The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

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“Miri, you don’t need to look for this specifically. You can watch him work out; his wet pants are very obvious.”

"Max, you don't have a boyfriend yet, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't let him get away! He's a money tree in the future! If you get close to him, you can get a lot of money after just one chance!"

"Okay! I can't believe I'll encounter someone who believes in love! But even Catholicism in South America worships Che Guevara! So it's not surprising."

"Miri, isn't what you and Ethan have in love?"

"Of course not, it's just that Ethan's technique and ventriloquism are too good, I'm reluctant to let him go."

"You won't get married?"

"Marriage? Max! I'm only twenty-one, I haven't had enough fun yet!"

"You're too promiscuous!"

“You’re still a heretic without faith! Did I say anything? I know exactly what you do in bed every day, the room smells fishy.”

"There's no way around it, the wet basketball shorts just make it too obvious."

"What did he say? What conditions did he offer to keep you?"

"He made me take off all my clothes and lie down. I was worried it was too big, so I used my hands."

"if not!"

"Next time you have a chance like this, you go out and hang out in a coffee shop, I'll do it."

Chapter 62 Quarterfinals: What is a Seeded Player?

On March 21, 1985, the Olympia Training Center in Colorado Springs was brightly lit.

The air was thick with the smells of sweat, rubber, and anticipation as the semifinals of the U.S. Golden Gloves Boxing Championship were about to begin.

The stadium was packed, with more than two thousand spectators filling the stands, all focused on the square boxing ring in the center, illuminated by spotlights.

Victor Lee stood in the locker room, peering through the crack in the door at the bustling crowd outside.

His height of 185 cm is already considered tall among ordinary people, but today his opponent is 188 cm tall Texas regional champion Alexander Garcia - a boxing prodigy with Greek ancestry, and even more daunting is his astonishing 204 cm reach.

“Victor, listen to me.”

Old Jack grabbed Victor's shoulder and fulfilled his duty: "Garcia's strength lies in his footwork and jabs. You have to control the distance and not let him score at will."

Victor nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the clock on the wall.

Five minutes to go.

He could hear the announcer outside introducing the players, and whenever he mentioned Alexander Garcia, the "Pride of Texas" and the "Undefeated Record Holder," the audience erupted in deafening cheers.

"They don't even know how to pronounce my name."

Viktor muttered, stretching his thick neck: "They still think my last name is Viktor."

He weighed 371 pounds, far exceeding the average for his weight class, but all that weight was converted into solid muscle that covered his broad frame.

Old Jack patted Viktor on the back. "Ignore the audience, focus on the fight. The audience only cares about the winner; winning earns respect. Remember, the first two rounds are mainly for testing the waters, the third round..."

"I know what to do."

Viktor interrupted him, put on his braces, and strode toward the passageway.

When Victor Lee's name was announced, the applause in the room was sparse, a stark contrast to the previous enthusiastic applause.

Victor walked into the ring expressionlessly, his black shorts emblazoned with the logo of his hometown, Chicago.

Across from him, Alexander Garcia, like a triumphant general, raised his arms to receive the audience's adoration, his curly black hair gleaming under the lights.

The referee called the two players to the center and routinely announced the rules.

Viktor stared into Alexander's eyes, which were three centimeters taller than his own, and found that Alexander's eyes were full of contempt. Alexander didn't even look at him directly, but instead blew kisses to the audience.

Anger has been ignited.

"Return to your respective corners, the game is about to begin."

Back in the corner, old Jack gave one last piece of advice: "Keep your distance, don't let him lead you astray..."

The bell rang, and the first round began.

Viktor ignored old Jack's words and charged straight at Alexander.

His movements were so swift that they resembled those of a middleweight fighter, unlike those of a heavyweight.

The ring floor vibrated dully beneath his feet, and sweat splattered from the edges of his bandages.

The commentator exclaimed, "Fatty Tiger Victor didn't probe! He launched a fierce attack right from the start! This completely goes against his usual steady style!"

A wave of gasps erupted from the audience.

A man in a baseball cap in the front row almost spilled beer on the pants of the person next to him, but he didn't bother to apologize and kept his eyes fixed on the boxing ring.

No one expected the Chicago Typing Machine, known for its probing attacks followed by fierce offensives, to be so aggressive, especially when facing Alexander, who was known for his agility.

A flicker of surprise crossed Alexander's almond-shaped eyes, but he quickly retreated while simultaneously thrusting out his left fist.

