chsdbacks Page 73
Page 73
"So if you want to terminate your agreement with Foucault Gym, you'll need to pay a hefty penalty. I've been looking at the contract; it seems to be $70,000."
Michael stated a sobering truth: "And because of what happened with that bastard Wilson, your savings are now down to..."
"Twenty-seven thousand US dollars!"
Viktor even learned to answer quickly: "I can't afford the penalty for breach of contract."
"So you can only have Foucault Gym as your promoter, but you seem to have some autonomy over your agent and coach."
Ethan offered the best advice: "If possible, we recommend agents and coaches. Nobody says you only have two coaches."
"good idea!"
Viktor agreed but then suddenly changed his mind: "Let me think about it some more. Never mind, let's go to sleep!"
The two of them smoked a cigarette.
Before he had even finished his cigarette, Viktor sat up straight: "Who brought the anthology? Let me see it."
Chapter 60 Eight into Four: A Night Visit
On March 20, 1985, the sky over Colorado Springs was overcast, but Colorado Springs came alive:
Long queues formed outside the Olympia Training Center.
The quarterfinals of the U.S. Golden Gloves Boxing Championship are about to be held here, and the air is thick with a tense yet exciting atmosphere.
Victor Lee was doing his final warm-up in the locker room.
His muscles gleamed under the lights, and his 371-pound weight imbued every movement with a heavy sense of power.
Gone is the bulky Victor of the past; now he's all over, practically muscular, and in Mads Mikkelsen's hands, he'd fetch at least a thousand dollars a pound.
At 185 cm tall, Viktor's height is not outstanding among Gold Gloves heavyweight fighters, but his 55 cm shoulder width and thick neck that makes his head look small are intimidating. Viktor, who hangs 35 kg on his head every day to do head-raising exercises, is very serious about training his neck.
"The first match is over. Garcia and the Washington champion fought for eleven minutes, and all five linesmen unanimously ruled in favor of Garcia. His footwork is too agile; he will be a tough opponent."
Agent Max Black pushed open the door and came in, holding a video camera: "He'll be a formidable opponent. I've left the tape here."
Victor nodded and continued jogging around the locker room to keep his heart rate steady.
His short black hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to his forehead.
Max approached and lowered his voice: "I just saw that champion from California. He's 190cm tall, has a 199cm wingspan, and weighs 235 pounds. He's a purebred white guy, and seems very well-mannered. He was actually praising your performance in the last game in the hallway just now."
Victor stopped and raised an eyebrow: "What did he praise me for?"
"They said your left hook was 'as powerful as a locomotive'."
Max shrugged. "I don't know if it's genuine or just psychological warfare."
The locker room door was pushed open again, and Coach Jack walked in. His white hair was neatly combed, and the wrinkles on his face were so deep that they looked as if they had been carved with a knife.
"Victor, it's time to go in. Remember our tactics: focus on dodging and wearing him down, then unleash your full power in the third round."
Victor didn't answer, but simply put on his mouthguard and took the boxing gloves Max handed him.
The gloves were bright red, and under the light they looked like two burning flames.
The lights in the corridor were brighter than in the locker room, and Viktor squinted.
Cheers from the audience could be heard in the distance; the winner of the first match was leaving the field.
As he drew closer to the ring, Victor could feel his heart racing, his adrenaline surging, his mind clearing, his warrior genes activating, and the sound of his blood coursing through his veins almost drowning out everything else.
"Next up is—Victor Lee from Chicago!"
The host's voice came through the loudspeaker: "His punches were as impenetrable as a Chicago typewriter!"
As Victor walked into the passageway, a chorus of boos erupted.
It was louder and harsher than the last one—clearly a result of Victor's tirade against them after the last match.
He walked through the rope circle expressionlessly, stood in a corner of the ring, and glanced at the audience.
Most faces wore contempt, and some even made throat-slitting gestures.
"At least the referee was changed,"
Max whispered in his ear, "It's not that bastard from the first round anymore."
Viktor nodded and looked across at the other side.
The California champion was already standing in his corner, his blond hair almost shining under the lights, a confident smile on his face.
Indeed, as Max said, the white man had a clear physical advantage—he was taller, and although he was much lighter, his muscles were more defined.
However, Viktor did not see this as an advantage.
The referee called the two men to the center of the ring and briefly repeated the rules.
The California champion extended his hand: "I'm looking forward to playing against you, Lee. I watched your last match, it was great."
Viktor hesitated for a second, his anger seemingly subsiding, but still shook the hand: "You too."
