chsdbacks Page 97
Page 97
Alderson tried to control the distance with jabs; his six-foot-five height and eighty-three-inch wingspan should have been a huge advantage—that's what Frankie thought:
That's how it is...
Before Frankie could finish speaking, Tyson dodged with a swift dive and a sway, the movement so fluid it seemed as if it had been rehearsed hundreds of times.
His shoulder and head traced a perfect arc, narrowly avoiding Alderson's probing left jab.
A left hook slammed into Alderson's liver, and the tall white boxer's face turned pale instantly.
Tyson gave him no chance to breathe, unleashing a barrage of punches like a storm.
Right straight, left hook, right uppercut – every punch landed precisely on Alderson's defensive gaps.
"so horrible!"
“Watch closely, Frankie.”
Viktor pointed at the screen, his fingernails tapping crisply against his beer glass. "This is what you call 'height advantage'? Against an attack like this, an overly large body isn't agile; instead, it becomes a huge target."
Frankie frowned, his fingers unconsciously tracing the water droplets on the glass. "But that doesn't make sense. Alderson is almost a foot taller than him, and his wingspan is ten inches longer..."
"Numbers look great on paper,"
Victor interrupted him, his eyes never leaving the television, "But Tyson doesn't need this data. He'll create a new style, and boxing theory will have to be rewritten for him!"
"The champion needs no explanation,"
Old Jack offered a solution: "To target the waist and ribs, Victor, you can change into a larger pair of pants and pull them up a bit, which will reduce the area of impact."
"Furi's method..."
Frankie muttered, "It's utterly shameful!"
Old Jack laughed heartily: "As long as it works!"
On the screen, Alderson staggered backward, barely managing to steady himself against the ropes.
His blond hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead.
Tyson swayed from side to side like a pendulum, searching for the next angle to attack.
His gaze was terrifyingly focused, as if he and his prey were the only people left in the world.
"He's like..."
Frankie whispered, "A beast!"
Victor nodded. "A well-trained beast. Look at his gait, so much better than mine!"
Tyson suddenly charged forward, and Alderson hurriedly raised his fists to defend himself.
But it was a feint—Tyson stopped abruptly two feet from his opponent and then surged forward at an even faster pace.
Alderson's right hook missed, and Tyson had already slipped into the inner circle.
At 1 minute and 38 seconds into the first round, Tyson landed an uppercut through the gap in Alderson's arms and struck him squarely in the chin.
Alderson crashed to the ground like a felled tree, and the entire boxing ring seemed to tremble.
"Perfect timing."
Victor exclaimed softly, "A powerful punch!"
The referee immediately began counting down.
Alderson struggled, finally managing to prop himself up with trembling arms at the 'eight' mark.
His eyes were unfocused, and his knees were visibly trembling.
"He's finished."
Victor finished the last sip of his beer and slammed the glass down on the bar.
The ringing of the bell saved Alderson, allowing him to return to the corner.
But his coaching staff looked somber, and someone was pressing an ice pack on his swollen right cheek.
"They should forfeit the game."
Victor said, gesturing for Old Jack to have another drink.
Frankie shook his head. "Alderson won't give up easily."
At the start of the second round, Alderson became noticeably more cautious, trying to maintain distance with jabs.
But Tyson's head movements were unpredictable; he swayed from side to side like a snake, constantly changing his rhythm.
"How should I deal with him?"
"Hug him, then push him away!"
"What an ugly tactic! But remember to press down on him when you hug him, to tire him out!"
"Great idea, Frankie, you forgot one thing: yell in his ear!"
Viktor covered his forehead—these two men's moves were both dirty and effective, and they both implicitly agreed that Viktor might not be a match for Tyson either.
"He's too agile! We need to continue our hexagonal ball training!"
On screen, Tyson suddenly pretends to dive, but abruptly straightens up just as Alderson is about to react.
"It's now!"
Viktor suddenly slammed his fist on the table.
