The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

Page 85

The aroma of the roast duck and sweet and sour pork ribs prepared by my aunt filled the air, but the conversation at the table was intermittent.

Frankie barely touched his chopsticks, he just kept drinking.

Viktor noticed that his gaze kept drifting towards the red book on the coffee table.

After dinner, Old Joe gestured for Victor and Franky to follow him to his study.

The study was small and piled high with Chinese newspapers and account books.

Old Joe closed the door and suddenly became serious.

"Victor, what are you thinking?"

Old Joe asked directly.

"Because I won the championship, but I didn't get the treatment I deserved. This is unreasonable and unfair. I need a place in the sunlight!"

Victor's answer made Old Joe frown, but luckily Frankie hadn't read many books and couldn't understand it.

Then, Victor looked at Franky and said something surprising: "If you kill Siri, what are your chances of taking control of the Azure Dragon Society?"

The air seemed to freeze.

Franky's face flushed red, and veins bulged on his neck: "Are you fucking crazy?"

He slammed his fist on the bookshelf, sending several books crashing to the floor. "You think this is your boxing match? If word gets out that, Sri will stuff cement into our mouths and then sink us in a cylinder into Lake Michigan!"

"Franky!"

Old Joe shouted, but Franky had already slammed the door and left, causing the calendar on the wall to fall down.

Victor bent down to pick up the calendar and dusted it off.

"Sorry, Uncle. I might have been too direct."

Old Joe looked at him intently, his eyes filled with complex emotions.

"Your father asked me to take care of you before he passed away, but you're an adult now and you have your own ideas, which I can accept. I never thought you would be so extreme!"

He pointed to the copy of "The Art of War" that had fallen from the bookshelf. "Be careful, Victor. The Chicago underworld is much deeper than you think."

When Victor left, Franky's car was already gone.

The night breeze, carrying moisture from Lake Michigan, swept through the streets. Victor pulled up his collar and drove off in Ethan's Ford.

Victor gently pushed open the door; in the darkness, only the striped light of the streetlights shone through the blinds.

A spark lit up in the corner of the living room, followed by a long, drawn-out sound of smoke being exhaled.

Why kill Sri?

“Sri is too obedient, except he listens to the foreigners.”

"Even if I rise to power, I'll still have to listen to the foreigners. Are you going to kill me too?"

"No, the foreigners listen to Franklin, Sray listens to the foreigners, and you listen to Sray, so why can't we just let Franklin speak?"

"You don't have that influence."

"This isn't something that will happen in a year or two."

"There's another issue: Sri has the support of a martial arts school."

"You handle the lower levels, and I'll handle the upper levels."

······

The banquet hosted by Foucault was held at the home of old Jack's friend—Colonel Kiefer, a friend of Foucault.

Victor put on a dark blue suit, his slightly taut shoulders a reminder of the muscle mass he had gained recently—no matter how much he disliked the suit, he had to follow American rules in America.

The lights in Major Kiefer's house were soft, and about twenty people were scattered around.

Victor recognized the coaching staff members—Old Jack was talking to Ethan, while in the corner, a tall, thin, white-haired man sat alone, presumably Frankie Dunn.

"Victor!"

Old Jack beckoned him over, and Ethan was also there: "Come and meet Frankie."

Frankie Dunn stood up, and Victor was surprised to find that he was half a head taller than him.

The coach's hands were as rough as sandpaper, yet his grip was surprisingly precise.

"I've watched your game videos,"

Frankie's voice was deep and hoarse. He desperately needed the position because his daughter had broken off their relationship, and he needed a job; otherwise, he might only be able to set up a boxing gym in his garage.

"You have a very aggressive and imposing fighting style, and your punches are very powerful, but your defense has weaknesses. I can help you with that."

Victor nodded: "I hope you can help me improve."

"If you're willing to learn."

Frankie answered briefly, but a hint of appreciation flashed in his eyes, and he even said in Chinese, "I won't be stingy."

Victor was surprised, while old Jack burst into laughter:

“We were all prisoners of war at the time, and some of us didn’t want to come back. But those who did come back were mistreated in all sorts of ways, so we kept in touch and helped each other.”

Frankie gave a wry smile and stopped talking—because his act of using Chinese to build rapport had made Viktor realize that Viktor was the client.

Halfway through the banquet, a figure appeared—Colonel Kiefer, a cripple who had returned from South Korea with all his might, but lost his right hand while leading a group of mentally challenged people in the Vietnam War.

