RNP Page 231
Page 231
Viktor Klitschko abruptly stood up from his seat, his face as dark as the sky before a storm.
His fists were clenched tightly, his knuckles white, and he stared intently at his younger brother, who was surrounded by medical staff on the stage, his eyes filled with anger, heartache, and disbelief.
Then, his cold gaze turned to Victor Lee, who was celebrating, and in that gaze seemed to foreshadow some unspoken revenge in the future.
Under the spotlight, Victor Lee donned the gold belt once more, and the host loudly proclaimed his victory.
He took the microphone, his voice hoarse with excitement:
"They said I only knew brute force! They said I was doomed to fail! Tonight, I gave them all the answer! I am the answer!"
He pointed to the audience and exclaimed, "My era has only just begun!"
The audience responded with a deafening roar.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the boxing ring, Klitschko, with an ice pack on his head, remained unconscious.
But the pain of defeat far outweighs the physical trauma. This lightning-fast crushing defeat will take a long time to process and understand.
The night in Copenhagen will be remembered for this brief yet extreme act of violent aesthetics.
Chapter 195 Joe Lewis
Victor Lee's right hand was wrapped with an ice pack, and dark red bruises were faintly visible at his knuckles.
This was the only injury Klitschko inflicted on Viktor yesterday—the recoil from his final right straight punch cracked his knuckles.
Now, he sits at the front of the press conference, surrounded by various recording devices, with flashes of light occasionally stinging his swollen eyes.
"Viktor, what's your assessment of last night's match?"
A Swedish journalist asked in English.
How do I say this to Europeans?
Viktor cleared his hoarse throat: "Klitschko was a great Olympic champion who pushed himself to the limit. I'm honored to fight a boxer like him."
This is the standard answer, Viktor told himself.
Boxing is a performance; before the match, one can be as provocative as possible, but after the match, one must show sportsmanship.
But he keenly noticed that Viktor Klitschko was sitting at the other end of the long table.
"Why is Mr. Klitschko absent?"
Another reporter discovered something unusual.
Vitali Klitschko took the microphone, his face expressionless: "Vitali is feeling unwell, and the doctor has advised him to rest."
Viktor caught a glimpse of Klitschko's fingers trembling slightly under the table; he noticed this detail.
Years of boxing experience told him that things were far more complicated than just “feeling a little uncomfortable.”
Halfway through the press conference, Viktor leaned close to his agent and whispered, "Is Frankimir really alright? My last punch might have been harder than we thought."
The agent shrugged. "They only said I needed to rest, but didn't give any specific details."
During the break, Viktor stopped Vitali Klitschko in the corridor outside the lounge.
"Vitali, tell me the truth, what exactly happened to Vladimir?"
Viktor looked directly into the other man's eyes, where a worry he was unwilling to reveal was hidden.
Vitali Klitschko paused for a moment, then finally sighed: "Concussion, moderate; the bone in his forehead is broken. The doctor says he needs to rest for at least three months and cannot do any training in the short term."
Viktor felt a pang of regret.
In the world of boxing, a concussion is never a trivial matter; it can end a boxer's career and even affect their future life.
"I'm so sorry,"
Viktor sincerely said, "I never thought the match would end like this."
Viktor Klitschko unexpectedly patted Viktor on the shoulder: "This isn't your fault. Vladimir and I both know the risks of this sport. You fought cleanly and decisively; the better boxer won."
Back at the press conference, Viktor picked up the microphone and addressed the reporters: "I would like to take this opportunity to express my respect and apology to the Klitschko family. Boxing is a brutal sport, but we respect each other. I wish Wladimir Klitschko a speedy recovery; he will be one of the greatest boxers of our time."
Vitali Klitschko nodded slightly, a hint of gratitude flashing in his eyes.
When asked if he was considering a rematch, he shook his head: "Right now, we're only concerned about Frankiemir's health. Viktor has proven himself to be the better fighter, and we accept that outcome."
There was a whisper in the meeting hall.
The Klitschko brothers are known for their belligerence and indomitable spirit, so their straightforward admission of defeat is rare; they may simply be outmatched.
As the press conference was drawing to a close, a commotion suddenly broke out at the back of the venue.
The door was pushed open, and a figure walked in, surrounded by bodyguards. The reporters all turned their heads, and then an even more heated discussion broke out.
"Joe Louis! It's Joe Louis!"
Although 38-year-old Joe Louis is no longer in his prime, he still maintains the physique of a boxer.
