allendalepharm Page 8
Page 8
He put on his boxing gloves and began testing Viktor's reaction with quick but light punches.
"Stop! Don't close your eyes! Damn it, newbie, closing your eyes is surrendering!"
"A fist is coming! Don't close your eyes, take the hit with your arm or another solid part of your body, and watch for the next punch!"
"Idiot! If you don't have the courage to exchange fire, what are you doing boxing?"
"Look closely, when the opponent attacks, it's at close range. You only have this one method: smash them with your fists! Under the ribs, in the abdomen, in the chin—trust me, they'll feel the pain!"
By the third day, Viktor's body had reached its limit.
His muscle soreness had reached an unprecedented level, and every breath sent sharp pains through his ribs.
But a strange change was happening—his movements began to become fluid, and his body seemed to be memorizing these unfamiliar movement patterns.
Master Zhao seemed to have noticed this change.
He didn't praise her, but the training intensity was increased again.
That day, he began teaching combination punches and counter-attack techniques.
"Left straight punch followed by right hook, then quickly return to defense,"
Master Zhao demonstrated the moves, his body, though over sixty years old, was still as agile as a leopard. "Attack is the best defense, but reckless attack is suicide, especially since your method is defensive counterattack. You need stamina to support your defense!"
Viktor tried to imitate this combination, but the coordination was still lacking.
Zhao, the boxer, suddenly launched an attack, throwing a right straight punch straight at Victor's face.
At the critical moment, Victor instinctively raised his arm to block the blow.
"see it?"
Master Zhao withdrew his fist. "Your body is starting to learn. That's real progress."
In the afternoon, Master Zhao brought out an old video recorder and started playing a video of a boxing match.
"Look closely, this is someone you need to learn from."
Viktor's familiar yet unfamiliar name appeared on the screen:
Tyson Fury, Oleksandr Usyk, Anthony Joshua, Deontay Wilder… What shocked Viktor even more was that the following footage showed Muhammad Ali's fight after losing his title, George Foreman's bout with Lennox Lewis, and the Klitschko brothers' civil war…
"This...this is impossible..."
Victor's eyes widened. "These boxing champions come from different eras!"
Zhao, the boxing master, gave him a strange look: "What different eras? These are all boxing champions who are still in the ring. These great champions competed against each other and created the most glorious chapter in boxing history."
He pointed to the young boxer fighting Joe Frazier on the screen, "Look at that rookie, he's only 22 and he's already defeated three former world champions."
Viktor then realized that in this parallel world, professional boxing and 100-meter sprinting were at the pinnacle of sports, with professional boxing being more popular due to its direct and stimulating nature.
Most of the heavyweight boxing champions I remember competing in the same era developed the sport to an unimaginable level—except for one thing: the man who brought about the downfall of boxing never appeared.
"So now you understand what you're facing?"
Zhao, the boxer, pressed the pause button, and the screen froze on the moment when Foreman delivered a devastating uppercut that sent his opponent flying. "In this world, boxing is not a sport, it's war. And you're not even a recruit."
The final day of training lasted until late at night.
When Zhao finally called a stop, Victor fell face down on the training field.
He didn't even have the strength to lift a finger, but a strange sense of satisfaction welled up inside him.
Zhao the boxer squatted down beside him, revealing a rare expression that could almost be called a smile: "Starting from scratch. You made it through, kid."
With his last bit of strength, Viktor rolled over and looked up at the starry sky: "I... I'm still far from it... right?"
"It's as far away as the distance from Earth to the Moon, as far away as Black Egg wanting to become president!"
Master Zhao stood up. "But at least now you know how to stand. With your physical talent, you should be able to manage."
Viktor wanted to express his gratitude and even wanted to continue learning from Master Zhao, but Master Zhao had already refused.
“You can’t learn from me anymore. This is Laoshan’s place, and his men are my apprentices. If you win, I won’t be able to say anything.”
Viktor thanked him and packed his things to leave.
Master Zhao advised, "Go back and train hard. Don't waste your body on women!"
Viktor gave a wry smile: "I'm just a fat man."
"With such a large weight, you can still do such intense training. You're fat in an irregular way."
Master Zhao came over to close the door: "If you had lived two hundred years earlier, and I had given you a suit of iron armor, you would have been a fierce general."
Chapter 7 A rainbow is beautiful because it has all colors.
The autumn chill in Chicago always comes suddenly and violently. Victor Lee wrapped his secondhand jacket, which he had worn for five days, tighter around his waist as he walked through the snow toward his dilapidated apartment on West Street in the South Side.
The advantages of top-floor apartments are already apparent: they are warm in summer and cold in winter.
The cold wind lashed his cheeks like knives, and his 380-pound weight left deep footprints in the snow—Victor needed to lose weight, and had already started following a popular science magazine on nutrition.