His movements were as fluid as a real snake, his fist slicing through the air with a 'whoosh' sound.

Viktor felt a gust of wind brush against his cheek, and he could smell the leather from Alexander's boxing gloves.

He continued to press forward, his massive body like a moving wall.

His height of 185 cm became an advantage in this close-quarters combat—he could better curl up and use his broad shoulders and thick arms to protect his head and ribs.

"keep distance!"

Alexander's coach shouted from the sidelines, his voice almost drowning out the noise of the crowd.

It was a lean, white-haired old man with a gold cross around his neck, who was angrily waving a white towel.

Alexander moved nimbly around Viktor, slipping through his fingers like water every time Viktor tried to close the distance.

The jabs landed precisely on Victor's chest, abdomen, shoulders, and arms. Although not very powerful, each punch was crisp and loud, accumulating an advantage on the scoreboard.

When the bell rang to signal the end of the first round, Viktor's face was already flushed, while Alexander's breathing only quickened slightly.

Although neither striker landed a decisive blow, Alexander's jabs were clearly more accurate, and the referee awarded the round to him without hesitation.

Victor returned to the corner, the plastic stool beneath him groaning under its weight.

Old Jack ripped off his mouthguard, his wrinkled face almost touching Victor's nose.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Old Jack roared, spittle flying onto Victor's face, "I said keep the distance! His wingspan is about the same as yours! Are you deaf or has your brain been soaked in vodka and gone moldy?"

Viktor gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently like an overloaded steam engine.

Ethan poured a bottle of ice water over him, the water flowing through his short hair, down his broad chest and the grooves of his abdominal muscles, and forming a small puddle on the canvas floor.

“I can feel him, Jack.”

Viktor's voice was low and hoarse, like sandpaper scraping, "His breathing is heavier than mine. He'll slow down in the third round."

Old Jack grabbed Victor's chin and forced him to look at the scoreboard.

"Look at those damn numbers! He's leading on points! You're playing with fire! He just needs to jump around, and you'll never hit him!"

Viktor broke free from Old Jack's hand, his gaze passing over the coach's shoulder and locking onto Alexander in the opposite corner.

The Greek was leaning leisurely against the ropes, his coach massaging his shoulders, a confident smile on his lips.

But Victor noticed that his chest was heaving more noticeably than it had been thirty seconds ago.

"Trust in yourself. They have no protection from Mazu. Do as you say; don't let him have it easy."

Ethan said in a low voice, biting his mouthguard again, "If you play his game, he'll grind you down with jabs and movement until you're done, just like he does with everyone else, before you knock him out."

The second round bell rang, and Victor charged out again like a cannonball.

This time Alexander was prepared; his jabs stabbed at Victor like the tongue of a viper.

A right straight punch landed precisely on Viktor's chest muscle with a dull thud, causing the commentator to gasp.

"That punch is enough to knock an ordinary person to the ground!"

The commentator exclaimed, "But Victor just wobbled! The Chicago typewriter is made of steel!"

Viktor only paused slightly, as if he had bumped into a tree branch rather than a fist.

He continued forward, his arms propelling him forward like a hydraulic press.

Alexander frowned for the first time and quickly retreated, but Victor's right hook had already grazed his earlobe, creating a gust of wind.

"You coward who invented mathematics, your great-great-great-grandfather!"

After being forced back by yet another jab, Victor roared, his voice echoing throughout the stadium, "Fine, fight me head-on! All you do is run away like a rat!"

Alexander's lips curled into a cold smile, but his eyes sharpened.

He changed his rhythm, suddenly sliding forward and raining down a combination of punches on Viktor's defense.

One of the uppercuts pierced Viktor's defense and struck him in the forehead.

The audience stood up.

This punch is enough to knock out most heavyweight fighters—that's how Victor knocked someone out in the last fight.

But Viktor merely tilted his head back, took a step back, twisted his thick neck, and then steadied himself again like an enraged bull.

His eyes were frighteningly bright, and a slight smile even appeared on his lips.

"Is this enough strength?"

He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, "Your mother was more vigorous on me yesterday than this!"

For the first time, the confidence in Alexander's eyes wavered—but he was not angry.

He quickly resumed his defensive stance, but his breathing had become heavy. He moved nimbly through the gaps between his hands and was not hit once!

By the end of the second round, Viktor's chest and abdomen were red as if they had been branded with a hot iron, while Alexander's T-shirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to his body.

"He's tired,"