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Chapter 128 Teacher Tony - TNT
With everything settled, Victor naturally threw himself into the boxing match.
September 9, 1986, the same city (Las Vegas), different opponents, but the atmosphere was even more frenzied.
The match between Victor and Tony "TNT" Tucker took place as scheduled, and the two were on edge during the weigh-in ceremony.
Tony "TNT" Tucker, 6 feet 5 inches tall (approximately 196 cm), weighing approximately 220 pounds (approximately 100 kg), with a reach of 86 inches (approximately 218 cm), has a record of 27 wins and 0 losses (15 by knockout).
Achievements: Former IBF World Heavyweight Champion (first edition).
Boxing Style: Tony Tucker is a more well-rounded boxer with exceptional physical talent. His style is a combination of a technical boxer and a power hitter.
He possesses a very solid foundation in amateur boxing, with exceptional basic skills. His jabs are fast and accurate, his footwork is agile, and his dodging technique is excellent.
With exceptional height and wingspan (even surpassing James Smith), he excels at using this advantage to control distance and make it difficult for opponents to get close.
With his speed and sharp combinations, Tucker is faster than Smith and can deliver beautiful, fluid combinations of punches, rather than relying solely on single heavy punches.
All-rounder: He possesses almost all the physical attributes required of a top boxer: strength, speed, technique, height, and reach. His nickname "TNT" also suggests that he possesses explosive knockout power.
On September 10, 1986, the night in Las Vegas was torn apart by the blazing spotlights and the clamor of the crowd.
Caesars Palace once again became the focus of the world boxing scene, the air thick with the smells of sweat, tobacco, and desire.
Victor Lee stood in the corner of the boxing ring, his gaze icy as he stared at the man opposite him known as "TNT"—Tony Tucker.
Tucker's physique is like a mobile fortress. Standing at 6 feet 5 inches tall with an 86-inch reach, his undefeated record of 27 wins and the honor of the IBF World Heavyweight Championship belt make him one of the most dangerous opponents in most boxers' careers.
In the stands, Tucker's team waved signs and roared "Blow him up! TNT!", the sound almost lifting the roof off.
Meanwhile, Victor's supporters held their breath, remembering the fierce battle with James Smith a month earlier, and how Victor shattered the myth of the "Bone Crusher" with his iron will and precise, powerful punches.
But tonight, the atmosphere was even more frenzied, with gamblers betting not only money, but also a fervent cult of violent aesthetics.
As always, Vic's betting slips of 400,000 were flying around!
The ringing bell pierced the clamor like a sharp sword, announcing the start of the battle.
Tony TNT Tucker, the boxing champion known for his explosive punches, did not pounce as expected.
His eyes were frighteningly calm, like the calm surface of the sea before a storm.
Instead, he quickly implemented a well-designed tactic: distance control.
His jabs were like the forked tongue of a viper, fast and accurate, constantly aimed at Viktor's face.
Viktor dodged and parried, but the punches were always relentless, whistling through the air.
Tucker's footwork was agile beyond that of a heavyweight boxer. He used his amazing reach advantage to keep Viktor firmly on the outside, as if he were weaving an invisible net.
Victor tried to close in, but each time he advanced, he was forced back by Tucker's precise jab.
A right straight punch grazed Viktor's brow bone, leaving a thin trail of blood.
Cheers erupted from the stands, and Tucker's coach yelled from the sidelines, "Keep your distance! Don't let him in!"
Viktor's eyes remained as calm as ice.
He was like a real cheetah, patiently waiting for his prey to slip up on the vast grassland.
Despite Tucker's jabs raining down, Victor's mind was racing, analyzing his opponent's rhythm and patterns.
"Move! Don't stop! Cut in!"
Old Jack roared from the sidelines, his voice almost completely drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.
Viktor constantly shifted his footwork, striking Tucker's forearm and shoulder with rapid combinations of punches—attacks not intended to cause injury, but rather to test Tucker's defensive habits.
After several attempts, he discovered that Tucker's head protection was extremely tight, but his midsection would occasionally show a small opening after a series of punches.
Two minutes and thirty seconds into the first round, Victor keenly spotted a gap in Tony Tucker's defense.
He stepped forward with his left foot, twisted his body quickly, and unleashed a fierce left hook that landed precisely on Tucker's jaw.
The dull thud of the gloves colliding echoed throughout the arena through the ropes, as Tucker's right glove blocked... some of the force.
But his boxing glove still slammed into his jaw, causing Tucker to stagger and briefly lose his footing.
Victor did not let this opportunity pass him by.
He immediately switched to his signature "Chicago Typewriter" rhythm, unleashing a barrage of punches like machine gun fire.
A straight punch aimed at his face, a swing punch swept across his ribs, each strike carrying a sharp, whistling sound as it forced Tucker into a corner of the ropes.
The cheers from the audience rose higher and higher with his offensive, as if one could really hear the rapid clatter of an old gangster typewriter.
But Tony Tucker was no pushover.
After the initial shock, he quickly bent his arms to hug the frame, protecting his head and torso completely.
Victor's follow-up punches landed heavily on Tucker's tough forearms and gloves, making dull thuds.
Despite the relentless attacks, they were unable to truly break through Tucker's defenses.
During a gap in the block, Tucker suddenly unleashed a "TNT punch," a powerful right hook that could shatter the ring, grazing Viktor's forehead.
