“I’ll need all the luck I can get,” I blurted, knocking on wood.
Someone gave me a hearty whack on the back. I swung round. Our entire street gang stood there, all present and correct: Yagoza, Fatso, Sprat, Vasily... Behind their backs, Alik’s three “lads” — Tarzan and the other two — hovered timidly.
Alik gave me a guilty shrug.
“Hi, Mr. Philip!” Fatso shouted in excitement. “We’ve come to see you win!”
“My compliments,” Yagoza lowered his head to me. “We’re all rooting for you. Don’t let our block down!”
“Yeah! Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!” Sprat began prancing around as if shadowboxing but then tripped up over his own feet.
Your hands can't hit what your eyes can't see, I kept repeating Mohammed Ali’s own words as I helped Sprat back to his feet, then went off to get ready for my first fight. My little band of fans headed for the stands.
What a shame old Ibrahim wouldn’t see me fight. He'd said he was too old for all that; his heart would conk out from all the worrying about me.
There were six rings set up in the arena to accommodate six simultaneous fights. Trying to blank out whatever was going on around me, I started warming up until they called me for my first fight,
“Panfilov and Nemchinov, you’re next up.”
Fighting the burly Nemchinov felt like a walk in the park after the dozens of sparring bouts I’d had in Ibrahim’s classes. My opponent was clumsy and lead-footed and soon wore himself out. I was far too technical for him — and his blows were so predictable that I’d already dodged even before he’d decided where to land a blow.
Your hands can't hit what your eyes can't see...
“More passion!” I kept hearing old Ibrahim’s voice in my head.
In the third round, my opponent rose to his feet under the shower of my blows and cowered, shielding his head with his hands. He'd run out of steam.
I’d won on points with a ridiculous advantage.
My next fight was even easier. This opponent was a tall lanky guy with long arms, a typical outfighter. Neither his physique nor his skill were up to much. He kept going in circles, attacking me with the same pre-prepared combinations which I dodged easily. By the end of the first round, I let fly an uppercut between all his dancing around and knocked him out cold.
The main grid was about to start. The stands began filling with people.
My third and last opponent would be decided in the fight between Mustafa and Bulat, the Kazakh guy I’d met in Matov’s group.
Both of them were strong on their feet, playing it safe. They knew they were so equally matched that one mistake could knock one of them out of the tournament. The Kazakh guy was a bit more active at first but Mustafa, encouraged by his brothers to “kick ass”, caught his opponent with a vicious counterpunch, knocking him down.
From then on, the outcome was pretty clear to everybody. In the next round, Mustafa capitalized on his success and came out on top.
I’d been analyzing his style all along, noticing that he tended to open up for a split second every time before throwing a left.
That was enough for me to knock him down within twelve seconds. Toward the end of the round, he made the same mistake — and this time, he didn’t have it quite so easy. The ref counted him out, much to the disappointment of his noisy brothers, then raised my hand in victory.
I was in the main grid.
* * *
TOWARDS THE END of the evening I already had four wins under my belt.
They announced a break before the finals in all ten weight categories. The flyweights were the first into the ring. I still had loads of time till my final.
I sat with my friends to watch as a spectator. We took up almost an entire row. Alik’s motley crew was sitting just behind us. Alik himself had apologized to them before taking a place next to Veronica.
Once the elimination rounds were over, Kostya had come to join us too. His little sister was still with my parents who’d brought her to see her brother in hospital almost every day. They’d also come to check him out.
He’d sent the girl back home with “Auntie Lydia”: he could talk to her at any time but the outcome of the tournament would determine the fate of her surgery. So he’d popped in at home to leave the bag with his hospital stuff, then made a beeline directly for the sports center just in time for the main grid.
“Phil, you beauty!” he kept saying. “It was unreal how you did him! By the third round I thought you were toast. The way he was trying to catch you out! And all that time you were luring him on?”
I grinned. “Sort of.”
