svetikya Page 55
Page 55
Apollo asked breathlessly.
Viktor nodded and began packing his equipment.
Apollo called out to him, "We're having a little get-together tonight. Miguel's going to make his specialty burritos. Want to come along?"
Viktor hesitated for a moment, then nodded again.
For the next two weeks, Victor became a unique and constant sight in the training facility.
At 6:30 a.m., when the sky over Philadelphia was still just beginning to lighten, the wooden doors of the training facility would creak open.
Viktor was always the first to arrive. He was wearing a faded navy blue tracksuit, carrying a water bottle in his left hand and a towel draped over his right shoulder, as quiet as a shadow.
Apollo would sometimes deliberately arrive ten minutes late, but every time he opened the door, he would see Victor already warming up in front of the sandbag, beads of sweat rolling down his taut jawline.
Your shoelaces are untied.
During a sparring session one day, Viktor suddenly spoke up.
Apollo looked down at his worn-out heels, and before he could answer, he was forced to stagger backward by a sudden uppercut.
"This happens when you get distracted in the ring."
As he spoke, Victor flicked his wrist, his punches thrown at an incredibly tricky angle, like a cobra poised to strike.
Apollo retreated in a sorry state, his words of "fuck" caught in his throat as he was punched away.
The afternoon video analysis class was more like a surgical procedure.
Victor would rewind a three-second clip twenty times until Apollo could tell you with his eyes closed which frame Drago would frown in.
"The Soviets were trained to be precision instruments,"
Viktor drew dotted lines on the screen with a pencil, “But even the best machine has worn-out gears.”
He specifically pointed out Drago's habitual licking of his back teeth after the seventh round, saying it was a sign of exhaustion.
Once, Rocky brought over an old video from the previous year; the picture was so full of static that it looked like a blizzard.
Victor suddenly pressed pause: "Look at the bandage on his left hand."
As everyone drew closer, they noticed that Drago always left the first joint of his ring finger unbandaged when he wrapped his bandages—a discovery that made Miguel spill his coffee.
“I’ve seen a Siberian use this method of binding.”
Viktor wiped the coffee stains splattered on the screen with a towel. "They call it a 'polar bear trap'."
Dinner time is usually taken at the Greek restaurant next to the training hall.
Victor always sat in a seat with his back to the wall in the corner, and would sniff the olive oil before dipping his bread in it.
One rainy night, when Apollo mentioned the upcoming battle, Viktor suddenly put down his fork: "You shouldn't have accepted this invitation."
Rainwater meandered like a river on the windowpane, and his voice was colder than the hail outside: "This is just a political propaganda film; there's no reason to attend."
On the fifteenth night, after training, the four of them sat on the steps outside the training hall and drank beer.
Philadelphia's summer nights are hot and humid, with the distant sounds of police sirens and the clatter of street basketballs.
Why do you box, Viktor?
Apollo suddenly asked, "It's not about the money, is it? I don't see any interest in money; you live like an ascetic every day!"
Viktor took a sip of beer and remained silent for a moment: "Those who do not seek small things will surely seek big things."
Miguel nodded, understanding this mentality: "Of course, it's for the fame and fortune that comes with success!"
"So money is the only reason you fight."
"Before 1975, weren't you also destitute, Rocky? What made you go to that war back then?"
Victor spun the beer can, "Isn't it all about the money!"
Apollo patted Victor on the shoulder: "After this exhibition match, I'll help you. America needs boxers like you."
Viktor smiled but did not respond.
His expression was inscrutable under the moonlight.
The atmosphere became heavy on the last day of training.
The next day, Apollo was to fly to Las Vegas for the highly anticipated exhibition match against Drago.
The media portrayed the match as a "clash between the free world and the communist bloc," and President Reagan even personally called Apollo, calling him "the representative of the American spirit."
After training, Victor called out to Apollo.
"I have something to tell you,"
Victor's voice was unusually serious. "About Drago."
Apollo raised an eyebrow: "What, have you discovered a new weakness?"
Viktor shook his head—he rarely watched movies except for those from the European/American or Black/White sections: "Ivan Drago wasn't an ordinary boxer. I watched him on video; that guy's punching power was inhuman. The Soviets trained him using military methods—drugs, electric shocks, brainwashing, everything. His punches could shatter concrete bricks."
Apollo laughed loudly: "So what? You think I can't handle it?"
“This is no joke, Apollo,”
Viktor raised his voice, unusually, “Dragor will kill you. This isn’t a show; the Soviets want to use your body to send a message to the United States. Their leaders may not want it, but most people do.”
Apollo's smile vanished: "Do you know what this game means? It's an opportunity for America to show its strength! If I back down, what will the world think of us?"
A flash of anger crossed Viktor's eyes: "'We'? What 'we'? When did America start considering people like me as 'us'?"
