area51novel Page 32
Page 32
Outside the office's glass window, several young boxers stopped training and peeked inside.
Viktor knew what they were thinking—yet another lucky one chosen by Foucault.
But luck has never been his thing. A descendant of Chinese laborers and an orphan of dockworkers, everything he has now is the result of his own hard work.
"The regional competition is in April, and the national competition is in May."
Old Jack counted on his bony fingers, "If you can make it to the finals, you can enter the world of professional boxers!"
"I will."
Viktor interrupted him, his eyes fixed on the yellowed newspaper in Foucault's office—a photograph of the 1946 Golden Gloves National Champion.
In the photo, a young Foucault holds up his gold belt, his smile dazzlingly bright.
Foucault followed his gaze, a slight smile playing on his lips: "Let's get through the qualifiers first; the Chicago region is no easy opponent."
He opened a drawer, took out a key, and tossed it to Viktor. "The vehicles you wanted, the training plan you wanted, and the trainers—Old Jack, I'll give you everything. I want to see a Far Eastern Tiger appear before me in six months!"
That evening, when Victor returned to his small apartment on the edge of the South Side, Jason and Michael had been waiting at the door for some time.
Michael was waving a bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand, while Jason was excitedly waving a crumpled piece of paper.
"Look what we've got!"
Jason slapped the note on Victor's chest. "Next match you're up against that Canadian lumberjack, odds 1.3 to 1!"
Viktor frowned and unfolded the note—"Viktor Far East Fat Tiger Lee vs. Jean-Claude Baudouin."
He scoffed. The Quebecer had just sent one of his rivals to the hospital last week; the 240-pound man was all muscle.
"You're betting on me again?"
Victor pulled out his key and opened the door. The small space inside was piled high with boxing magazines and training equipment. "Place a bet on me too!"
Michael followed him in and skillfully pulled out three cups from the cabinet: "Victor, since you discovered that 'kidney shot tactic,' we've made more money than you did in three months at the steel mill."
Victor took off his jacket, revealing a tattoo on the upper edge of his vest—a crimson tiger.
He moved his shoulders, and a dull pain shot through his left scapula—a mark left by the Irish.
“Amateur matches are different from professional boxing matches,”
He poured out whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass. "Amateur boxers all wear protective gear, so even if you get hit in the head, it doesn't matter much. The referee will stop the game all the time."
Jason grinned, revealing a missing front tooth: "That's why nobody's protecting your liver from being hit! They're all protecting their pretty faces."
Victor sipped the cheap alcohol, his throat burning.
He remembered the fit boxer from the prestigious university, wearing shiny red protective gear, like a proud rooster.
The boy didn't understand what was happening until Victor's right hook went through the gap in the rib guard and hit his liver.
He knelt on the ground, retching, looking just like a stranded fish.
"What did Foucault say?"
Michael asked, "Regarding whether you can directly fight in amateur boxing matches?"
Victor shrugged and put the money he had been given into the pockets inside his jacket, like plates of armor—only Franklin could stop a bullet in free America.
“Our ‘business’ may have to stop for a while because he arranged six months of intensive training for me!”
Jason felt no fear of not being able to bet or make money; he was only excited!
"Looks like Foucault's Boxing Gym is really grooming you to be their star player! Victor! You're going to be rich!"
Victor downed the liquor in one gulp, then took out three steaks and put them in a pot with potatoes to cook.
"I don't know what the future holds. With my weight, I'll either dominate the world before my bones and tendons break, or I'll just fade into obscurity. But I still want to take a gamble!"
Michael raised his head: "Victor, we will support you. Old Joe sent the two of us to follow you because he wanted you to lead us out of the South, because Boss Franky has failed and he is destined to die in the South at some point in the future."
Jason told Victor, "We two brothers have a plan, and Joe approves of it. I will study boxing tactics and analysis, and Michael will study nutrition and massage therapy. Joe will give us basic living expenses, and we can help you in six months!"
Victor raised his glass: "Thank you!"
······
Three days later, in the basement of an abandoned warehouse in the South District, the stench of sweat and blood mingled with the screams of the crowd.
Victor stood in a corner of the makeshift boxing ring, listening to old Jack's instructions—after the contract was signed, Foucault Boxing Gym would send old Jack as a coach, and someone would conduct a physical examination.
"That Canadian has a powerful left hook, but his defense has weaknesses."
Old Jack stuffed a mouthguard into Victor's mouth. "Your tactic is offense! Use all your energy to overwhelm him in the first two rounds when he's at his peak! Otherwise, he'll wear you down with points!"
Victor nodded, his gaze passing through the rope loop to the other side.
Jean-Claude Baudouin was pounding his chest like a grizzly bear as his coach applied Vaseline to his hairy belly.
Victor noticed that the Canadian's rib brace was larger than the standard size—apparently someone had pointed this out to him.
