Las Vegas, once universally recognized as boxing's holy ground, only hosted matches with the greatest influence in the sport.
With the rise of new international boxing markets, Macau has gradually started to share some of the spotlight that once belonged solely to Las Vegas. Still, Las Vegas remains a stage reserved for the truly exceptional—even today, earning a place in its ring is no easy feat.
Today's main event drawing the crowd is an IBF heavyweight title fight: George Brewer challenging Pulev. In boxing, lighter divisions often show finer technique, but more people are obsessed with the heavyweights.
That's because heavyweight boxing is the summit—the purest display of boxing's power: violent, brutal, thrilling. At this level there are almost no permanent kings, since every punch thrown can be fatal to a career...
Ali—was he untouchable? He once had his jaw broken.
Tyson—untouchable? He too fell to an unknown fighter...
Joshua, Wilder... upsets happen all the time. That's the heavyweight charm. At this level, a twelve-round fight can end the moment the bell rings—a single punch can decide everything.
...
But all that didn't matter much to Jason Luo yet. He was only a super-middleweight newcomer on the undercard. Despite heavy pre-fight promotion from both sides, the real effect was limited. There are too many rookies in boxing—who pays attention to tabloid hype?
Back in the locker room, the old tension returned to Jason Luo. He didn't need his coach to tell him this fight mattered. The crowd tonight was full of industry insiders and veteran fans; mainstream media were livestreaming. Beyond winning, showing his boxing potential mattered just as much.
Coach Brown, experienced and calm, noticed Jason Luo's nerves and began to steady him.
"Jason, relax. Don't overthink it. Win first—your path is one you make yourself. Outside help is that—outside. You can use it, but you can't lean on it forever. Take each step steady. You get me?"
Jason bit his lip and nodded. "Got it. I'll focus on my own fight."
"Right. Listen: control the pace. Don't rush. Take the center, defend and counter to settle the rhythm. Save energy—don't chase blindly. Your opponent moves well; that'll just tire you and hand him points. Hold your ground. If you can get past the first four rounds, he'll get impatient. That's when our chance comes."
Those plans were already set, but Brown repeated them in case Jason acted on impulse. "Hold back. The last thirty seconds of round two is a chance to strike—but only if you've defended well up to that point."
Jason didn't promise, only: "I'll try, Coach. Hope it goes smoothly."
Brown nodded. "Alright. We'll adapt if anything happens."
Soon the familiar voice of Jimmy Lennon carried from the arena: "Please welcome the fighters for the undercard! After this bout, we'll have our main event!"
Jason knew it was time. Raul couldn't make it, the corner assistant had changed—his coach was his only support.
In the corridor he met his opponent. Megan George stood 182 cm with a 185 cm reach, hair in small braids, wearing shorts that looked like a skirt. He swaggered with a dance-like stride and shot Jason a defiant sideways look, saying nothing.
Jason ignored him. Boxing brings all kinds of people—nothing surprising. This Megan George had been hyping himself in Argentina, claiming personal coaching from Mayweather—who knows what that meant. Maybe boxing tips, maybe other lessons. Even if Maradona had coached you, Jason thought, you still get handled if you deserve it.
Once in the ring the kid threw a few quick shuffles, then launched a wild flurry of punches at Jason—pure provocation.
Seeing reporters snapping photos like crazy, Jason thought, Screw this. He dropped the technical posture for a moment, tossed in a couple of dance moves he'd picked up from that Wildcat kid, and answered back.
Surprisingly, their awkward little dance-off drew attention; the crowd laughed.
...
Up in the VIP box on the second floor, four or five professional bodyguards surrounded a young man shining with gold, while an elderly attendant hovered nearby. If Jason had been watching, he would have recognized him: Tutkason, son of the UAE's richest tycoon.
Tutkason hadn't planned to watch this undercard. Since his American boxing license was revoked he'd indulged in luxury, but having once dabbled in amateur boxing, he rarely missed big fights. The laughter from below caught his ear; he glanced toward the ring and immediately recognized Jason Luo. Tutkason clenched his fist. "Charmu, how is this boxer still competing? And how did he even get into the event?"
The elderly man hurriedly answered, "Sir, the operation we arranged last time failed, so..."
"Huh? How did that happen? I didn't ask you to kill him—can't you even handle something small?"
"No, Sir. The President heard about it and said you mustn't act rashly. If anything happens to this man, people will suspect us. Even if you want to vent, wait until things cool down..."
"Smash!" Tutkason slammed a cup down in anger. "This old man—ridiculous. I only wanted to teach him a lesson. How bad could it be? I can't stand it!"
"All right, Charmu. You take this personally. Find two fighters from the underground circuit and make sure this kid suffers—but don't go too far. I only want you to vent, not create big trouble that could affect our business in the U.S."
"Understood. I know what to do." Charmu immediately withdrew.
Tutkason looked back at Jason on the stage and smiled. "You're something else, kid. Crawled over my head to get up there—and quick, too. Sure, I used a little force before, but so what? A poor kid thinking he can make it big—dream on..."