In the semifinals, I’d beat Yuri, the best fighter in Matov’s other group. I’d already had words with him once in the gym — and afterward, I’d apparently trained with his group during my “second life”. He was the only boxer from Matov’s two groups who hadn’t yet been eliminated. And now I’d seen him off too.
“Listen, how is it possible that you've managed to kick ass out of all the heavyweights?” Kostya mused. “I’m only a middleweight and I used to kick your ass — doesn’t that make me awesome or what?”
“I don’t think so, Bekhterev,” Matov came and sat next to us. “You wouldn’t be able to kick his ass now.”
“Good evening, coach,” we said in unison.
“You’re full of surprises, Panfilov,” he didn’t hide his amazement. “I can’t say that it was pleasant to watch but it was quite an eye-opener.”
“You gave me a bunk up the ladder, Sir,” I said, trying to be objective. “Thank you.”
“I gave you the basics. My fault was I didn’t take your intellect into account. You’re a smart fighter. Bekhterev, did you notice how your buddy adapts to every opponent? He knocked out Mohammed in one way and Yuri in another. Shame I didn’t see the elimination rounds,” he grew serious. “Who trains you now? Not with Khmelnitsky, by any chance?”
“I trained him,” Sprat scoffed behind our backs. “I told him to float like a butterfly and fart like a bee!”
“Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé,” his inebriated street buddies began singing, “Phil Panfilov is a champion!”
Matov sized them up, winced and turned away. “So who trained you? Don’t tell me Tkachenko agreed to take you on!”
“Neither, Sir. That’s my coach, sitting next to you. It was Kostya who trained me.”
“Who, Bekhterev? Seriously?”
“Really.”
“We only had a few sessions,” Kostya hurried to deny his role in my success. “He’s a quick learner though.”
“Looks like you’re some sort of phenomenon,” Matov said jokingly but it came out dead serious. “Can I have a word? I've got something i want to discuss with you.”
I agreed.
He took me to a small room under the stands. “You know who you’re up against in the final?”
“Some guy called the Wolf.”
“Exactly. He’s a superheavyweight from Khmelnitsky’s stable. He’s dropped a weight specially to compete with heavyweights. The prize money’s the same but it’s easier for him. But his style is still the heavy boy’s style. You know what I mean?”
“I’m gonna do him.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’ve studied him. He relies on his strength. He’s gonna try to get me on the ropes and corner me, then shower me with blows. Rinse and repeat, until I break. Only I’m not gonna break. He will try and corner me until he runs out of steam and opens up — and that’s when he’ll catch it.”
“Well, well,” Matov chuckled. “You sure make it sound easy.”
“The Wolf’s stamina isn’t up to much. His tactics involve a long repeated series of blows, so by the end of the third round he can barely keep his mitts up.”
“Very well. If you’re so sure of yourself, I’m gonna believe you. Listen up. Tonight there’ll be a fight in the Empire. Sort of a Super final for a chosen audience. It’ll be today’s superheavyweight champion against t
he heavyweight champion. They pay ten grand.”
“Ten grand what?”
“Not rubles!” he snapped impatiently. “Ten thousand dollars!”
“So what’s the catch?”
“It’ll be ten rounds. Without gloves. It’s gonna hurt. A lot.”
“And what does the winner get?”
“Fifty thousand bucks. But you can forget it. You haven’t got a chance. The Sledgehammer’s weight is 290 lbs. He’s the bookies’ favorite. You just need to climb into the ring, go a couple of rounds, and then lie down and don’t get up. The public will like that,” he paused, apparently taking my silence as a sign of doubt. “Don’t worry, they’ve got an ambulance on standby.”
‘Okay.”
He looked up sharply. “Okay what?”
“I’m in.”
“He’s in!” he mocked. “First you need to win here. That’s it, then, go and get yourself ready. I still need to talk to the Sledgehammer.”
