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Victor sat in his hotel room with no fewer than ten sports newspapers from across Britain and the United States spread out in front of him.
The New York Post's headline read: "Giants and Money Bags: An Unequal Farce?"
A columnist for The Daily Mirror wrote: "Li's courage is commendable, but courage cannot compensate for a 29-centimeter height difference and an 86-pound weight disadvantage."
Note: The original text states Viktor weighs 400 pounds and Valuyev 330 pounds. This is likely a typo by the journalist or a difference in calculation method, but Viktor is generally considered heavy and inflexible. Valuyev's jabs would pin him to the ropes like spears.
A senior commentator for The Ring magazine analyzed: "Viktor Lee has no advantage except for his weight. His movements will appear like slow-motion replays against Valuev. We predict the fight will end in a knockout within six rounds, with the defending champion winning."
Each report was like a needle, probing Viktor's nerves.
Frankie and old Jack watched him with concern, worried that these negative comments might affect his mindset.
However, Viktor's expression gradually shifted from initial tension to a strange calm, even a hint of a cold smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. He tossed the newspaper aside.
"They're all talking about my weight, my height,"
Viktor told the two coaches with unusual calm, “But they forgot that my punches are just as heavy. They only saw Valuyev’s long arms, but not his stiffness; they only saw his power, but not his slowness in turning. They treat me like a joke? Fine, I like being a joke.”
His inner monologue was far more intense than his spoken words: "Laugh, laugh all you want! All you see are numbers, just a huge body."
You can't see the tons of sweat I shed in the gym every day, you can't see the heavy blows I've endured, and you can't see the burning flame within me that wants to prove everything.
Valuyev? He's just a name, a stepping stone on my path to the summit. Your contempt is my best fuel.
The external negativity did not destroy his confidence; instead, it acted like a solid wall, reflecting all his fighting spirit and focus back and solidifying into an even stronger determination.
He treasured these newspapers—they were the best evidence to refute his own claims after the victory.
Chapter 135 Training and Holyfield
The atmosphere at the training camp became unusually serious, as if ice crystals had frozen in the air.
The sounds of equipment clashing, boxers panting, and coaches occasionally yelling have all disappeared, replaced by a repressive, focused silence.
All the attention was focused on that small video recording room.
Frankie and old Jack locked themselves inside, almost completely isolated from the world.
The blinds were tightly shut, blocking out the Chicago winds; only the projector beam cut through the dim air, swirling with dust.
On the screen, the figure of Russian giant Valuyev moves, punches, and defends time and time again. His massive body is like a moving iceberg, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.
The videotape hissed and played back repeatedly those bloody and brutal knockout moments.
"Look here,"
Old Jack's voice was hoarse and dry, and the pointer in his hand was as precise as a scalpel, pointing precisely at the frozen point in the frame.
On screen, Valuyev's powerful punch just missed, leaving a blurry afterimage.
"He is very tall, with a high center of gravity. After throwing a heavy punch, he habitually takes a small step back to the right, and his lower body becomes slightly unstable at this time. It only lasts for a fraction of a second, but it does happen."
Frankie crossed his arms, his brow furrowed, his eyes sharp enough to pierce through the screen.
"And his combination punches,"
He added, leaning forward almost to the projection screen, “After the left hook followed by the right straight punch, there is a very short pause, almost imperceptible. This is a lingering issue from his old shoulder injury; although subtle, it is indeed an opening. We need someone with extremely fast reaction speed to exploit it.”
“Victor has enough explosiveness, but he must cut into the inside.”
Old Jack concluded, tapping his palm with his pointer with a dull thud, "We must devise a tactic to circumvent his long-arm control, like salmon swimming upstream, getting close at all costs."
Use heavy body strikes as your primary weapon, relentlessly attacking his liver and ribs to disrupt the giant's stamina and rhythm. Be patient; we must endure the inevitable jabs and blows in the early stages, and finally, in the mid-game, when he feels fatigued and in pain, look for an opportunity to attack his chin.
A tactic specifically designed to target the "Siberian bear" gradually took shape in the small room filled with the smell of smoke and caffeine.
This tactic is brutal and difficult, with every step carrying enormous risks.
It requires the executor to have superhuman willpower, an iron body, and a fearless heart.
When the tactics were explained in detail to Victor, he knew that Old Jack and Frankie's analysis was correct.
"You expect me to just take his jab and keep going?"
Viktor asked himself silently, feeling a chill on his fingertips.
Valuyev's jabs were not mosquito bites, but battering ram blows, enough to tear brow bones, shatter noses, and blur vision.
"Getting close at all costs" means that in the process of getting close, he will become a huge, moving target and suffer unimaginable damage.
The fear is real.
But then, another emotion surged up from the deepest part of his heart—an intense longing.
The desire for victory, the desire to prove oneself, the desire to touch that gold belt.
He recalled the hardships he had endured, the countless training sessions, the blood and sweat he had shed, and the people who supported and believed in him.
If we back down here, all our previous efforts will have been in vain.
I will do it!
The training that followed turned into a hellish ordeal.
