I’ve always wanted to visit Cuba. From the moment I watched Robeisy Ramírez win gold at London 2012, it fascinated me how a small Caribbean island with a population of just over 11 million people could produce more Olympic boxing champions than any other country. As I got older I started to research Cuban boxing’s rich history, scrambling for whatever footage I could find in order to study the likes of Ángel Espinosa, Roberto Balado and Héctor Vinent. But it wasn’t just their styles that interested me - it was their stories, from Teófilo Stevenson cementing himself as a national icon after rejecting untold millions to fight in the professional ranks, to the tragic tale of hero-turned-traitor Guillermo Rigondeaux as detailed in Brin-Jonathan Butler’s excellent ‘A Cuban Boxer’s Journey’. So when Rasel Heschavarria, a Cuban-born boxing coach now based in London, asked if I’d be interested in attending a training camp later that summer, I grabbed the chance with both hands. The plan was to stay in Old Havana for 10 days, training alongside local fighters whilst learning from some of the best coaches on the planet, in order to understand just what exactly made Cuban boxing so special. And to cap things off, I’d organised sparring with Olympic champion Andy Cruz Gómez - widely considered the best pound-for-pound fighter in amateur boxing - for the last day of the trip. It promised to be the opportunity of a lifetime, and an invaluable experience for me both as a fighter and a coach.

But first, I needed to get in shape.

Having spent the last three years sidelined by injury and the pandemic, I was walking around at roughly 71kg - well above my previous fighting weight of 63kg. So I teamed up with my friend and colleague Philip Bowe - a strength & conditioning coach who had worked with the likes of Craig Richards and Deion Jumah - in order to prepare for the gruelling training sessions ahead, with a focus on improving power output, muscular endurance and cardiorespiratory fitness. My routine consisted of eight hours’ boxing, two S&C sessions and 23 miles of running per week, alongside a strict diet of lean protein, whole grain foods and healthy fats. This may all sound like standard fare in the life of a boxer, but you’d be surprised - amateur boxing in particular is still years behind when it comes to S&C and nutrition, although there has been some progress in this area. Quality performance coaches and nutritionists don’t come cheap, and amateur athletes may struggle to afford the costs of a personalised programme given that they aren’t paid to compete. The majority will just follow the guidance of trainers at their local club, and won’t come into contact with a specialist S&C coach until they reach the national level. For me, working with Philip made a real difference. I felt great physically - stronger, faster, fitter - and knowing that I’d gone the extra mile with my preparation gave me confidence that I’d be able to cope with the demands of training in a tropical climate. I’m grateful for the support of Philip and the Perform 365 team throughout the buildup to Cuba, and I don’t think I’d have got nearly as much out of the trip without their help.

A few weeks before heading off, I found out that my chance to spar with Cruz had vanished following his failed attempt to defect to the USA, which saw the 26 year-old indefinitely banned from boxing - almost overnight, Cruz had gone from the jewel in Cuban boxing’s crown to persona non grata. With a bit of luck however, I managed to line up a pretty good replacement in the form of two-time Olympic champion Roniel Iglesias, one of the greatest amateur boxers of this generation. Iglesias had also agreed to take me to La Finca, the island’s elite boxing academy, where I’d be training with the likes of Julio César La Cruz, Lázaro Álvarez and the rest of the national team. As far as last minute change of plans go, I could’ve done worse.

One thing you should know about Cuba is that it’s hot. Really hot. That may sound obvious, but nothing can quite prepare you for when you step into the Gimnasio de Jesús Montaner Oropesa for the first time and the humidity immediately slaps you in the face. Within minutes you’re sweating as if the workout has already finished, little beads of perspiration trickling down your face and stinging your eyes. From that moment on, I knew I was going to be in for a long day.

The gym itself was a huge open space designed to accommodate a number of sports, with one side dedicated to boxing and the other to taekwondo. Several punching bags, worn by years of use, hung from the ceiling in the corner, and situated next to them was a full-sized ring with a spongy red canvas. Waiting nearby were our trainers, who introduced themselves as Reyssiel Alcalá Ruíz - a four-time provincial champion of Havana - and Julio Bernal, who won national championship bronze in 2016 and 2019. They were accompanied by long-time coach and local reggae musician Maikel Masso, as well as former Youth World Championship silver-medallist Radames Castillo. After a quick chat, we wrapped up and got straight to work.