Where was America when my family and I were crammed into an unheated apartment in Chicago during the winter? Where was America when gang shootouts were taking place, bullets whizzing through my window and piercing my body?
Apollo's face darkened: "Listen, Victor, if you don't love this country—"
"Love? Love my ass!"
Viktor sneered, "The United States doesn't need me because I can't pay taxes, but now it wants me to work for it? Drago is just a gift Gorbachev used to please the United States, not to create confrontation. You can't even see the most basic political intentions, Apollo."
"You're a coward! A traitor!"
Apollo roared, "I thought you were a real boxer, but it turns out you're just a coward at heart!"
Victor's face contorted with rage: "Betrayal? I have never sworn allegiance to any flag! My loyalty is only to my family and those who have truly helped me—like Michael, like Ethan, we are all of the same blood!"
Just like the Irish tightening their belts to provide guns and cannons for the Northern Irish! Just like countless foreign immigrants in the United States who are constantly labeled by the US government and live with those labels, we are simply following the basic logic of this country!
But not this country that has never treated me as a citizen, and certainly not you, you fool blinded by patriotism!
Rocky quickly stepped between the two: "Enough! You two calm down!"
Apollo shoved Rocky aside and pointed at Viktor's nose: "Tomorrow I'm flying to Moscow, and I'll prove who's right with my fists. And you, Viktor, will always be just a pathetic wretch with no home. You were sold by your country, and now you'll never be recognized here!"
"Aren't you the same? Oh, but you always think you arrived in America with the Ansar!"
Viktor took a deep breath, the anger in his eyes gradually cooling: "Good luck, Apollo. Hopefully, America will remember your name when you're carried off the ring."
After saying that, Victor turned and left, his figure appearing lonely and resolute under the dim streetlights of Philadelphia.
Outside the training hall, only Apollo's heavy breathing and Rocky's helpless sighs remained.
Michael and Ethan were furious as they left the training facility.
Ethan bluntly stated, "This black guy is completely clueless. Doesn't he know that the reason no active boxing champion responded to Ivan's boxing match is because everyone has already figured it out?"
"Of course he didn't know! But he's a beneficiary of the system!"
Victor ignored Millie, an American, sitting in the passenger seat: "His shareholders were convinced, so his agent was convinced, leaving only him, who can't see too far ahead, and his coach!"
Michael glanced at Millie: "So, we're actually on the waiting list too?"
These words were like a wake-up call; Victor suddenly realized, "No wonder! It's amazing!"
Millie shook her head: "I don't know that, but I do know that the military would never allow the Soviet Union to have any genetically modified humans, so Ivan's only fate is to lose!"
Chapter 45 Registration and Unexpected Events
The mornings in Chicago's South Side are always filled with a unique kind of bustle.
The rumble of garbage trucks rolling over potholes, the shrill wail of police sirens in the distance, and the morning news broadcast coming from some unknown television station—these sounds intertwined to form Victor's familiar wake-up call.
Half past five in the morning.
Viktor rubbed his sore eyes and sat up from the sofa—he had slept soundly on the sofa after returning home last night.
The apartment was empty; Ethan's bedroom door was wide open, and the bed was made so neatly that it looked like no one had ever used it.
Victor glanced at the wall clock—5:30 a.m.
It took him a second to remember why he was sleeping on the living room sofa, and then the memories came flooding back:
Ethan and Millie went out to 'celebrate' last night, while he, Victor, had to return home with Michael at 2 a.m. until he was sure the couple had 'finished' and gone home.
"Damn, you don't even know how to share good stuff! You have so many girlfriends!"
Viktor cursed under his breath and rubbed his face with his palms.
He stood up, feeling every joint in his body protesting. A body not yet nineteen shouldn't be this tired, but two weeks of training every day for two hours, plus last night's disappointment, meant even a body of steel couldn't hold on.
In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, which contained only half a carton of milk, a few eggs, and a nearly empty bottle of orange juice.
Victor took out the milk and smelled it—it wasn't spoiled yet.
He took a big gulp straight from the cardboard box, then pulled out a packet of instant oatmeal from the cupboard.
The moment the kettle emitted its first sharp whistle, the apartment door was pushed open.
Old Jack's booming voice immediately filled the entire space.
"Victor! Damn it, I knew you'd still be dawdling here!"
Old Jack strode into the kitchen, wearing his signature brown leather jacket, his gray hair a mess as if it had been hit by a tornado.
"The review starts at nine o'clock, and we need to arrive an hour early, but you haven't even taken a shower!"
Following behind Jack was Ethan, Victor's best friend and roommate—their brotherly relationship had broken down the night before.
Ethan looked radiant, with the silly grin that only men who have just had a wonderful night wore—it seemed that old Jack hadn't found out that Ethan had slept with his adopted daughter.
Good morning, future champion.
Ethan patted Victor on the shoulder. "You look like you've been run over by a truck."