Taped up, the wrapping is tight, restraining almost. It loops through my fingers a bit, but mostly across my knuckles, then back down tightly around my wrists. The strength of the tape, overlapping and repeating like a string on a yo-yo restricts my wrists from bending too much. These two hands are more than tools, they are developed and carefully crafted artifacts of destruction.
Bruised and battered, these knuckles have bled more than a handful of times. The punishing manner of which I repeatedly strike my enemy can be unrelenting. The tape reduces my risk of injury. Where scars grace my knuckles, light bruising adds color and depth. Hints of blue fade in through the greenish tint that precedes a true bruise. My two hands are strong. Extensive training will do that for you. They are tools. They are weapons. They are my ticket to fame and fortune. My face and torso are the target of my foe. But my two hands are the devices with which I strike back. They are my revenge. They are my preemptive strike.
Padding does little in the course of a day to diffuse the extreme abuse that I inflict on myself, a bag, or others when I step in. Some go without it. I choose the classic style, driven to seek the title. Size, strength, speed, stamina. They all are the fuel in the machine that drives my two hands. Catalysts of destruction. My time is limited once the bell rings, and the fury with which I strike is unmatched but by few. Sweat pouring and heart pumping, I will swing my two hands, clenched in adrenaline and technique until I can swing no more.