As you’d expect, training in Cuba is a little different to how things are done in the UK. We start with a brief stretch, before circling around the room at a brisk pace. Periodically, Alcalá blows his whistle and orders us to rattle off a quick-fire combination which gets increasingly more difficult - what starts off as a basic 1-slip-2-3 soon becomes a nine-punch salvo. He watches carefully, keeping an eye out for any technical mistakes whilst reminding us to stay smooth and relaxed. After 15 minutes or so, the group is split into pairs where I partner up with Victor, an amateur boxer from Australia. We’re instructed to touch our opponent’s knees to score points, in a simple yet effective exercise which encourages clever footwork and constant movement. It’s tiring stuff though, and already the heat is really starting to grind us down.

Before long it’s on to technical sparring, with a focus on using the jab in particular. Across the gym floor, people fence with one another in cagey chess matches, probing and feinting with their lead hand. Gradually the right hand is introduced, followed by hooks and uppercuts - we switch partners, the intensity rising as each fighter tries to catch the attention of the coaches. In one round we work solely on lateral movement whilst slipping, Alcalá quick to correct me for stepping too far out of range. When he finally calls time I dart straight towards my water bottle, relishing the chance to take a breather. The rest of the group climbs into the ring to do a core workout, but I sneak to the side and begin to work on the bag. Radames, who has been observing from a distance so far, comes over and tells me that my punches need to be straighter and that I should always take my head off-line when throwing the right hand. At this point I’m getting sloppy out of exhaustion more than anything, but he insists that I keep practicing until things are more to his liking. We move on to hooks, but when I turn my knee in to generate power - something that’s pretty uniformly taught in most Western countries - Radames shakes his head as if I’d just cursed his wife. It turns out that this is a cardinal sin for old-school Cuban coaches, who consider hooks to be a risky punch that should only be used for pivoting out or occupying the guard up-close. I’m not too surprised by this; after all, Cuban boxers are pretty well known for relying on straight-punches (looking at you, Rigondeaux), but it still takes some getting used to. So does the pad routine, with Radames calling out ‘dos’ when he wants a 1-2 and ‘tres’ for a jab-cross-lead uppercut. I have to admit, it’s not the best I’ve looked on the pads.

After finishing up, we gathered together around the ring and discussed how our first training session went. Everyone looked knackered, chests heaving and clothes drenched with sweat which were forming puddles on the concrete floor. Even with my preparation beforehand, I was completely spent from the combination of jet lag, intense physical activity and the heat. I headed straight back to the casa for rest, nervously anticipating what lied in store next.

Safe to say, things didn’t get any easier on the second day. We set off for Playa Mar Azul - a picturesque beach twenty minutes away from Old Havana - early in the morning, before the heat became too intense to train in. Joining us was Olympic silver-medallist Emilio Correa, who finished runner-up to Britain’s James DeGale at Beijing 2008. A three-time national champion, Correa’s résumé included wins over the likes of Julio Cêsar La Cruz, Adonis Stevenson, Demetrius Andrade, Sergey Derevyanchenko & DeGale as well as a second-round stoppage of Shawn Porter at the Pan-American Games. At 36 years old, he was still in tremendous shape - whilst some Cuban amateurs tend to let themselves go after retirement, Correa boasted the physique of a body-builder and had bulked up to around 86kg, not a single bit of it fat. In broken Spanish, I took my chance to ask him a few questions on the way there and we discussed the highlights of his career. ‘I have been lucky to enough to fight all over the world’ he recalled. ‘Beijing, Mexico City, Bolton’. One of those locations felt like the odd one out. I’ll let you decide which one. What’s harder than training under the blazing-hot sun? Training under the blazing-hot sun whilst in sand. We kick off the session by shadowboxing in a tight circle, with an emphasis on slipping whilst moving laterally to create angles; I quickly take refuge from the heat in a small patch of shade underneath a palm tree, savouring the gentle sea breeze. Alcalá then instructs us to form a line in front of him, and we’re told to punch when he calls out a number. The tempo starts slow, almost metronomic, before we quickly explode into a combination on the half-beat. It’s a drill that I like to use back at home, but some of the group clearly aren’t used to it - they get sucked in by Alcalá’s rhythm, following the pattern almost instinctively, and struggle to react when he suddenly mixes up the pace. Manipulating rhythm is an under-appreciated skill in boxing, and the Cubans are masters of it - if you watch fighters like Rigondeaux or Stevenson, you’ll often see how a slow, pawing jab precedes a rapid staccato attack, catching the opponent off-guard. Any coach worth his salt will tell you the importance of variety, but that shouldn’t just be limited to punch selection or defensive responses.

