The boxer rises just before noon, late by traditionally accepted standards, normal for a fighter looking to train his body to peak in the evening hours. He eats a light breakfast—oatmeal, some sliced fruit, washed down with a glass of Himalayan salt water—prepared by a live-in chef who prepares all his meals—before heading to the gym. The gym—his gym—is an abandoned medical supply building he purchased with his brother shortly after both decided to move to Puerto Rico. The floors are covered in ocean-blue turf bearing his nickname (PROBLM CHILD). A pair of standard-size boxing rings take up most of the space with the usual equipment—heavy bags, speed bags, a handful of treadmills—scattered around the rest.
The boxer begins working at 2 p.m.—sharp. It’s 20 minutes on a treadmill to loosen up his legs. Then, in the ring, the boxer straps five-pound weights to his ankles and squeezes three-pound balls in his hands. He begins to move, firing off jabs, swinging looping hooks. Inside the ropes his trainer, a former cruiserweight contender, shouts encouragement. From outside, his trainer, a defensive specialist with names like Fernando Vargas and Diego Corrales on his résumé, observes quietly. After 30 minutes the boxer finishes with hand-eye coordination drills. It’s a light day.
The boxer—Jake Paul—settles into an open space on the ring apron, unfolding his 6'1" frame. He knows the description—boxer—makes some cringe. Paul has been called many things since he made his pro debut nearly three years ago, from “sideshow” (Sergio Mora) to a ”clown” (Gervonta Davis) to “jacka--” (Conor McGregor). He is 5–0 in his brief career, but in the eyes of the boxing lifer none of those wins really count. “He’s not a boxer; he is not a professional fighter,” says Mora. “He stinks.”