I went back to the stands. Sprat offered me what he called “doping”, meaning a plastic cup of vodka and Coke. The others explained to him the error of his ways; Yagoza even gave him a slap across the head for “being a dumbass”.
Then I sat down to await the finals. I wasn’t worried. As I’d spoken to Matov, I’d remembered that he only had level 10 in Boxing — and he’d still managed to train a national champion or two. I was level 11, which meant I was obliged to at least win the regional championship.
Closer to my fight, I left the stands for a quick warmup. I sensed someone staring at me and swung round to see my future opponent, Sergei “the Wolf” Zverev: a burly dude with a shaven head and a large tattoo of a rather toothy wolf on his chest. Meeting my eye, he gave me the cut-throat sign and turned away.
His level 9 in combination with his Strength made him a serious opponent. Well, that remained to be seen. I just continued stretching and warming up.
Finally, it was our turn.
“We invite into the ring the final contestants in the heavyweight category!” the panel of judges announced through the loudspeakers. “In the blue corner, introducing Philip Panfilov!”
My support group yelled their encouragement. Yagoza’s wheezy voice somehow rose above all the others, strangely drowning out the tumult of the stands.
I dove under the ropes and took my place in my corner, awaiting my opponent.
The Wolf walked with an unhurried swagger, greeting the public and wallowing in the attention. In his own mind, he must have already hammered me and won — which guaranteed him the champion’s purse of two hundred thousand rubles[57] plus another ten thousand greenbacks for the clandestine “super final” in the night club.
Undoubtedly, Matov had already approached him. His own coach, the notorious Khmelnitsky, must have been in on it too, in which case he might have divulged the news to his protégé.
The ref summoned us and ran through the rule book.
The fight began.
The Wolf went on the offensive immediately, pushing me back. Still, each time he thought he'd cornered me, I managed to slip back into the open ring. He struggled to avoid my counterattacks to his side; quite a few of my body hooks reached their mark.
I was leading the fight to a confident victory — which was probably why I dropped my guard for a fraction of a second. That nearly became my undoing. The Wolf managed to work me into a corner, showering me with blows most of which I blocked. Still, I must have missed quite a few. I barely stayed upright. My ears were ringing; my cheekbone and my eyebrow were on fire. I was only saved by the bell.
Kostya fussed over me in my corner, mopping up the sweat and applying a wet towel to my cuts and bruises.
“What were you thinking of?” he berated me. “Why did you have to go in close? You had all that space to you right! You should’ve ducked out!”
“I know, I know. It’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll do him now.”
The one-minute break was over before I could catch my breath. A new buff message came through:
Passion to Win
Duration: 10 min
+3 to all man characteristics
+50% to Vigor
+50% to Confidence
+50% to Willpower
+50% to Spirit
+50% to Pain Threshold
The buff’s effect made me feel fresh and full of energy as if the fight hadn’t started yet. But most importantly, I’d worked out how I could win.
Inspired by his last success, the Wolf couldn’t wait to get to me. I lured him onto the ropes. Just as he thought he’d cornered me and switched off his brain to turn to punch mode, I ducked to the left and gave him a cross which passed over his right hand. He momentarily lost his bearings which was enough for me to get in my favorite combination: a left uppercut quickly followed by a straight right to the body and finally a left hook to the head.
The Wolf went down. The stands dissolved in a deafening roar.
K.O.
I was champion.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, we were sitting in a cozy Irish pub on Chekhov St. celebrating my victory: me, Alik and Veronica, Greg and Alina, Kesha and Marina, Cyril, Gleb, Mr. Katz, Rose and Kostya. I’d had a hard time getting rid of Yagoza and his gang, each of whom wanted to shake my hand and tell me how legendary I was.
“To Phil!” my friends raised their glasses. “To you, Phil!”
I clinked my glass of fruit juice against theirs. The super final still lay ahead me — but they absolutely didn’t need to know about that.
“What you gonna do with all that money?” the curious gambler in Gleb asked.