It soon became apparent that technical sparring in the sand was going to be tough. Instead of bouncing on the toes and dancing around opponents, you felt as if you were wading through treacle, every step slow and plodding, and for someone like me who has always preferred to jab-and-move it was a nightmare. On the bright side I was forced to stay at close-range and exchange in the pocket, which was never really one of my strengths - that was all well and good until I was partnered up with Emilio, grinning like a lion who had just found its next meal. Every punch he threw, even the one’s I blocked, knocked me off-balance, and before long I was in survival mode. He was going easy - barely having to get out of second gear - until I caught him with a right hand counter, and you could see his demeanour change instantly. Those eyes, gentle and friendly when we chatted on the bus, suddenly burned with intensity, and the competitor in him took over as he immediately began to walk me down. I went into full retreat, and all I could think about was when Alcalá was going to blow the whistle and put an end to my misery. After a few seconds Emilio regained his composure and relaxed, before nodding in appreciation once we’d finished. When we moved on to body sparring afterwards, I made sure to be as far away from him as possible when the coach assigned us to our pairs.

The session finishes with a full-body workout consisting of lunges, burpees, press-ups and sit-ups, with Emilio at the front leading by example and shouting encouragement. Some of the group went on a run along the coastline afterwards, but most people headed straight for the sea - I’m not a big fan of beaches, so I stayed back in the shade and took in the view. Later on, we all gathered in a nearby pergoda to take turns doing pad-work with Maikel and Alcalá, forming a circle around them like school kids watching a fight. I enjoyed pads with Maikel in particular - he’s constantly moving, forcing you to readjust your feet, and the combinations begin to flow effortlessly. Some of the coaches’ children bring us a coconut that they’ve picked from the trees, and we crack it open on a rock and drink the milk inside. I look out to the endless sea and think to myself that this is paradise. Cuba may have its fair share of problems, but the island really is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Situated on a hilltop in the suburb of Casablanca is the Christ of Havana, a towering white marble statue of Jesus which overlooks the city’s bay. It’s also the setting for our third day of training, and we arrive early in the morning after catching the ferry from Old Havana. Having struggled with the heat in the first two days, I feel like I’m finally starting to adjust to the climate - it’s still difficult to maintain a high intensity over two hours, though. We warm up on the grass before moving on to sprint interval training, running at full speed for 30 seconds before resting for a few minutes with a light jog in a circle. It’s demanding stuff, and by the time we start shadowboxing my legs are already begging for rest.

Not long after, it’s back to light sparring. This time around I find myself matched with Ray ‘Pantera’ Quijano, an amateur boxer from Havana who had previously competed at the Cuban national championships. As his nickname would suggest, Quijano was lightning-fast - an explosive, athletic southpaw with power in both hands. He threw the jab from the hip, that low-lead hand shooting up before you had time to register it, which made him difficult to time. He also did a great job of playing with tempo, making sure not to throw everything at the same speed so I could get a read on when he’d attack. The trick with speedsters is usually to be proactive, baiting them to throw on your timing so you can counter and punish. I was starting to finally make some progress until Quijano began to feint more, drawing out slips and punishing before darting out of range, as well as bringing the hook up off the jab. It was a frustrating experience, but exactly the kind that I’d come to Cuba looking for - you’ll never know whether you can swim until you jump in the deep end.

The session concludes with a long run around Casablanca, and we descend from the hill alongside a winding road. Locals watch curiously as we pass by, with some children following behind before gradually fading away into the distance. Going down is relatively easy - it’s climbing back up that’s hard. The hill is steep, the air thick with heat, and the sun bears down on us relentlessly. I stop for a moment to tie my shoelaces, and when I look up the group are already out of sight. Fortunately I’m caught up by Emilie - a French-Canadian girl who also stays at my casa - and we jog together at a leisurely pace. After eventually making our way back to the hilltop, we fall straight onto the grass to catch our breath and spend a few minutes taking in the view of Havana. It’s an image that will last a lifetime.

For the next few days we spend our time back at the Gimnasio de Jesús Montaner Oropesa in Old Havana, honing our skills. By this point I’ve started to get used to the Cuban style of training, and want to dig deeper into what makes the island’s boxers so successful. On reflection, a large part of that is down to the level of coaching - technical excellence isn’t just taught, it’s demanded. Every coach we work with tells us not only what to do, but why to do it, and they express their thoughts with clarity and precision. Boxers are trained from a young age - as early as 6 or 7 - and learn in an environment that champions technique and the art of movement. It’s a breeding ground for producing well-schooled amateurs.

Another important aspect is the culture. Boxing is more than just a sport in Cuba - it’s a language. Walking back from the gym, people of all ages would greet you in the street before noticing the gloves hanging from your backpack, their eyes immediately lighting up with excitement. Some would start shadowboxing to show off their skills, whilst others would even challenge you to a playful spar as they danced on their toes. On the doorsteps of their casa, wizened old men recounted the success of Teófilo Stevenson and the glory days of Cuban boxing, faces beaming with pride. In a country that was at breaking point from decades of economic hardship, boxing was a hymn-sheet which everyone could sing from, a unifying force that brought the community together. Even with all the money in the world, it’s difficult to create something like that.

