March 21, 1985 – Olympic Training Center, Colorado Springs.
The joint was lit up like a Christmas tree.
Air thick with sweat, rubber, and straight-up hype—the Golden Gloves quarterfinals were about to pop off.
Over 2,000 fans crammed the stands, every eye locked on the glowing square in the middle.
Victor stood in the locker room, peeking through the door crack at the roaring crowd.
At 6'1", he towered over most guys, but tonight he was staring up at 6'2" Texas regional champ Alexander Garcia—a Greek-blooded phenom with an 80-inch reach that made jaws drop.
"Victor, listen up."
Old Jack grabbed his shoulders like a dad sending his kid to prom. "Garcia lives on footwork and jabs. Control the distance. Don't let him rack up points."
Victor nodded, but his eyes stayed glued to the wall clock.
Five minutes.
He could hear the ring announcer hyping the intros. Every time "Texas Pride" and "Undefeated" Alexander Garcia got mentioned, the place erupted.
"They don't even know how to say my name," Victor muttered, rolling his thick neck. "Think my first name's Victor."
He tipped the scales at 371 pounds—way heavy for the division—but it was all muscle stacked on a linebacker frame.
Old Jack slapped his back. "Screw the crowd. Focus. They only cheer winners. Win, and respect follows. First two rounds—feel him out. Third round, we—"
"I know what to do."
Victor cut him off, popped in his mouthpiece, and strode out.
When "Victor " got announced, the applause was polite golf-claps compared to the thunder before.
Victor stepped through the ropes stone-faced, black trunks rocking the Chicago flag.
Across the ring, Garcia played gladiator—arms up, soaking in the love. Curly black hair gleaming under the lights.
Ref called them center for rules.
Victor locked eyes with Garcia—three inches higher—and saw nothing but smirk. Dude was blowing kisses to the crowd.
Fire lit in Victor's gut.
"Back to your corners. Fight starts soon."
Old Jack's final whisper: "Distance, kid. Don't let him dance."
Bell. Round one.
Victor yeeted Old Jack's plan into the trash and charged.
He moved like a middleweight on steroids, not a heavyweight.
Canvas thumped under his boots. Sweat flew off the hand wraps.
"Holy hell!" the announcer yelled. "Fat Tiger Victor skips the foreplay—straight blitz! This ain't his usual patient style!"
Crowd lost it.
Front-row dude in a trucker hat nearly baptized his neighbor in beer. Didn't even notice.
Nobody expected Chicago's calculator to go full caveman—especially against Mr. Fancy-Feet Garcia.
Garcia's almond eyes flashed surprise, but he backpedaled smooth, flicking out that left jab.
Whoosh. Leather grazed Victor's cheek. He smelled the glove.
Victor kept marching, a moving brick wall.
At 6'1", close range was his world—he could turtle up, shoulders and arms shielding head and body like armor.
"Keep range!" Garcia's coach screamed from ringside—a wiry old white guy with a gold cross, waving a towel like a battle flag.
Garcia danced circles, jabbing Victor's chest, shoulders, arms. Light pops, but crisp. Points piling up.
Bell. End of one.
Victor's face flushed red. Garcia just breathing a hair heavier.
No big shots landed, but Garcia's jabs were textbook. Refs gave him the round easy.
Back in the corner, the plastic stool groaned under Victor.
Old Jack ripped out the mouthpiece, got nose-to-nose.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" Spittle fireworks. "I said control distance! His reach matches yours! You deaf or did vodka rot your brain?"
Victor sucked air like a busted bellows. Ethan dumped ice water over his head—ran down buzzcut, carved abs, pooled on the canvas.
"I feel him, Jack," Victor rasped. "He's breathing harder than me. By round three, he slows."
Old Jack grabbed his chin, forced him to eyeball the scoreboard.
"Look at the damn numbers! He's ahead! You're screwing around! He just has to hop and you'll never touch him!"
Victor yanked free, stared past him at Garcia—leaning on the ropes, coach rubbing his shoulders, smirking like a king.
But Victor clocked it: chest heaving harder than 30 seconds ago.
"Trust yourself," Ethan whispered, sliding the mouthpiece back. "They ain't got Mama Zu watching. Do it your way. Don't let him coast. His plan? Jab and jog you to death before you KO him."
Bell. Round two.
Victor exploded out again.
Garcia was ready—jabs snapping like viper tongues.
A right straight thudded into Victor's pec. Announcer gasped.
"That shot would floor most men!"
Victor just wobbled—like he bumped a doorframe.
Kept coming. Arms pumping like pistons.
Garcia's brows knitted. He circled back, but Victor's right hook whistled past his ear.
"You coward whose great-great-grandpappy invented math!" Victor roared after eating another jab. Voice echoed through the gym. "Fight me! Or you just gonna run like a rat?"
Garcia's smirk turned razor-sharp.
He switched gears—slid in, unleashed a combo. Left-right-left peppered Victor's guard.
An uppercut slipped through, cracked Victor's forehead.
Crowd jumped to their feet.
That same punch KO'd Victor's last opponent.