“I think that’s none of our business,” Rose replied. “But knowing Mr. Panfilov, I’m sure he’ll want to invest it-”
“Not really,” I interrupted her. “It’s going to a different cause.”
I hadn’t received the prize money yet but they’d given me the certificate. On Monday, I was supposed to go to the organizers’ office with it and pick up the cash. Kostya was coming with me. From there, we were going straight to the bank to transfer the entire amount to the foreign clinic which was going to operate on Julie. Once that done, the clinic would send an invitation which would allow Kostya and Julie to apply for their visas. The same travel agent who’d arranged for Kostya to contact the clinic to begin with, now promised to sort out the visas promptly.
“Which cause is it?” Veronica asked with a sweet smile. “Come on, Phil! I don’t mean to be pushy, I’m just curious!”
“Leave him alone!” Cyril interrupted her. “Let him eat in peace!”
I still had three or four hours left until my match in the night club so I could allow myself a meal and some rest.
Kostya rose and raised his glass of mineral water. “Guys, I don’t know any of you. But I know Phil. And if you’re even half as good as he is...”
Everybody at the table switched their attention to him.
“I’d like to raise a toast to the health of my little sister Julie. You don’t know anything about her so you won’t understand why I’d like to toast her health. Let me explain. When she was two years old, our parents died in an accident. We were left alone,” he paused to make sure everybody was listening, then went on. “No one ever helped us without any strings attached. Julie is very ill. If she doesn’t get surgery in the very near future, she’ll never be able to walk again. This type of surgery isn’t available in our country. We need to go to Germany. Their specialists think they can take her on and even promise an almost hundred-percent recovery. Problem is, it costs over a million rubles[58]. That’s without travel and housing expenses,” he looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry, Phil. Your winnings won’t be enough. It’s only good for a down payment to get her accepted.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll have to work in Germany. I’ll beg and plead with them. They’re not animals, are they? Sure they won’t kick a four-year-old girl out without completing the treatment?” his voice broke.
I averted my e
yes.
Now it wouldn’t be enough just to take part in the illegal “super final”. I’d have to win it.
In the meantime, Kostya went on,
“In brief, it was me who should have participated in the tournament. But I got myself mugged so now I’ll never be able to box again. Ever,” his shoulders heaved like a child sobbing. “All I wanted to say was that Phil is donating his entire prize money to Julie’s treatment. Which is why I suggest we all drink a toast to her health! Phil has done so much for us — let’s hope it won’t be in vain!”
I may be wrong but as far as I can remember, this was the longest speech Kostya had ever made.
We clinked our glasses in silence. The girls averted their eyes, wiping away the tears.
“Phil, sweetie...” Veronica rose, walked around the table and gave me a hug. “You understand you’re a hero, don’t you?”
“Yes, he is!”
“A real hero!” Gleb enthused. “He’s saved my bacon! And he’s gonna save Julie too!”
As they began trading excited stories of my supposed chivalry, I’d been thinking. I wasn’t a hero, no. Not in the sense they meant.
I was a Hero — one of the many chosen by the Vaalphors.
Provided I passed the Trial.
* * *
TO THE CATCALLS of the excited club crowd — all those ladies in revealing cocktail dresses, fat government officials and shady businessmen in Versace suits — I was thrown back onto the ropes by the mother of all haymakers. For me, it was lights out.
An insistent voice penetrated my befuddled mind,
“...Three! Four! Five!”
It was the fifth round. I was swimming in my own blood, unable to get to my feet. My limbs didn’t obey me. My head felt as if nailed to the canvas. One of my eyes was swollen shut. My nose was broken. I struggled to breathe. It looked like one of my ribs was broken, too. The upper edge of my field of vision was strung with debuff icons like a war veteran’s chest.
Neither Passion to Win nor my level 11 in Boxing had done me any good. In a gloveless match, no amount of technique, it seems, can overcome brute force.
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