Experience also plays a big part. Knowledge is passed down each generation, and the quality of the domestic scene is so strong that only the very best make it to the top. There’s an old saying in the Soviet Union - ‘it’s easier to win the World Championships than it is to win Córdova Cardín’ - and that might very well be true; you could pull two or three top guys from the national championship, and they’d all have a solid chance of medalling at the Olympics. Even someone like Ray Quijano, who had never really stood out at the elite level, was amongst the best fighters I’d sparred with. Competition for places on the national team keeps complacency from setting in, with a talented young fighter always waiting in the wings to seize his chance. For many, that day never comes - amateur standouts such as Enmanuel Reyes and Alfonso Dominguez have had to relocate to Europe in search of better opportunities to compete on the biggest stages.

After sparring twenty rounds or so with the likes of Emilio, Quijano and Julio Bernal, you notice that the Cubans all follow a similar pattern. They start off slow, probing with the jab to gauge your responses, before gradually ramping up the intensity. By the second round, they’ve figured out your timing and start to open up - you can feel the contest slipping away from you, but you’re not entirely sure how to stop it. Then the last round is when shit really hits the fan. Your opponent takes over, completely zoned in on everything you’re about to do, and whatever energy you have left is spent trying to stay with them mentally. I had moments of success, but they were exactly that - moments. You never really felt as if you were in control at any stage, always playing catch up against someone two steps ahead. As a boxing fan, it was a pleasure to witness first-hand.

Nestled in a courtyard between two rundown apartments is the Gimnasio de Rafael Trejo, Havana’s oldest boxing gym. It’s an iconic venue which attracts a number of visitors every year, and has been training world-class amateurs since the dawn of the revolution. The gym itself consists of a few bags and a ring in the centre, which is overlooked by a large stand on either side with several rows of seating. It’s common for boxing matches to take place here, and you can imagine the atmosphere as the crowds stand up on the wooden benches to applaud and cheer. A mural of a Cuban flag with the words ‘Gimnasio de Boxeo Rafael Trejo’ decorates the walls, and underneath the stand on the far side is a small weights room with a few pieces of equipment. I wander in on an early Friday morning, just before training is about to start, and a group of local boxers sitting by the ring stop their conversation to size me up as I come over. Wrapping one of the boy’s hands is the sturdy figure of head coach Alberto Gonzalez Caturla, puffing away on a thick Cuban cigar. He greets me like an old friend before introducing me to his son Albert, a promising 17 year-old middleweight who’s been tipped as a future amateur world champion. I’ve watched him before at the Youth World Championships in Poland, but Albert has filled out since then - he’s more muscular now, with broad shoulders and strong, powerful legs. In all truth I have no idea how he still makes 75kg, and it won’t be long before he’s forced to move up to light-heavyweight. Alberto Sr. chats to me for a couple of minutes whilst the rest of the boxers get warmed up, and I find out that he’d spent several years coaching in Manchester and Newcastle. He shows me a few photos of him with some coaches, and asks if I know them - unfortunately, I don’t recognise any of the faces. You can tell there’s a fondness, and perhaps even some longing, in Alberto’s eyes when he talks about his experiences in England, but for now his focus is on training the young men in front of him. I don’t ask whether he’d like to go back, but I bet he’d answer yes in a heartbeat if he could.

We get underway by shadowboxing in the ring, shielded from the sun by a corrugated iron roof, whilst Alberto lights up another cigar and observes us from the side. The canvas is made from plywood with foam jigsaw mats on top for support, and I move carefully to avoid bumping into anyone and upsetting their rhythm. You notice that every punch the boys throw has a purpose, every move calculated, as if they can see an opponent in front of them. Alberto barks orders from his chair in Spanish, and then turns his attention to me. He watches for a few moments before pulling me to one side to offer some guidance - “too upright. There’s a big gap between your feet, bring them closer”. I nod in acknowledgment, and carry on with his words in mind as he returns to his chair.

