Hi. My name is Mac Hartey, otherwise known as Little Mac, and I'm one of the best boxers in the WVBA world circuit.

Man, I can't belive we're actually doing this. I thought I'd end up being ignored just cause I'm kinda short, just like the old days…

Aw. Who I'm kidding? I'm too good to be ignored. Come on, first question.

What's the secret to my success? Man, that's what everyone's asking me! You guys keep asking that question like I've got some kind of super power or magic potion tucked away somewhere. Well, seeing as this is my first interview, I'll be nice and tell ya. And all you other boxers out there should listen up too, cause this is important. We're talking life changing here. The secret to winning at boxing is… Don't suck at boxing.

Nah, I'm joking! I'm no jerk. Okay, the truth is, I'm just good at tactics. It's all tactics. I just look at my opponent, look for the openings and then… wham. I give them a mac-flurry, so to speak. I mean, these guy's punches leave themselves open so often, it's like they suddenly forget the meaning of defence. I always keep up my defence. Switched on, 24/7. If I see you arm move, I'm dodging, and you better keep your eyes open, or I'll be all over you before you even finish winking. You'll go from facing the mac to facing the mat in a split second.

And of course, I gotta give thanks to my friends, my family, my girl- you keep yourself safe, Mackenzie, and I'll keep myself untouched!- for giving me all the support. But the big thanks has gotta go to Doc. Doc, you belived in me even though I wasn't exactly the toughest looking guy in the world and 200 other trainers said I had no chance. And for that, you'll always be my right hand man. You're still my hero.

How'd I meet Doc? Man, now that's a story for the ages. Like I said, I was moping around in the Bronx after being rejected by some stuck-up trainer again. It was always the same three excuses- "You're too small, your punches aren't strong enough, and you can't take a beating." The three bullshits, I call them. So, anyway, I'm just kicking cans around, feeling crappy about myself when I see this black guy arguing with one of the local hard guys on the street corner, says he wants the hard guy to stop hanging around his house. The black guy is obviously new around here. Things are getting nasty, so I try to get there before the shit hits the fan. But the hard guys must have had a attack of the munchies, cause then he grabs the black guy's choclate, and the black guy grabs him and wrestles it back. This being the Bronx, where fights can break out over dimes, next thing you know the black guy's getting nailed. So I run in, punch the hard guy in the face, he staggers back and tells me to "fuck off, you bloody midget."

And you NEVER call me a midget. No one does.

So after I make the hard guy take back his death wish, black guy's up, slapping me on the back, munching his chocolate, and he starts reminiscing, says I remind him of the days when he was in the ring, when "boxing was fighting, backed by technique." And then he goes on about his caeer, but I was still kinda pissed over that trainer rejecting me, and I'm like, screw this, I've got better things than listen to crazy old guys, and black guy says "You know who I am?" and I go "erm, fat Albert?" and he goes "I'm Doc Louis, fool!"

I admit that was the low point of my entire life. I've had grade F's that made me feel more intelligent than I did that very moment. The sky fell on my head right there. Doc Louis used to be a big boxing legend, and I had just insulted him. Yeah, real smooth for a boxing fanatic.

I'm telling ya, I practically begged for forgiveness back then. And I think the choclae must have gone to his head, cause he just took one look at me and he says "It's okay. I forget I'm not as famous as I used to be." And then he invites me into his house.

So there I am, almost drooling over trophies, boxing gloves, old photos of even older matches, and Doc asks me if I like boxing. Well, duh. He tells me he thinks I could really clean up in the WVBA. I tell him I'd love too, but I don't have a trainer cause they all think I'm too small and weak. Talk about throwing petrol onto the fire. Doc exploded with rage- he ranted and raved about how the WVBA had been corrupted by commercialism, how it's more about intimation than skill these days, and how they'll even allow cheating to go unnoticed if it brings bigger crowds.

I try to calm him down, but he keeps going on, and he's yelling he'd sort them all out if he hadn't had to retire due to back problems, and how he'd help anyone, just anyone, if they would just give him just one more chance to set the WVBA straight.

I don't know how I managed to say it, but I said: "Doc… would you teach me?"

He stared at me like I just offered to sell him the holy grail, then he grabs me by the shoulders and asks me if I've got what it takes to be the best. I tell him I AM the best. He smiles, slaps me on the shoulder and asks me my name. I tell him it's Mac. He looks me in the eye, smiles even more and says: "Congratulations, Mac baby. The best fighter just got the best trainer. You, Mac, are gonna make history! When they talk about boxing, they'll talk about Little Mac, the best boxer in the whole damm business!"

I swear my brain must have shut down at that point, because I couldn't remember anything else that happened that day. Heck, the next thing I can remember was complaining about how Doc's gym smelt, which was powerful enough to make me reliase that this was no dream.

Now you can say what you like about Doc. He might give some weird advice, and he might like choclate bars a little too much. And his decision to advertise the Nintendo fan club – no, wait. It's club Nintendo now, isn't it? – still annoys me. But when he's in the gym, ready to start training, he gets serious, big time. He really pulls out all the stops- there's hardly a exercise we don't use. We don't do any of that flexing stuff Super Macho Man does, though. It's just pure hard work.

Oh, that bike rumour? Oh yeah, I heard about that! No, Doc didn't try to steal my bike. What happened was Doc was trying to make me go jogging in a pink jumpsuit "to encourage me to run faster." But I'm telling Doc that I don't care how fast it makes me run or how many times Rocky wears it, I ain't wearing pink. So he grabs my bike and says if I don't get running, my bike's going to the pawnshop! I chased him all over New York, until I realised he wasn't even heading towards the pawnshop. Man, those were some fun times… we still go running around New York, and I still have to wear the pink stuff. But Doc would like to make it clear he does not steal bikes! He gets a little cranky over that joke, actually. But he does like riding bikes… thought why he doesn't get one of his own confuses me.