The force of the punch ruffled Viktor's hair, but it was still half an inch too late. Both men took a half step back during the exchange, and the first fierce clash ended with neither of their punches actually landing—only the red mark left by Viktor's initial left hook quietly spreading across Tucker's jaw.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the first round. Victor returned to his corner, his breathing slightly rapid.
Ethan quickly took out his mouthguard and whispered:
"He protects his head like an egg, but his body is his weak point. His heavy punches are mostly useless against you. Be patient, he will reveal an opening."
Before the echoes of the second round's bell had even faded, Tucker, like an enraged bull, suddenly intensified his offensive.
With his agility and long reach, his combination punches began to display overwhelming power.
The left hook tore through the air, leaving a sharp whistling sound;
The right straight punch was like a cannonball, striking straight towards the opponent's center line;
Immediately following, a tricky uppercut came from below, maliciously aiming at the jaw.
These three strikes were like the sudden forte in a symphony, rhythmic and dangerous, each strike containing the ambition to end the match.
Viktor constantly parried and dodged the barrage of attacks.
His gauntlets formed an impenetrable wall in front of his face, his elbows tightly protected his ribs, and he chose to withstand the heavy blows that landed on his arms and shoulders.
He didn't just defend; instead, he precisely countered with powerful punches during the gaps in his blocks. The sound of his gloves hitting his muscles echoed throughout the training hall, striking the hearts of every spectator like war drums.
But his opponent was too agile—at 196cm tall, he was more agile than Victor.
Suddenly, after a seemingly ordinary left hook feint, Tucker's killing move was revealed—an extremely concealed left hook that strangely bypassed Viktor's defense and struck him heavily in the right rib area.
A sharp pain exploded instantly!
Viktor's face turned deathly pale, his body involuntarily curled up, and he staggered half a step before barely regaining his balance.
But his professional instincts kept him still, holding his arms clasped together.
My ribs were fine, but the brutal force penetrated my muscles and reached my liver. It felt like being stabbed in the body with a red-hot iron rod. Every nerve was screaming, my stomach was churning, and I almost vomited.
Tucker's eyes flashed with a predatory glint, like a shark smelling blood, and he immediately pounced, launching a series of attacks.
A left hook came whistling through the air. Viktor dodged by leaning back, relying on his honed instincts. The wind from the punch grazed his cheek, bringing a burning sting.
Immediately following was a right straight punch, which he barely managed to block with his gloves, but the impact forced him to take a half step back.
The final uppercut came from below. Victor twisted his body to deflect the force, and the glove grazed his chin, bringing a tingling, numbing sensation to his teeth.
The audience erupted in cheers, the shouts deafening:
"Finish him off! TNT!"
Tucker's fans had all stood up, waving their fists in anticipation of a knockout.
But Viktor's willpower was like a rock in the deep sea, unmoved even in the most turbulent waves.
He kept his eyes forward, defusing crises with agile movements, and even managed to organize a counterattack while enduring excruciating liver pain.
Tucker's offensive continued unabated, fierce and violent.
But in the hundredth of a second between Tucker's punches, a thunderous right straight punch, like a precision-guided missile, struck Tucker precisely in the brow bone.
Tucker was knocked backward by the unexpected blow, staggering a few steps before barely regaining his balance. A trickle of blood, like a small snake, slowly flowed down from his brow bone.
A flash of incredulous anger crossed his eyes—he never expected Viktor to retaliate so quickly after suffering a severe blow to the liver.
Viktor's breathing miraculously gradually calmed amidst the pain, and the excruciating pain in his liver transformed into a cold rage coursing through his veins.
He began pressing forward, repeatedly striking Tucker's nose and eye sockets with rapid combinations of punches, each punch carrying a precise calculation.
Tucker's face began to swell and turn blue, but his attacks remained incredibly sharp.
A right hook grazed Viktor's earlobe, bringing a sharp ringing in his ears.
Viktor's lips curled into a cold smile—Tucker's impatience was beginning to show. His punches, though powerful, were losing precision, and the blood seeping from the wound on his brow bone was gradually blurring his vision.
"I can withstand ten of your punches! Can you withstand ten of mine?"
Chapter 129 A Special Betting Odds!
The ringing of the bell in the third round sounded like a pardon for a death row inmate, and the two returned to a corner for a short rest.
Tucker's coach yelled in his ear, "Don't let him drag this into a war of attrition! Control the tempo with your jabs! You've been letting him live too long!"
Old Jack calmly instructed, "Be patient, wait for his burst of power. I counted, there's a 0.5-second pause after his combination punches, that's when we pounce and strike!"
Viktor wiped the blood and sweat from his face with a towel and nodded.
His gaze swept across the boxing ring and landed on Caroline sitting in the front row of the audience.
She clasped her hands tightly to her chest, her eyes filled with worry—this woman's acting was truly convincing!
Before the echoes of the starting bell had faded, Tucker suddenly intensified his attack like a tiger unleashed from its cage.
His jabs were so dense they were suffocating, raining down on Viktor like a relentless barrage of cold raindrops, each punch tearing through the air with a sharp, piercing sound.
The frequency of the combination punches increased, and the boxing gloves turned into two blurry red shadows. With his height and long reach, Tucker gave Victor no good opportunity to exchange punches and forced him to retreat step by step.
But Viktor's feet felt as if they were stepping on a red-hot iron, constantly moving back and forth within a small space.
He sometimes lunges forward like a cheetah pouncing on its prey, and sometimes retreats like the receding tide; every movement is a dance on the edge of a knife.