Next up, Alberto has us form an orderly line outside the ring and we practice throwing combinations until I can barely raise my fists - it’s repetitive and a little mundane, but works as a way of translating the correct technique into muscle memory. One thing that Alberto picks up on is my tendency to bring my lead hand back to my chin before I throw the right during a 1-2. ‘No good’ he says. ‘Right now these are two separate punches. The right fist must replace the left straight away and your shoulders should work together. That way it is faster.’ It takes a little while before I get the hang of what he means, but once I do I notice that Alberto is right. Before, there was a slight delay between the jab and cross - only a fraction of a second really - but he stresses that those fine margins make all the difference in boxing. ‘This is why we repeat, repeat, repeat,’ he tells me. ‘You do the basics until it becomes natural, like riding a bike.’ The group is then split up, with two boys sparring in the ring whilst the rest take turns working the bag. I’m called over first along with a thickset middleweight named Teófilo, who looks like he could be anywhere from 16 to 30 years-old. He’s the reserved type, shy and respectful, and has obvious talent but lacks confidence in his own ability. Despite the size difference, Teófilo is overly passive - he follows me around the ring behind a high guard, hesitant to let his hands go, and I’m able to pick him off at range before angling out. ‘Vamos!’ Alberto shouts in encouragement, and for a brief moment the Cuban backs me up to the ropes with a double jab before unloading a combination which forces me to shell up. He has that clubbing power, natural and easy, but as soon as I return to the centre of the ring he struggles to cut me off with any real consistency. The whistle blows shortly after, and we touch gloves as a sign of respect. ‘Good work, campeón’ Alberto says to me. ‘Next you go in with Albert’. Instead of hitting the bag, I take a seat at ringside to watch Albert spar with one of the heavyweights. He’s slick and fluid, inviting the jab with head movement before slipping and countering to the body, and looks a natural at boxing out of either stance. Most impressive of all is his physicality, particularly for someone so young - the bigger man tries to impose himself up-close, but Albert holds his ground and gets the better of exchanges in the pocket. There’s no doubt that the boy is a serious talent, and he has a style that would translate perfectly well to the pro ranks. ‘He’s good’, I say to Alberto. ‘Very well schooled. No real weaknesses’. The coach’s eyes stay fixed on the action. ‘He is getting there. There is still a lot to learn’. All of a sudden there’s a sharp thud and I look over to see that one of the canvas’ plywood sheets has given way, leaving a gaping hole in the ring. Alberto curses in Spanish before calling the session to a halt, as we hover around to inspect the damage. He shakes his head in frustration. ‘I am sorry about this. Come back tomorrow and it will be fixed.

I return the next day but the ring is still out of action - there’s also no sign of Albert, who I was supposed to be sparring with. His father tells me that he isn’t feeling too well and has decided to take the morning off, so we spend the next hour or so going over drills instead. First of all, Alberto has me practice the pendulum step - a staple of Cuban boxing which involves bouncing back-and-forth on the balls of the feet. The secret, he says, is to make sure that the ankles are rigid rather than loose and relaxed, in order to conserve energy and maintain balance. We focus on throwing combinations whilst changing directions, staying mobile and light on the feet, before moving on to the pads. Out of all the trainers that I’ve met in the last couple of years, few have impressed me as much as Alberto. He communicates ideas with precision and clarity, explaining not just how to do something but why and when to do it, and possesses the kind of insight that only comes about through a lifetime of being in and around the sport at the highest level. A friend of mine, Gary Logan, once told me that the best trainers don’t instruct - they teach. And that’s exactly what sets Alberto apart from the rest. It’s one thing to know boxing, but another to really understand it. At the end of the session, I thank him for his time and we exchange contact details. Rafael Trejo may be popular with tourists, but make no mistake - this gym is as authentic as it gets.

Later on that evening, I got a text from Roniel Iglesias asking whether I wanted to go to a bar with him and his friends. Despite being unable to speak a word of Spanish, I figured that I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t go, so I decided to tag along. After agreeing to pick me up at 7pm, I’m left waiting around for a couple of hours until a silver Honda with black-tinted windows pulls up to the casa at around 9 o’clock - if there's one thing I’ve learnt about Cubans, it’s that being on time is a pretty fluid concept to them. Sitting in the driver’s seat is Roniel, wearing a black and white camo bucket hat and a pair of sunglasses attached to a thick gold Cuban link chain. He smiles at me warmly and gets out to take pictures with the other guests at my casa, who look at him with a mixture of awe and respect. For someone who spent several years at 64kg, he’s bigger than I imagined - tall and lean, with long limbs. After a few minutes, Roniel gestures to the car and I get in the back. At this point I have no idea what to expect, but it’s too late to pull out now.

Thankfully, Google Translate saves the day. Roniel doesn’t speak much English, and he quickly realises that my Spanish isn’t nearly as good in person as it is on WhatsApp, but we manage to communicate with the help of Siri (and a little bit of guess-work). I introduce myself properly, and tell him that I watched him win gold at London 2012 when I was a boy. Roniel grins in the rear-view mirror. ‘Now I feel old’ he laughs. The topic of conversation quickly turns to his career, and whether he plans to compete at Paris 2024. ‘We will see, campeón. This will be my fifth Olympics, and I have been fighting for almost 20 years now. Preparing for the Olympics is difficult on the body. I cannot say what will happen’. There is, of course, one thing in particular I want to ask Roniel about - whether he considered defecting at any point, and if he could go back in time, would he change his decision? I ultimately decide against bringing it up though. Defection is a difficult subject in Cuba, especially for athletes who have to be very careful with what they say, and I don’t want to make Roniel uncomfortable when he’s been kind enough to invite me on a night out. Maybe I’ll mention something on my last day, I think to myself. Suddenly, the car screeches to a halt outside a noisy bar in the middle of the suburbs. ‘We’re here’.