"Victor! Your rent is due in two days. Do you want to renew it? If not, I'll give it to someone else!"
Mrs. Morris's gentle voice came from the first-floor window, her hawk-like eyes fixed on Victor through her reading glasses.
Victor pulled out crumpled bills from his pocket, counted out fifty dollars, and handed them over.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Morris, I forgot, I will renew my contract for another month.”
"Minimum lease renewal period: six months".
Victor then counted out another two hundred and fifty dollars.
Mrs. Morris took the money, giving the large Asian young man a suspicious look:
"You'd better find a stable job, Li. Trouble isn't welcome in this building."
“Mrs. Morris, I will not cause any trouble. This three-day trip is just a business trip.”
Mrs. Morris scoffed, "Chinese people are indeed very polite; they can even put it so euphemistically when they say they're going to the police station."
Victor dragged his weary body up the creaking stairs, ignoring Mrs. Morris, a racist who still believed that blacks were rude, whites were barbaric, and Indians had shiny scalps.
His room was on the sixth floor, and there was no elevator. This journey was like an exercise for his overweight body.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, with two mats, a mattress, and a rickety table as all the furniture.
Viktor collapsed heavily onto the bed, the mattress groaning under its weight.
He stared at the water stains on the ceiling, listened to the whooshing sound, and recalled some boxing moves. Then he took out the DVD player—only to realize that there was no television in the room.
The words "heavyweight boxing champion" lingered in his mind.
Viktor touched his bloated belly, recalling the boxing matches he had watched before, the glorious moments of those boxing champions, and the revenue sharing that Master Zhao had mentioned—ten million US dollars per match for Ali.
"Maybe···"
Viktor suddenly sat up, an idea flashing through his mind: "Maybe boxing can change my future!"
The next day, Viktor did not report to the work center.
He spent the whole day in the library researching boxing materials and borrowing DVDs from the library to watch classic match videos.
He was fascinated by the agile footwork and precise punches, but what attracted him even more was the unwavering gleam in the boxer's eyes.
"Counter-attack..."
Viktor wrote these four words in his notebook, a principle he adopted after studying all the great boxers:
"Conserve your energy, exploit weaknesses, and finish the match with a powerful punch."
On the morning of the third day, Victor stood in front of Foucault's boxing gym.
This is an old boxing gym located on the edge of a slum. The posters at the entrance have faded, but the sounds of punching and shouting coming from inside are still full of energy—the gym still has the strength to support professional boxers.
Pushing open the door, a mixture of smells of sweat, leather, and disinfectant hit me.
There were about a hundred people in the boxing gym. Some were hitting the punching bag, some were jumping rope, and several were sparring fiercely on the central boxing ring.
Viktor's appearance caused many people to stop what they were doing, and curious or mocking glances were cast at his massive body.
"Hey, look! A bear has wandered into the wrong place!"
A young man with a green rooster-comb hairstyle laughed loudly.
Viktor's face flushed red, but he didn't back down. He walked straight to the bald man behind the counter: "I want to learn boxing."
The man looked him up and down, exhaling a smoke ring: "Fifty dollars a month, fifteen dollars a week, equipment is extra, a full set is one hundred dollars, and there's a thirty-five dollar deposit for the gym equipment. I'm Foucault, the owner here."
Victor counted out a crumpled bill of one hundred and fifty dollars: "A week's expenses and a full set of basic equipment."
Foucault raised an eyebrow, took the money, and pulled out a set of obviously secondhand, worn-out boxing gloves, mouthguard, bandages, and grips from under the counter:
"The changing room is over there. If you want to wash up, bring your own toiletries, newbie."
In the locker room, Viktor struggled to put on his tracksuit; the oversized gloves still looked tight on his thick arms.
When he reappeared in the training area, even more jeers erupted.
"Hey, Fatty, are you sure you're not here to participate in a sumo wrestling match?"
"Be careful not to crush the boxing ring!"
Viktor's ears burned, but he simply walked silently to an empty sandbag in a corner, recalling the basic posture he had seen in the video yesterday.
He tried to punch, and the sandbag made a dull thud as it was hit and flew backward.
"Keep your wrist straight, you idiot."
A hoarse voice sounded from behind.
Victor turned around and saw a black man in his sixties whose scars and crooked nose indicated he had been a boxer.
"like this."
The old man demonstrated a standard straight punch, the punching bag made a dull "thud" and swayed slightly: "This way the power won't be dispersed. I'm Old Jack, and here's a coaching job worth twenty dollars for seven lessons."
For the next two hours, old Jack patiently corrected Viktor's every move.
"Boxing starts with your feet, kid. Your power comes from the ground, goes through your waist, and goes to your fists."
He patted Viktor's legs and waist: "The core is the real weapon, not those two fat arms. If you encounter a guy with a dog-like waist, just go ahead and punch him. His internal organs definitely can't withstand two punches."