At the start of the first round, Viktor followed Old Jack's tactics and probed with jabs.
The California champion has a classic stance, with just the right distance between his feet and a stable center of gravity.
A typical old-school European style of play – emphasizing defense and technique, pursuing precision rather than power.
Thirty seconds later, Viktor had figured out his opponent's rhythm.
The California champion's jabs are accurate, but lack variety.
His defense was tight, but his movement was slightly slow.
Most importantly, he always makes a small but noticeable retraction motion after each punch – what traditional coaches emphasize as 'returning to a defensive stance'.
Victor's blood began to boil, his adrenaline surged—and the steel kidneys accumulated even more adrenaline.
Old Jack's voice echoed in my mind: "Don't engage him head-on, wear him down, and then in the third round..."
But another, more primal voice drowned out the coach's instructions:
The clear-headed Victor thought it was a good idea!
After the California champion landed another jab, Victor suddenly changed his rhythm, dodging the opponent's left hook with a right dodge, and then dodging the right straight punch with a left dodge.
A gasp rippled through the audience—such agility was surprising for someone of Victor's size.
Victor didn't stop. He rushed to the center line, abandoned all defense, and pounded the California champion with both fists like a storm.
The opponent clearly did not expect such a brutal tactic and hastily raised his arms to block.
Victor's right straight punch went through the defense and hit the California champion right in the eyebrow.
Almost simultaneously, his opponent's left hook also struck Victor in the same spot.
The shock surged through Victor's nerves like an electric current, his brain seemed to be churning, but he merely shook his thick neck, while the California champion clearly staggered, with what appeared to be a cracking sound.
The audience erupted in gasps and applause.
Victor gave his opponent no chance to breathe, stepping forward and unleashing a heavy right hook that blasted through the California champion's defense, followed by a left hook that struck his opponent's waist.
The California champion bent over in pain, and Victor twisted his waist and kicked out with an uppercut that roared from below.
The punch grazed the California champion's forehead; it didn't hit him completely, but it was enough.
The tall white wrestler fell backward like a felled tree, crashing heavily onto the ring before he could even react.
"...five, six, seven..."
The referee squatted down beside them and counted down the seconds.
The California champion struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, but collapsed again when he counted to eight.
"···ninety····"
The referee waved to stop the game.
KO at 2 minutes and 40 seconds of the first round.
The entire stadium erupted in cheers.
Those who had been booing Victor just moments before now stood up, their cheers nearly lifting the roof off. Victor didn't rant at the crowd like he had in the last fight; he simply walked calmly around the ring, nodding to the spectators in each direction, before stepping off the ring through the ropes.
Staff quickly went up to clean up, and Viktor could hear the excited voice of the commentator behind him in the aisle:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have just witnessed what a 'one-hit kill' truly means! This is human courage, the immense bravery of firing at each other with eyes wide open and in formation! Victor Lee has shown us with primal power that boxing is ultimately a game for the brave!"
In the locker room, Michael was applying an ice pack to the wound on his eyebrow.
"It will swell up, but the bones will be fine."
Michael expertly assessed the situation, saying, "I recommend adding an anti-dizziness training program to make you feel a little better after being hit in the head."
Old Jack paced back and forth in the room, his face as gloomy as the weather outside.
"You didn't follow the tactics at all!"
He suddenly stopped, pointed at Viktor, and said, "How many times have I told you, against a technical fighter like this, you have to use evasion to wear him down! The third round is when you can unleash your full power!"
Victor sat silently as Michael tended to his wounds.
Old Jack's voice continued to bombard: "Do you know what you're wasting? Your stamina! Accuracy, power, dodging—it's all related to stamina! Professional boxing isn't a street brawl. If you keep fighting like this, your professional career won't last five years!"
Max tried to smooth things over: "Jack, he won, and he won beautifully..."
Old Jack sneered, "That's like a beast! You think Tyson fought well, but Tyson didn't get hit in the head! Your dodging is terrible!"
Victor finally looked up and saw the furious coach behind him through the mirror.
Old Jack trained three professional boxers, and his traditional training methods are highly respected in the amateur boxing world.
But at this moment, the idea that had been growing in Viktor's mind for months resurfaced:
Old Jack can no longer be his only coach.
It's not because he's not good enough, but because Viktor needs more than just tradition.
American boxing, which developed from the old-school European style, emphasizes technique, rhythm, and defense, but it suppressed the wildness and power in Viktor's bones.
Today's game proved one thing—what kind of energy he can unleash when he listens to his instincts rather than tactics.
"I need to take a shower."