may be big, but I'm trained. It's things like that that keep me going in training when I feel like giving up. I used to be the underdog - not just at home but everywhere, the stubborn girl with the plain face and awkward, short limbs - and boxing, and growing up the way I have in general, has given me the opportunity to fix that. I can show those who made me feel weak, now. I can prove I'm fiercer than I've ever been.