I dangle from a rusted hook in the corner where the damp smudges the plaster. One dodgy frayed lace. That’s the only thing keeping me off the deck.

The air reeks of ammonia and sweat soaked into the bricks before most of these kids were born. It smells of stale piss and failure. It burns the throat. I stay in the dark. We don’t need to talk about it. I am done.

I used to be proper kit. Oxblood red. Stiff cowhide. I stank of the tannery and I hurt people. I was built for a ruck, built to survive. Now I look like shit. The colour bled out years ago. I am a dull, cracked brown, dust matted into the grain. I look like skin left out in the rain until it rotted.

I did my graft. I swung from the fists of lads who walked in skint and furious, carrying the kind of rage you get when the world slams the fucking door on your fingers. I felt that vibration shudder through the horsehair. Defeat is heavy. I carried it for them.

Time wrecked my guts. The padding shifted and clumped into hard knots like wet cement. The knuckles poke through now. The wrist support collapsed. The stitching by the thumb burst open. I am rotting.

Sparring was the only time I felt alive. The heavy bag is a corpse. It takes a thumping and says nothing. Sparring now that's different. I remember the snap of a cheekbone through the leather, the electric jolt when a punch lands flush and a current shoots up the arm and rattles the teeth.

I was slick with grease and sweat. I smeared away blood and snot. I was held high in victory and booted into the corner on a loss.

They don’t make them like me. Look at the rack. Shiny plastic wank. Velcro straps for speed. Riiip. On. Riiip. Off. No ceremony. No respect. They want it fast.

Laces take time. You can’t tie yourself up. That was the point. You needed another pair of hands. A trainer. A mate. Someone to yank the loops tight and lock you in. We relied on each other. These kids don’t trust anyone. They slap on the plastic and hit the bag for the camera.

The new lads don’t see me. I am trash. Their hands go straight to the Velcro. They don’t want gloves that smell of damp cellars and hard work. They don’t know I can feel the difference between a nervous jab and a shot thrown with hate. I know the shake in a kid’s hands when he steps through the ropes. I used to steady those hands.

So I hang here. A spider spun a web between my cuff and the brick. Cheeky bastard. This is retirement. Just old cowhide stiffening in the cold while the plastic generation plays at fighting.

I am not waiting for a fight. I am waiting for the fucking skip.