As I soon discover, amateur boxers in Cuba are practically celebrities. Before we even have a chance to order a drink, people flock around Roniel and ask for photographs, which he happily obliges. We’re seated at the best table in the house, right next to the bar, and one of Roniel’s friends - a hulking man with arms like tree-trunks - arrives shortly afterwards. ‘You like whiskey?’ Roniel asks, and I nod politely. He orders a bottle to share, which is probably about the most extravagant thing you can do in Cuba, and we toast to friendship. ‘What do you think of the night life?’ he says. ‘I haven’t been out much’, I admit, ‘but it’s good. I like the music.’ Roniel shrugs. ‘It is OK. Nothing special. I bet you have much better clubs in England’. I remind him that I probably wouldn’t be going out drinking with a double Olympic gold-medallist at home, and he laughs. ‘I think it is time for tequila, campeón’.

Several more of Roniel’s friends join our table as the night goes on, each decked out in gaudy jewellery; chains, watches, grills, earrings. There are girls too, but they’re the superficial type - pretty and vacuous - and are more interested in taking Instagram stories than making conversation. On the far side of the room, I notice a group of people crowding around one man who is making his way over towards us - he’s about 5’6, wearing a Versace t-shirt and paint-splattered jeans with hair that’s dyed half red and half black. I recognise him instantly. It’s Andy Cruz. I sit in stunned silence - admittedly a little star-struck - as he greets everyone before sitting down next to me. ‘Hola hermano’ Andy says with a wide grin.

We chat for the next half an hour or so, and I learn that he’s been staying busy with making new music since attempting to leave the island. It turns out that, in addition to being one of the best boxers in the world, Andy is a popular rapper in Cuba, and his songs play at the bar every now and then. I ask him about Tokyo as well as his rivalry with Keyshawn Davis, but Andy quickly corrects me. ‘There is no rivalry campeón. I beat him four times.’ He pretends to rock a baby in his arms and says that Davis is his son, which draws laughter from the table. ‘They were great fights. I rewatch the Olympic final pretty often’ I tell him. Andy’s playful expression turns serious all of a sudden. ‘Do you have it on your phone?’ he asks, and I load the fight up from my YouTube channel to show him. ‘I haven’t watched this back before. There is no way to see it in Cuba.’ His eyes are glued to the screen like a captivated child, pausing the video every now and then to play a particular sequence back, and when the decision is announced Andy lets out a smile as the elation of winning gold comes flooding back to him. ‘Thank you, hermano. Muy appreciado.’ It’s a special moment, if not slightly surreal, and I’m glad that I could relive the memory with him. We drink and dance late into the night, singing along to Reggaeton hits as Andy does his best Michael Jackson impression, and by the time Roniel finally drops me home I sink into the bed and fall asleep in a blurry haze.

There were no sessions scheduled for Sunday, which was pretty fortunate considering I woke up with the mother of all hangovers that morning. Instead, I spent some time exploring Havana and visiting several tourist spots, as well as taking a stroll down the Malecón in the afternoon. It was a welcome break from training, and a rare chance to recharge my batteries ahead of a visit to La Finca - Cuba’s fabled national boxing academy - the following day. With legendary fighters such as Teófilo Stevenson, Felix Savón and Guillermo Rigondeaux counting amongst its alumni, La Finca has been producing Olympic champions for over half a century - but what’s the secret to its success?

One of the main reasons is the quality of coaching at the provincial level, which is much higher than your average run-of-the-mill gyms in the U.K and U.S. Once again, that partly comes down to culture - being a trainer is a respected vocation in Cuba whereas that’s not necessarily the case elsewhere. Talent is identified at a young age and nurtured from the ground up, with coaches focussing on technical development and strong fundamentals, and the standouts are entered into fiercely competitive regional tournaments where they’ll have the opportunity to catch the eye of scouts from the national team. The best of the best are then invited to train at La Finca, where they’re subjected to rigorous conditioning sessions and a strict daily regime. As you’d imagine, discipline is harsh and uncompromising - failing to meet the required standards can result in suspension, or even expulsion. It’s also notoriously difficult for outsiders to get access to La Finca, especially if they’re travelling alone. Fortunately, Roniel was my ticket inside.

