socalfunplaces Page 83
Page 83
Rocky slowly turned his head, and his eyes sent a shiver down Victor's spine—it wasn't sadness, but an almost terrifying resolve.
"Victor."
Rocky's voice was hoarse, "Congratulations on winning the Golden Gloves."
Victor apologized: "That's why I wasn't here on time."
"No, the timing is just right."
Rocky interrupted him, "Every champion deserves respect, even if some people like to tarnish it with their prejudices."
He took one last look at the coffin, then turned and walked toward the side door of the church.
Viktor followed.
The cemetery outside the church was shrouded in a light rain. The two stood under an old oak tree, raindrops falling through the gaps in the leaves and leaving dark spots on Rocky's leather jacket.
“Dragor has accepted the challenge,”
Lodge suddenly said, his eyes fixed on the cemetery workers filling in the distance, “Christmas, Moscow.”
Viktor knew who Ivan Drago was—the Soviet monster who had brutally killed Apollo in an exhibition match.
"You're going to the Soviet Union for a competition?"
Rocky nodded and pulled a crumpled plane ticket from his pocket. "Flying to Siberia next week. Paul said the conditions there are similar to Moscow."
Victor had heard about Rocky's training methods—beating frozen meat in slaughterhouses and running through snow-covered mountains.
"Are you going alone?"
"one person."
Rocky finally looked at Victor, and the fire in his eyes made the young boxer unconsciously straighten his back. "Mickey always says that boxing is a lonely sport."
Victor understood Rocky's choice.
"You will win,"
He said the voice was more resolute than he had expected, “I think you are someone who can defeat Apollo.”
Rocky's lips twitched slightly; this was the first time Victor had seen him nearly smile that day.
"It started out for him, but now it's not just about him,"
Rocky said, "It's for all those who believe boxing is more than just violence."
He extended his hand. "Good luck, champion."
Viktor grasped the calloused hand and felt an astonishing strength.
"You too, Rocky, keep it up."
Rocky released his grip and turned to walk into the rain.
His silhouette appeared exceptionally lonely yet incredibly resolute against the gloomy sky.
Ray walked over and said, "No matter the outcome, just standing in that boxing ring, I feel like he's already won!"
Rocky didn't turn around, but simply raised his fist and waved it before disappearing into the rain.
Viktor looked down at his gold glove medal and suddenly understood what a true champion meant—he chose boxing not for trophies or honors, but for money.
What is the more fundamental reason behind money?
He wanted to become a boxing champion.
The rain intensified, but Victor stood still, gazing at Apollo's tombstone:
"See? America is beyond saving!"
······
After saying goodbye to Apollo, Victor returned to the absurd city of Chicago.
The sudden cold snap in Chicago hit Victor Lee like a heavy punch to the face.
Standing at the exit of O'Hare International Airport, the white breath I exhaled quickly dissipated in the cold air.
Behind them, Jimmy McGill and Michael Lee were busy taking their gear off the baggage carousel, while Ray Miller and Ethan Lee stood to the side, talking in hushed tones.
"The champions are back!"
Jimmy waved his arms dramatically, but no one in the bustling crowd at the airport turned around.
"We brought the National Championship back to Chicago!!!"
Jimmy was furious: "Fuck! This city doesn't deserve a championship! They'll make the championship disappear!"
Viktor tightened the collar of his jacket, the gold championship belt lying quietly in his duffel bag.
He had imagined countless times the scene of his triumphant return—the cheering crowds lining the streets of the South District, the envious glances of Americans, and perhaps even the cameras of the local media.
But in reality, the five of them walked silently toward the taxi stand, just like any other ordinary traveler.
"It seems that the Chinese American winning the championship has made them very dissatisfied, as they didn't even organize a celebratory banquet to rip off taxpayers!"
"Perhaps it was at Ubelman's behest!"
"Who cares!"
Viktor was furious at the shattering of his illusions. Even a national championship couldn't break the shackles of his Chinese identity. So he decided to win again and again: "Let's go!"
"The association said they would wait for us at the exit."
Ethan frowned and checked his phone. "They're probably stuck in traffic."
Viktor nodded, but he already understood about 70-80% of what was going on.
When they finally squeezed into two taxis, still no one from the Chicago Boxing Association showed up.
"Come to our house."
Victor said to the driver, his voice calmer than expected: "Let them come find us!"
However, upon exiting, they encountered association members stuck in traffic.
Association personnel took Victor to the association headquarters.
The Chicago Boxing Association is located in an old office building in the city center, and the creaking of the elevators sounds like some kind of ominous premonition.
When they pushed open the door to the sixth-floor conference room, there were only three people inside—the association's president, Marcus Williams, a young female secretary whom Victor had never seen before, and a local tabloid reporter with a camera.
"Victor! Our champion!"
Marcus opened his arms to greet them, a standard official smile on his face. "Sorry I couldn't pick you up at the airport, I had an urgent meeting today."
The next twenty minutes seemed to be fast-forwarded—handshakes, photos, and a few polite congratulatory remarks.
The reporter left in a hurry without even asking a few questions, saying he had other interviews to attend to.
Victor noticed that Marcus's gaze kept drifting towards his watch.
"Here is your bonus check, $10,000."
Marcus handed over an envelope. "The association is proud of you. A Golden Gloves champion, the first in Chicago in fifteen years."
Viktor took the envelope; it was incredibly light.
The voice was dry and very calm.
"Then let's stay in touch."
Marcus had already stood up, indicating the meeting was over. "How's your decision regarding the professional circuit going? Quite a few promoters must be interested in you, right?"
"Still considering."
Viktor gave a brief reply.
As I walked out of the association building, it started snowing in Chicago.
Viktor looked up at the gray skyline and suddenly realized that this was not what he had been expecting at all.
"Fuck them."
Jimmy suddenly broke the silence, saying, "A bunch of snobs. If a white kid or a black kid won the championship, they'd definitely roll out a red carpet at the airport."
Viktor did not respond.
He touched the gold gloves in his duffel bag; the cool touch of the metal came through the fabric.
Viktor thought this championship meant everything—money, social status—but now he's suddenly uncertain.
He finally said, "Back to the South District."
The apartment in the South District was in chaos. Uncle Joe had already prepared dinner—stewed beef and cornbread, Victor's favorite food since childhood.
The conversation at the dinner table revolved around the game and future plans, but everyone carefully avoided mentioning the quiet reception today.
"The people at Foucault Boxing Gym want to see you tomorrow."
After dinner, old Jack told Victor, his rough fingers tapping on the table, "We know what you mean, it's time to talk about the future."
The next morning, Victor and his friends headed to Foucault's boxing gym.
The snow on the streets of the South District had been trampled into gray mud. Several children on the street corner recognized him and pointed at him excitedly.
This is much warmer than the official reception yesterday, Victor thought.
The sign for Foucault Boxing Gym stood out prominently in the winter sunlight.
Pushing open the door, the familiar smell of sweat, leather, and disinfectant hit me.
What was different was that Victor's posters were plastered everywhere, and there were obvious signs of a celebration.
Foucault himself is standing next to the boxing ring, instructing a young boxer.
"The champion has arrived."
When Foucault saw Viktor, a genuine smile appeared on his face.
He jumped off the ring, gave Viktor a firm hug, and handed him a check for ten thousand dollars: "That's the most I can do! Go up there and talk."
The following conversation took place in Foucault's office.
Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting striped shadows on the floor. Victor sat on the old leather sofa, a cup of black coffee in his hand.
“Your choice is perfectly fine, Viktor.”