As a heavyweight icon from fifteen years ago, even in semi-retirement, his appearance still caused a sensation.
Vitali Klitschko immediately stood up to greet him, and the two embraced.
Most people assumed that Louis was there to support his compatriots—although he had long since become a U.S. citizen, he had always maintained good relations with the Ukrainian boxing community.
Victor also stood up, ready to greet this legendary figure.
But Louis walked straight up to him and extended his right hand.
"Great game, Victor."
Louis's voice was deep and powerful, "You remind me of myself when I was young."
“It is my honor, Mr. Louis. What brings you to Copenhagen?”
Vitali Klitschko's words brought a slight smile to Louis's lips: "Viktor's invitation."
The room fell silent immediately, and all the microphones were turned towards the two of them.
Without waiting for an invitation, Louis picked up the microphone from the podium and said, "I watched last night's game and saw the qualities of a true champion. Victor, you have defended your WBA title nine times. It's time for a game that will truly go down in history."
Lowell laughed to himself; Max already knew about Victor's team's trick.
Louis continued, "I think there's been a lack of a matchup in heavyweight history, a fight that could define an era. So I'm here with a proposal."
He gestured, and his assistant immediately handed him a document.
"May 21, 1988, Wembley Arena, London. Victor Lee vs. Joe Lewis. Your tenth title defense."
Reporters frantically pressed the shutter, their flashes creating a blinding white blur.
Victor looked at Louis with an incredulous expression, then glanced at his agent—also feigning disbelief.
Joe Louis has not participated in an official match for two years, and his performance in the last three exhibition matches has been mediocre.
Choosing him as his opponent for the title defense is not seen by the boxing world as a way to pad his record.
Louis seemed to read his mind: "A $15 million appearance fee, plus 40 percent of the pay-per-view revenue."
He paused, then added, "I know what you're thinking. Joe Lewis is old and past his prime. But believe me, the whole world wants to know whether the old Lion King is more powerful or the new Lion King is stronger."
Louis stood in front of the podium, already posing for photos.
Viktor Klitschko stood to the side, his expression complex—a mixture of pride for his compatriots and a hint of barely perceptible worry.
Victor thought for a moment, then walked to the podium: "See you in London, Mr. Louis."
The moment the two shook hands, it was as if the entire center of gravity of the boxing world shifted.
Reporters have already begun brainstorming headlines—"A Clash Between Legend and Rising Star," "Louis' Last Battle?" and "Victor's High-Stakes Gamble."
The signing ceremony was held in the hotel's banquet hall.
Louis's team prepared an extravagant stage setup—a miniature replica of the boxing ring, complete with two tables and two contracts.
Victor noticed that despite the flamboyant scene, Louis's hand was unusually steady as he signed.
Don't you think this is a bit risky?
During a break in signing papers, Victor whispered to Louis, "You haven't played in a formal match in a long time."
Louis responded with a mysterious smile: "I have my reasons. Some competitions aren't about the gold belt, they're about the money."
This statement made Viktor feel uneasy.
The final battles of veterans are often unpredictable; they are either past their prime or have unexpected tactics up their sleeves.
After signing, the two men held up their gold belts and posed for a photo.
When Victor won the WBA heavyweight title belt for Louis, a fleeting desire flashed in the veteran's eyes, as if his dormant fighting spirit had been rekindled.
See you in May, young man.
Louis gripped Victor's hand tightly. "Don't underestimate me. I'll be ready for anything."
“I never underestimate any opponent, especially a legend like you.”
That night, the boxing world was in an uproar.
ESPN aired an emergency special program to analyze this unexpected match;
Reporters from The Ring magazine went around gathering inside information;
Bookmakers quickly released odds, with Victor favored to lead at 4 to 1.
At the same time, criticisms were also incessant.
Many people believe this was an unfair match, exploiting the veteran's fame for profit;
Some have questioned whether Luis is still in good enough shape to handle world-class competitions.
Furthermore, medical experts have publicly expressed concern about Louis's health.
Viktor scrolled through the news and felt quite pleased.
Agent Lowell excitedly calculated the potential revenue: "Listen, even negative feedback is still attention! Pay-per-view numbers could break records."
“I don’t want to be remembered this way,”
Victor shook his head. "Like an opportunist who profits from the vanity of veterans."
"Then give him the respect he deserves in the game, but don't forget to win. That's the best way to pay tribute to a legend."