We set off at around 6am, just in time to catch the first glimmers of the morning sun, and long queues have already formed down the street as people wait in line for their daily supplies. The academy itself is a former farm located on the outskirts of Wajay, a suburb that’s about a 40 minute drive or so from Old Havana, and we follow a narrow, winding dirt road along the trees before eventually arriving at a large compound surrounded by chain link fencing. There’s a security booth at the entrance with two guards seated inside, and they immediately open the gate after recognising Roniel’s car. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought I was entering a top-secret government facility. Then again, La Finca probably isn’t far off that.

The complex is comprised of several buildings, including a huge steel-framed barn that serves as the main gym as well as a residential area with apartments for the boxers to stay in. I wait outside Roniel’s door whilst he gets changed and spot Lazaro Álvarez in a Warriors jersey walking past with one of the coaches - it’s admittedly a little strange seeing some of the best amateurs in the world strolling around so casually. We head on over shortly after, passing by the weights room and a basketball court where middleweight world champion Yoenlis Hernández is playing 1-on-1 against one of the coaches. A group of boxers are waiting outside the entrance, wrapping their hands in silence, and I immediately recognise one of them as Yosvany Veitía. I tell him I’m a big fan, and he smiles gratefully before Roniel leads me inside.

Until now, I’d probably describe the boxing facilities in Cuba as rough and ready, a ragtag mix of patched-up bags, makeshift rings and worn-out gloves. La Finca, on the other hand, was much more up to date; there were five boxing rings spaced out across the room, as well as a dozen different bags that were all in relatively good condition - I even noticed a couple of speed and reflex bags, which was a first for the trip. Streaks of sunlight crept in through the windows, and above us was a row of floodlights attached to the overhead beams so that the boxers could train in the evening. ‘What do you think, campeón?’ Roniel asks. ‘It’s very good. Much better than any other gym I’ve been to here.’ He nods, and we warm up with a stretch and some shadowboxing. A couple of fighters - Veitía, Hernández and Damian Arce - join us, before Julio César La Cruz walks in alongside a small entourage of coaches. He’s wearing a blue and red Cuban tracksuit, and has a pensive look on his face - I make my way over to introduce myself, but Roniel puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me. ‘La Cruz has his second pro fight next week in Argentina’ he informs me. ‘He won’t be joining us for group training today. It is best not to talk to him’. By the time I look over again, he’s already disappeared into one of the backrooms. It turns out that La Cruz is just as hard to pin down outside of the ring as he is in it.

We start off by hitting the bag, five three-minute rounds, although I’m so engrossed in watching the other boxers that I struggle to concentrate on myself. Unlike the other gyms, the coach pays me no attention; it’s a rare privilege to visit La Finca, and I understand that I’m lucky enough to be training alongside the national team in the first place. Unsurprisingly, the technique on display is virtually flawless, each fighter visualising their opponent and dancing around the bag before peppering it with combinations. Every now and then the coach reminds us of how much time is left, but for the most part he remains silent - everyone knows exactly what to do, because they’ve done it a thousand times before.

After the last round it’s on to shadowboxing in the ring, where the coach has tied a piece of string to each corner in order to form a slip rope. We bob and weave underneath whilst throwing combinations, punctuating each sequence with upper-body movement before circling out. One thing you notice with top boxers is that they don’t feel the need to be doing something all the time; they’re more than happy to spend a few moments or so bouncing on their toes, rather than moving excessively which is what you tend to see with younger fighters who haven’t quite settled into their own skin yet. As soon as the coach blows his whistle, the group heads outside to do five laps of a running track that circles around the perimeter of the compound, about 600m or so in length. I decide to stick with Roniel who’s jogging along at a steady pace, and figure that this part of training shouldn’t be too difficult. But by the time I reach the end of the second lap, I’m struggling. It’s not the distance so much as the heat, which is typically brutal and unforgiving, and there’s little in the way of shade to take sanctuary in. By the time I’m finished, Roniel and the rest of the group are long gone.

Whilst the others head off to the weights room, I go back to the gym with Roniel for sparring. Waiting for us inside is Rolando Acebal - the head coach of the national team - alongside one of his assistants. Having graduated as a trainer in 1978, Acebal was appointed following Cuba’s disastrous performance at the 2008 Beijing Olympics which saw him tasked with returning the island’s boxing programme to its former glory. Since then, he’s masterminded Cuba’s resurgence as a boxing superpower with La Finca once again at the forefront. Acebal is a humble man, serious and dedicated, and has a stern face weathered from years of hard work - he shakes my hand firmly, before speaking to Roniel in Spanish. ‘In the ring’ Acebal motions, and I step through the ropes; the canvas is firm and solid, a welcome change from what I’ve become accustomed to. Some nerves finally kick in as I watch Roniel glove up, the gravity of my opponent suddenly dawning on me, but I quickly think back to my preparation beforehand. Whatever happens, it’s simply because he was the better man and there’s no shame in that.