Tyson delivered a powerful right punch that pierced through Alderson's defenses and struck him squarely in the temple.
Alderson's body stiffened instantly, then he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
This time he didn't move immediately. The referee started counting down. After Alderson stood up, the referee asked him a few questions. Alderson shook his head in front of the camera, and the referee immediately waved his hand to stop the game.
Alderson's team rushed onto the ring, while Tyson had already turned and walked to his corner, his expression as calm as if he had just finished a morning run.
The big screen replayed the knockout moment, showing Tyson's fist entering from an almost impossible angle.
"Less than two rounds!"
Frankie stared in disbelief. "This is insane."
Victor sipped his freshly poured beer, foam clinging to his beard: "Madness? No, it's science. Tyson redefined the physics of heavyweight boxing."
"But how did he do it? Alderson is so much taller than him..."
"look here."
Victor pointed to the slow-motion replay playing on the TV, "Tyson never attacked in a straight line. Every movement of his was an arc, like..."
He drew a semicircle in the air with his hand, "like a planetary orbit. He made it impossible for big boxers to predict his distance and angle."
Frankie nodded thoughtfully, "And his explosive power..."
"It's not just about explosive power,"
Victor interrupted him, “It’s his rhythm. Most boxers have a fixed rhythm pattern, but Tyson improvises like a jazz musician. You never know whether the next note will be fast or slow.”
Chapter 78 Follow-up Reactions: The Victor's Treatment
On television, Tyson is being interviewed, sweat dripping down his bald head.
"I was just executing the game plan,"
His voice was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to his fierce image in the boxing ring. "Thank you to my team, thank God."
"The scariest thing is that he's only twenty-one. God knows where his potential lies."
Viktor looked on with envy and then asked, "Why didn't I get a post-match interview?"
The other spectators outside started discussing the match. Someone imitated Tyson's swaying motion, nearly knocking over a chair. The noise carried in, and Old Jack responded to Victor:
"Because you beat someone to a pulp!"
Frankie stared at the empty screen, as if he could still see that short, stocky figure wreaking havoc in the boxing ring.
"I don't think you need my four hundred dollars."
Frankie finally said, shamelessly stuffing the bills back into his wallet: "You just made two hundred thousand dollars!"
"Don't just look at the numbers next time, Frankie. Sometimes the numbers lie in the boxing ring."
Victor smiled and handed Ethan the roll of a thousand dollars. "Let's find a private bar tonight, call up the guys, and have some fun with the whole team."
Ethan shook his head: "They must have a few girls."
Viktor laughed heartily: "You put one down first, one for each person."
Old Jack interjected, "That kid reminds me of young Ali; he's incredibly fast."
Victor shook his head. "Ali fluttered like a butterfly, Tyson chopped like an axe. Completely different styles, but equally deadly."
Frankie raised his glass. "A toast to Tyson, the man who redefined heavyweight boxing."
Viktor clinked glasses with his, "To fighting!"
As Victor and his team walked out and returned to the hotel, everyone's conversation remained about the battle that had ended in less than two rounds.
However, some people described Viktor's cruelty and ruthlessness, as well as the unparalleled power displayed in that attack, which Viktor found very gratifying.
·······
On the morning of July 12, 1985, sunlight streamed into Viktor's room through the window as usual, but this day was destined to be different from any other.
Before the alarm clock on the bedside table rang, the phone shattered the morning's tranquility.
"Victor, f*** f***! Look at today's newspaper!"
Agent Lowell's voice boomed from the receiver, and Victor frowned and moved the microphone further away.
"Hada, my dear friend, you should be looking for my next opponent right now... instead of calling me and disturbing my sweet dreams. You know, I only have two mornings off from training after a boxing match, and those are precious."
"Fuck! Sleep? You're too old to sleep?"
"You'd better have a good reason!"
"Go read the newspaper, and don't say a word until I get there."
After hanging up the phone, Victor called the front desk to bring him a newspaper, five eggs, two pounds of steak, and a large glass of wine for breakfast.