He walked in leaning on a cane, followed by a well-dressed white man in a suit whom Victor did not recognize.

"Victor Lee!"

Colonel Kiefer's voice was louder than his size: "Congratulations, kid. Chicago needs a champion like this."

Viktor politely shook hands to express his gratitude.

“This is Lowell Hadda, a redneck who went from rancher to broker! A weirdo among a bunch of old fogies in Texas,”

Kiefer turned to the man beside him: “But he retains the Texas character, especially his dislike for lazy niggers… Old Jack, not at all.”

Lowell Hadda looked to be in his early forties, his dark suit was well-tailored, and his gray sideburns added to his air of authority.

His handshake was firm but brief, his gaze direct and focused.

"I've heard so much about you, Victor."

Lowell's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Alexander's punch was a classic; even current professional boxers don't often land one like that."

"Thank you for the compliment···"

“You have a similar build to another boxer under my command, his name is Eric Al…”

Chapter 68 New Coach, Agent, New Approach

Victor didn't understand him.

When Major Kiefer politely vacated the study, Victor noticed a fleeting, enigmatic look in the retired officer's eyes—the look of someone carefully placing a chess piece on a crucial position on a chessboard.

Before the sound of the study door closing had even faded, Lowell Hadda had already cut to the chase with the precision of an anatomist.

When he speaks, his fingers unconsciously make counting motions, as if each argument corresponds to an item on some invisible list.

"WBO is best suited for a fighter of your style."

Lowell took out not ordinary papers from his brown briefcase, but data analysis sheets categorized by color labels.

Viktor glanced at the footer and saw the words "Revision 3.2," indicating that the documents had clearly undergone extensive revision.

"Look at this comparison chart,"

Lowell presented three bar charts to Victor: “The defending champions of the IBF need an average of 9.3 qualifying matches, while the WBO only needs 6.8 – which means at least eight months of saving time for you.”

As Victor's gaze wandered among the data, Lowell suddenly pulled out another document.

It was a collection of newspaper clippings marked in red ink, all about controversial rulings against Asian boxers in recent years.

"Even though America insists on its freedom, is a nation of immigrants, and claims to be a beacon of freedom, we must acknowledge a reality,"

He tapped his index finger heavily on a headline: "Referee's suspension of the match sparks racial controversy." "When you knock out a white fighter, the referee will intervene more quickly; but when you are pinned down by a white fighter, they will give you a 'chance to prove yourself'."

“I was born in Texas, where racial discrimination is much more severe. Because I sympathize with Black people, I don’t even dare to go back to Texas. In a free country, we can all express our opinions freely, so discrimination is also free.”

“Victor, I have to tell you, it’s much harder for you to become the champion than for anyone else. Before you become the champion, you need to make concessions on revenue sharing and appearance fees.”

This sharp assertion seemed to cause the temperature in the study to drop sharply.

Lowell then presented a startling table—he compiled statistics on all Asian boxers' fights over the past fifteen years, marking all rounds with controversial calls in red.

"But I can guarantee fairness in the first three matches; I've already contacted three referees who are willing to maintain impartiality," he said calmly.

"They all owe me favors."

Lowell's actions became even more astonishing when the topic turned to potential rivals.

“We must acknowledge that your identity can create a lot of pressure, and your victories may be questioned, underestimated, or even targeted early on before you encounter authoritative opponents.”

“They already know your style in amateur matches, they will study you and then target you—that’s the best-case scenario, because at least they will still play against you, so we get a share of the ticket revenue and appearance fees.”

"However, many boxers will not fight a strong Chinese boxer. If you lose, you lose everything; if you win, you get nothing. In the next one to two years, you may only be a small boxer."

Lowell's analysis was surprisingly precise; he even prepared specific opponent recommendations for Viktor's first six months of professional play.

"These are just initial ideas,"

Lowell concluded, "Max Black has a good plan,"

Lowell's eyes crinkled when she mentioned the name, "but her timeline is too aggressive."

He pulled up two comparison diagrams: Max's plan resembled a steep mountain peak, while his proposal was like a meticulously designed staircase.

"She suggested playing six games within seven months, but based on your metabolic recovery curve..."

At this moment, Viktor suddenly interrupted:

"Do you know Max?"

Lowell's lips twitched slightly: "University of Tennessee, short course in sports management."

When Victor noticed Lowell talking about it, he saw an unexpected expression for the first time—the kind of look that comes from an elder talking about a difficult junior, a mixture of admiration and headache.

This moment of genuine human emotion is more convincing than any data.