Things don’t start off too badly. I’ve studied Iglesias for years, and have a clear idea of what I want to do - counter his jab with the outside slip-right hand, mix up my entries and apply pressure to prevent him from getting into a rhythm. This may all sound well and good, but it’s obviously much more difficult putting it into practice against a double Olympic gold-medallist. Roniel soon figures out that I’m trying to land the split-entry right hand, and starts to feint his jab to draw my counter before catching me with a short lead hook. He’s content to sit on the backfoot, picking his shots and letting me expend more energy than I need to, and when I do get close he manoeuvres around me with ease. I decide to double down on the aggression in the second, but it doesn't take long to realise that I’ve made a mistake as Roniel meets me with sharp, accurate uppercuts to the midsection. One thing in particular that I’m struggling with is getting the range down - Roniel is always close enough to hit me, but just out of reach when I throw. His appreciation of distance, positioning and timing really stands out, which is exactly what Cuban boxing is all about - basics done well. By the final round I’m out of gas, out of ideas and out of my depth. There’s nothing on my punches anymore, and I’m losing my shape every time I try to cut the ring off. Roniel senses this and dials in, working the hook off the jab and using it to occupy my guard before firing straight lefts to the body. It’s exhausting stuff trying to keep up with his speed of thought, and when the timer finally sounds I let out a sigh of relief. Acebal, who has been watching closely from ringside, glares at us for a moment before heading towards his office.

‘You did well’ Roniel tells me, although I’m not sure whether he’s being sincere or just polite. ‘I’ve never been in a ring with someone that good’ I admit. It’s true - people talk about levels in boxing, but it’s a different thing entirely when you experience it for yourself. We’re sat in the physio room out back, where Roniel is having treatment on his right shoulder, and a stocky man of about 6’4 has him lay down on the table for a massage. ‘Is it an injury?’ I ask, but Roniel shakes his head dismissively. ‘No problem, campeón, I have had this pain for a long time. I am used to it’. As he relaxes, I gaze out the window and wonder what I could have done differently in sparring. I replay the moments in my mind, kicking myself for sloppy mistakes and missed opportunities, but sometimes you just have to admit you’re well and truly beat. After Roniel is done, we grab some fresh orange juice at the canteen before setting off back to Old Havana. ‘Thank you for this experience, Roniel’ I tell him as we get into the car. ‘Tranquilo, campeón’ he replies. ‘Now put a towel down before you sit in my car. I don’t want it smelling of sweat!’

I’ve always found the whole ‘life-changing experience’ thing very cliché, but there’s no other way to describe my time spent in Cuba. It’s a country that, in the face of perilous circumstances, has remained defiant - none moreso than its people, who are truly what makes the island so special. Perhaps one of my favourite stories from the trip is how, on one night when there was a lengthy blackout, all you could hear was the sound of trumpets in the darkness. And that same spirit is what ultimately defines the Cuban style of boxing, or at least how I understand it; expression, creativity and freedom. A rock-sold technical base provides the fighters with the platform to show their personality, and under the bright lights, they come alive. When I returned home to London the following day, one of the first things I remember was seeing my neighbour over the fence. We waved at each other and made small talk out of courtesy, before heading inside to the comfort of our homes. I thought back to Cuba - its streets lined with people of all ages chatting, singing and dancing - and found myself longing for the sense of community. Even with all my home comforts, nothing felt quite as precious as that. I’d been humbled by what I’d seen, inspired by the people I’d met, and became a better man because of it. And I’d do it all again, although I’m not sure anything could quite match the magic of the first time.

Of course, I couldn’t finish writing this without giving some brief thanks to a few of the people who made my journey so memorable.To Rasel, Charles and Kate, thank you for giving me the opportunity to follow my dream and experience Cuba in all its authenticity. None of this would’ve been possible without you. To Ivelin and Ernesto, thank you for welcoming me into your home and treating me with kindness and warmth - I can’t wait to see you again soon. To all the coaches - Alcalá, Bernal, Ray, Maikel, Radames and Alberto - who taught me so much, I am grateful for your guidance and wish you every success in the future. To Roniel and Emilio, childhood heroes who I can now call my friends - thank you for showing me the beauty of your island, and treating me with open arms. I didn’t appreciate the bruises, mind. And to my group - there’s too many of you to name here, but you know who you are, and I’m so glad that we could share this trip together. I’ll take these memories with me for a lifetime.