All the lessons revolved around the new tactics.
Wearing a weighted vest, Victor practiced moving forward in the deep sand while dodging Frankie's simulated jab attacks made of pads tied to long poles.
He underwent countless abdominal punching drills, with Old Jack repeatedly striking his ribs and liver area with a huge punching pad until he felt his internal organs vibrate and almost vomited.
They practiced repeatedly the combination punches after cutting into the inner circle, especially the swift and deadly body strikes, requiring each punch to concentrate the power of the whole body, like a hammer smashing into the weak points of the imaginary enemy.
Every training session made pain a constant, and exhaustion seeped into my bones.
But Viktor did not waver.
That quiet determination sustained him.
He even began to simulate the battle with the giant in his mind, imagining the pain, the gasps of the audience, and himself approaching step by step, finally throwing the decisive punch.
Psychologically, he is experiencing that fierce battle in advance to desensitize himself to the pain and fear response, and to transform tactical actions into muscle memory and instinct.
······
On November 18, 1986, after Viktor arrived in London, the rainy weather did not affect the Viktor team's preparations.
Victor and his team stayed in a well-equipped hotel in the city center, though not luxurious.
The air in the makeshift training area, converted from a gym, was thick with the smells of sweat and leather.
Each of Victor's punches whistled through the air, and the heavy sandbag shook violently under his relentless barrage of blows.
His coach, Frankie, crossed his arms, his eyes sharp as an eagle, and occasionally issued brief instructions:
"A combination punch, quick!"
In the corner, the experienced old Jack adjusted his protective gear while glancing at the weather forecast, his brow furrowed—this damn weather showed no signs of clearing up.
Preparations for the match against "Eastern Giant" Nikolai Valuyev are proceeding as planned, but an invisible pressure, like the gloomy rain of London, hangs over everyone's hearts.
Valuyev's inhuman size and terrifying arm span cast a massive shadow that could suffocate any challenger, even from thousands of kilometers away.
Victor's strength is beyond doubt, and his will has been proven in countless tough battles, but this time, the opponent is unprecedented—Evander Holyfield lost the game.
During a training break, Viktor wiped his face, which was wet with a mixture of sweat and rain, with a towel, and looked out at the gray sky.
He suddenly spoke, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable determination: "Frankie, old Jack, I need to see someone."
Frankie turned his head: "London isn't exactly safe. Chicago is a pretty good city compared to London."
“Hollyfield. He’s also in London preparing for the game.”
Victor said, "I'll bring a gun."
The training hall fell silent instantly, with only the faint sound of traffic from the distant streets remaining.
Frankie and old Jack exchanged a glance, both seeing the surprise in each other's eyes.
To take the initiative to visit a world-renowned boxing champion who is preparing for a fight?
This is almost unprecedented. Boxers are usually kept in seclusion before a fight to avoid any unnecessary interference.
“Victor, is this appropriate? Will Holyfield meet with us? Besides, we are also very busy.”
Old Jack cautiously raised his questions.
“Because he is also preparing for a fight, his mind is completely on the boxing ring. I need his wisdom, especially his wisdom in dealing with tall opponents.”
Viktor's eyes were unusually firm. "I remember he defeated Borg and fought Riddick Borg. He knows how to deal with giants. As for whether I can see him... Lowell helped me make the contact."
Frankie pondered for a moment, then nodded: "He's right, old Jack. Holyfield's inside fighting and movement techniques are the core of our tactics. Getting his firsthand guidance would be invaluable."
The rain subsided slightly the following afternoon, but the sky remained overcast.
Accompanied by Frankie, Victor arrived at a secluded training base in East London.
The area is heavily guarded and filled with an atmosphere of professionalism and focus.
Unlike Victor's training ground, which was filled with raw power, the pace here was faster and focused more on skill and strategy.
They were led to a lounge.
Soon, the door was pushed open, and Evander Holyfield walked in.
He looked even more lean and muscular than he did on TV, with bright and focused eyes. Although he was in the midst of intense preparations, he wore a gentle and sincere smile.
He was wearing a simple tracksuit with a towel draped around his neck, clearly having just finished training.
“Victor? Welcome to London.”
Holyfield extended his hand, his handshake firm and steady. "I heard you're also preparing for a major battle."
“Mr. Holyfield, thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule. It means a lot to me.”
Viktor's tone was respectful, neither humble nor arrogant.
"Just call me Ivand."
Holyfield gestured for them to sit down. "I've watched the video of your match against 'Little Fat' Raman, Victor."
He got straight to the point, his tone full of admiration, "Your strength is incredible, truly, like a bull that can break through anything. That match was truly impressive."
Viktor was thrilled to hear the legendary boxer's assessment, but he quickly steered the conversation back on track: "Thank you, Ivand. But I'm not facing a buffalo now, I'm facing a moving 'tower'—Nikolai Valuyev."
Holyfield's expression turned serious. He nodded, leaning forward slightly, showing great interest: "Yes, Valuyev. A true giant. I understand how you feel; though it's painful, I lost the game."