Victor's head snapped back, one step lost, neck crack. Then he smiled.
"That all you got?" He spat blood. "Your mom hit harder last night!"
Garcia's confidence flickered—no rage, just focus.
He reset guard, but his breathing rasped. Feet still slick, untouched.
Bell. End of two.
Victor's chest and gut glowed red like branded cattle. Garcia's shirt clung, soaked.
"He's gassed," Victor told Jack, spitting pink water. "His punches are lighter."
Old Jack glared at the board, face storm-cloud dark.
"You're too far behind, kid. Needs a KO or—"
"Then I KO him."
Victor's eyes burned with something Old Jack had never seen.
Ethan slathered Vaseline on his shoulders—gleamed like bronze under the lights.
"Third round, I pin him on the ropes."
Old Jack opened his mouth—then just shook his head, shoved the mouthpiece in. Your loss, your win.
Suddenly, Jack grabbed his wrist.
"When ref's blind—step on his toes."
Victor grinned, turned, walked to center.
Garcia waited, eyes wary now.
Victor noticed: guard half an inch higher. First sign of fatigue.
Bell. Round three. War.
Victor kept the heat, eyes on Garcia in the opposite corner.
Blond pretty boy mugging for the crowd—circus stretches, hip wiggles, laughs all around.
Spotted Victor staring. Blew a kiss.
Motherfucker.
Victor's temples throbbed. Fists clenched under wraps. Boos rained down like needles.
Bell.
Third round.
Victor charged center—slower, smarter.
Skin stung where Garcia's gloves had sanded it raw, sweat burning the cuts.
Garcia kept that smug grin, peppering jabs at Victor's face.
Left. Right. Left. Snake strikes.
But Victor caught it—half a beat slower. Shoulders lagging.
"What's wrong, yellow monkey?" Garcia taunted after another jab, loud for the front row. "Your gym only teach laundry?"
Laughter erupted.
Blood rushed Victor's skull. He bit the mouthpiece hard.
Trap. Garcia wanted him mad, sloppy.
40 seconds in—pivot.
Victor feinted back, baited the chase. Garcia bit.
Victor lunged. Legs exploded. Guts compressed.
Combo fired. Garcia read it, slipped back.
But Victor's right foot "accidentally" crushed Garcia's toes.
Leather squeaked. No real pain.
But Garcia's retreat hitched—half a second freeze.
In a phone booth fight? That's eternity.
Victor's right hand detonated.
1,050 pounds of force, dead center face.
Even with headgear and gloves, the shockwave rippled.
Garcia's face warped like putty. Neck cracked. Body timbered—ass hit canvas hard.
BOOM.
Arena went graveyard quiet. Announcer forgot English.
Victor stood over him. Garcia flopped like a beached fish. Yellow mouthpiece slid out, blood and spit pooling.
Ref jumped in, shoved Victor back, started the count.
Didn't need it.
Garcia's eyes rolled. Limbs twitched wrong.
"…8, 9, 10! Fight's over!"
Medics swarmed as the silence shattered.
Boos, curses, outrage tsunami'd the ring.
"Dirty bastard!"
"He stomped his foot!"
"Go back to your country, chink trash!"
Victor stood center, sweat shining under spots.
Ignored the hate. Slowly raised both arms.
Victory.
Flashbulbs popped like gunfire. Reminded him of something ugly.
Old Jack climbed in, wrinkles split between joy and worry.
"That follow-through! You're a damn lunatic," he growled in Victor's ear over the roar. "But beautiful."
Garcia's corner swarmed like hornets. His coach—a bald, jacked dude—screamed at the ref, spit hitting the scorecards.
Ref reviewed tape. Slow-mo replay: Victor's "shift" looked accidental.
Shoes off—Garcia's toes fine.
"Ruling stands."
Ref raised Victor's hand: "Winner—Victor!"
Beer can clanged at his feet. Foam splashed his boots.
Then the trash storm: popcorn, lighters, eggs, a sneaker.
Who brings raw eggs to a fight?
"We gotta bounce," Old Jack yanked him toward the tunnel. Two security guys carved a path.
At the gate, Victor glanced back. Medics locked a neck brace on Garcia, loading him onto a stretcher.
Blond champ's eyes half-open, mouth twitching.
Locker room. Victor checked the forehead lump. Outside, chatter still about the "toe stomp."
"Who gives a shit?" Old Jack cracked a whiskey bottle, chugged like a Viking. "Rules are rules. Ref said clean."
He shoved the bottle at Victor. "You do listen to me sometimes!"
Victor took it. Didn't drink.
Stared at the bruised, cut-up guy in the mirror.
Victory tasted like honey… laced with ash.
But still honey.
TV blared breaking news:
"…1985 Golden Gloves quarterfinals—Alexander Garcia KO'd, rushed to Presbyterian/St. Luke's. Initial reports: possible severe cervical and brain trauma…"
Old Jack killed the screen.
"Forget it. Everyone who steps in knows the deal—life or death on the canvas."
Rough voice, but softer: "Tomorrow? Every sports page got your name."