The first round was a tentative "dance".
Unlike usual, Viktor drew the character '王' (king) on his chest this time, and then pressed forward with a swift stride that seemed disproportionate to his size.
Claude's blue eyes beneath his blond hair were as calm as an icy lake, and his jabs flew out like a viper's tongue, precisely controlled beyond Viktor's reach.
Each jab was as precise as if measured with a ruler, striking Victor's outstretched glove with a crisp 'snap'.
"Don't let him pin you down! Move!"
Old Jack roared from the sidelines, his voice drowned out by the cheers of the crowd.
Viktor suddenly lunged forward, throwing a left hook that arced through the air and struck Claude's ribs.
The Canadian gracefully stepped back half a step, while a left hook grazed Victor's temple.
The hood absorbed most of the impact, but Victor's right ear still buzzed as if someone were ringing a church bell next to his ear.
A moment of tinnitus blurred the world, and he instinctively tightened his fists, feeling two more jabs pierce his forearms like needles.
Sweat trickled down Viktor's brow bone and into his eyes, the stinging sensation making him blink.
In that instant, Crowder's right straight punch pierced through his defense and slammed into his face.
Viktor tasted blood, unsure whether it was from a cut lip or a bleeding nose.
He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, leaving a dark red flower on the canvas floor.
"Attack!! Don't let him pin you down!"
Old Jack's voice suddenly became clear, cutting through the fog in Victor's ears like a knife.
Viktor suddenly dived down, his thick waist and legs unleashing astonishing power, and a body strike hit Claude's right side like a battering ram.
The Canadian grunted and immediately used his elbow to block the next attack.
Viktor wanted to give chase, but Claude had already regained distance, a hint of wariness flashing in his blue eyes.
They were indeed prepared.
The bell signaling the end of the round saved Viktor—Claude had just found his rhythm when a flurry of jabs was unleashed like a sharp blade.
He slumped onto a stool in the corner, panting heavily, his sweat glistening like oil under the spotlight.
His 361-pound weight had become a huge burden, and every breath felt like pulling a broken bellows.
"Use explosive power! Force him into a corner! He's protecting his right liver!"
Old Jack splashed water on Viktor's face while pressing an ice pack against the back of his neck. "But there's no protection on his left spleen area. See? Every time you feint to attack his right, his left elbow rises."
Viktor wiped his face with a towel and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva: "I can tell."
"In the second round, pretend to attack his right side first, then change direction and attack his lower left rib."
Old Jack pried open Viktor's boxing gloves and stuffed more gauze inside. "One punch is enough. As long as it lands, his movements will slow down."
The bell rang again.
As Victor stood up, his knee cracked—his malnourished bones needed more nutrition!
He stared at Claude across from him and noticed that the Canadian's gaze kept sweeping towards his right side—sure enough, old Jack's eyes were still as sharp as ever.
Thirty seconds into the second round, Viktor made a noticeable right shoulder drop, and Claude immediately raised his right elbow to defend his liver area.
In that instant, Victor's right hook, like a venomous snake, slipped through the gap in the Canadian's raised elbow and struck precisely below his left ribs.
Viktor knew that feeling all too well—the moment his fist sank into soft tissue, his opponent's body would stiffen for a second.
Like a hunter thrusting a spear into a bison's heart, the tremor of life suddenly halting travels up the fist back to the brain.
Claude's face turned pale instantly, and his lips twisted into a painful shape.
He instinctively bent over to protect his abdomen, his arms outstretched like the suffering Christ.
Victor gave him no chance to recover, delivering an uppercut from below, passing through his outstretched arms, and slamming it heavily into his chin.
The mouthguard flew out, spraying blood and foam, tracing a pink arc under the spotlight.
Claude collapsed to the ground like a felled oak tree, his blond hair spreading across the canvas like a withered sunflower.
The referee immediately stepped between the two and began counting.
Viktor retreated to a neutral corner, his chest heaving violently.
He saw that Claude's eyes were unfocused, and his hands were groping aimlessly on the canvas for his mouthguard, like a blind man searching for a lost key.
When the count reached eight, the Canadian managed to prop himself up on his knees, but then fell back down.
"····ninety!"
The referee grabbed Victor's wrist and raised it high.
The crowd erupted in deafening cheers and curses—many people had bet on Claude to win.
Viktor looked down at his opponent, who was still kneeling on the boxing ring. Claude's blue eyes finally refocused, and a hint of resentment flashed across his face when they met, which then turned into a helpless admission.
Victor reached out and helped the Canadian up.
Claude mumbled that his chin was swollen as if he had an egg in his mouth.
Viktor nodded, without offering any of the usual victor's pleasantries.
He knew how much luck was involved in that punch.
Jason jumped up on the sidelines, waving his betting slip, shouting, "I knew it! I knew it!"