• Пожаловаться

Tom Schreck: TKO

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Tom Schreck: TKO» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. категория: Криминальный детектив / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

любовные романы фантастика и фэнтези приключения детективы и триллеры эротика документальные научные юмористические анекдоты о бизнесе проза детские сказки о религиии новинки православные старинные про компьютеры программирование на английском домоводство поэзия

Выбрав категорию по душе Вы сможете найти действительно стоящие книги и насладиться погружением в мир воображения, прочувствовать переживания героев или узнать для себя что-то новое, совершить внутреннее открытие. Подробная информация для ознакомления по текущему запросу представлена ниже:

Tom Schreck TKO

TKO: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «TKO»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Tom Schreck: другие книги автора


Кто написал TKO? Узнайте фамилию, как зовут автора книги и список всех его произведений по сериям.

TKO — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «TKO», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

I wrapped my hands and moved around enough to break a sweat so that when Smitty motioned me into the ring, I’d be ready. Smitty worked everyone through the mitts, and you did it on his schedule-it was understood that you didn’t leave him waiting. Nothing was ever said, but it got around the gym with the fighters real quick what expectations were. Smitty had been my only trainer and he believed in repetition. He would tailor your training for an upcoming fight, but before you got working on your strategy he would run you through the same fundamental drills.

You could tell a fighter trained by Smitty. One way was by conditioning-if you weren’t in shape you didn’t fight. That was all there was to that. The second way was we all had superb defense. Smitty used this drill to make sure that your punching hand went back to protect your head so much that I couldn’t not recoil my punch because it was simply ingrained into my nervous system. I’ve been knocked out more than a few times, but every single one of them came when I was throwing at the same time as my opponent. It was never because I dropped my guard.

“I got a call about a short-notice fight,” Smitty said after he took me through five rounds.

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“Money’s good. It’s on the undercard of the lightweight title fight with the Irish champ, what’s his name…?”

“Mulrooney.”

“That’s it. The guy you’re fighting was the ’04 Olympic Team heavyweight. The name’s Marquason.”

“Is he good?” I said.

“Real good.” Smitty’s expression never changed and you knew he didn’t bullshit. “Hits hard, moves well. He’s 12 and 0 with eleven knockouts. He’s coming off an eight-month layoff because of a cut he got from a butt.”

“How good’s the money?”

“Fifteen grand.”

“Shit-whose he got backing him?” I asked.

“You know who, with the spiky hair.” Smitty rolled his eyes.

“Where’s the fight?”

“The Garden.”

“The theater?”

“Nope, the main arena.”

“I’m in,” I said.

A chance to fight in Madison Square Garden was like getting to take batting practice with the Yankees. I’ve fought in the small theater, the Felt Forum, a few times but that wasn’t the same. This was a chance to fight in the same room, even the same ring, where Ray Robinson, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Willie Pep, Joe Frazier, and Muhammad Ali fought.

The fight was only four days away, which meant I wasn’t going to have a lot of time to train. I was better off warming up every day, eating right, and working on a specific strategy for the guy. The next five days would be like final-exam week in college. Smitty would drill me over and over on what the guy does, how he moves, how he sets up his punches. By the end of the week I’d want to kill Smitty, but it was what I needed.

Knowing he had a serious cut in his last fight was important. Smitty told me that the contract specified the popular Mexican style gloves for the bout. They were known as the “puncher’s gloves” because they had very little padding over the knuckles. They also had a slight seam running up the side, and that seam would be an important part of my strategy. I would spend the next five days throwing my jab just to the right and dragging that seam across the bag.

I set up a schedule with Smitty and headed up the stairs to the locker room. On my way I took a peek in the auxiliary gym to check out the karate club. The guys who ran it when I was a kid didn’t run it anymore; it had changed hands a bunch of times. Through the little square window I saw a class of about fifteen, mostly guys in their late teens or early twenties.

The two black belts were shouting orders in Japanese and strutting in between the lined-up formation of the students. They swaggered back and forth and tucked their thumbs inside their black belts, occasionally making eye contact with a student after eying him up and down. Their black and red gi s were professionally pressed, and they had their names embroidered on the left sides of their uniforms.

The shorter one, Mitchell, had a thick mop of black hair, oversized biceps, and a mouth that went crooked as he barked out his orders. Harter was taller and wirier with his blond hair pulled into a Steven Seagal-inspired ponytail. Both of them had had dragons tattooed on their forearms-Mitchell’s was red and Harter’s was green. Hey, individuality is everything.

They were obviously pumping iron besides their karate training. Their biceps and pectorals were oversized in proportion to the rest of their bodies in that way that bodybuilders create their physiques. It always looked out of proportion to me and not the least bit functional. If you look at pictures of the bodies of Muhammad Ali, Ray Robinson, or, for that matter, Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee, you’ll see physique in perfect proportion and built for function.

Mitchell had four stripes on his black belt and Harter had three, so I guessed Mitchell was one degree of douchebag above Harter. Harter, with his ultra-cool green dragon tattoo displayed under his expertly folded uniform sleeve, was going off on this one scrawny kid in the back row. The kid looked like he weighed 140 pounds soaking wet, and he had a wicked pizza face. He was on his knuckles, counting out pushups in between gasps while the black belt stood over him, smirking and letting him know he didn’t have what it took to ever be a black belt.

I hated watching jerkoffs like this get their abusive shit off under the guise of martial arts discipline. It made no sense, and karate had more than its share of assholes who thrived in it because they wanted to be in charge of someone and feel powerful. It pissed me off, but that’s how a lot of karate classes worked. The goal was to break students down before you built their spirit back up. The problem was that I didn’t see the building of anything going on. What I did see was one zit-faced kid shaking and crying from pushups. Not my issue, I told myself.

I showered and hit AJ’s. A lot of people shake their heads when they hear I don’t forgo the Schlitzes when I’m training for a fight. Well, I cut back, lay off the Jim Beam, and I watch what I eat a little better. I’m a heavyweight and I don’t have to make a certain weight, and a few beers aren’t going to harm me. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

“Hey, fellas,” I said, walking toward my seat just to the left of the taps.

“Rocco’s all bound up,” TC said.

“Bound up?” I made the mistake of asking.

“What’s he seeing, some dominatrix with a fetish for ropes?” Jerry Number Two said.

“I’m fuckin’ constipated again,” a very uncheerful Rocco said.

“Again… or should we say still?” Jerry Number One said.

“How about you’re an asshole again and still?” Rocco retorted.

“Isn’t that the problem?” Jerry Number Two asked. “That your asshole is still again and again?”

“Man, you did too many drugs…,” Rocco said through a grimace.

“You should lay off the cheese,” TC said. “You eat a brick of that Cracker Barrel every fuckin’ day.”

“Talk about shittin’ a brick… or not shittin’ a brick,” Jerry Number Two said, somewhat rhetorically.

“You know, I read that when John Wayne died they found forty pounds of impacted fecal material in his colon,” TC said.

“Fecal?” Jerry Number One asked.

“You know… shit,” TC said.

“What kind of shit?” Jerry Number One asked.

“Shit shit, regular shit… you know, poo,” TC said.

Читать дальше

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «TKO»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «TKO» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё не прочитанные произведения.


Frank Lorca: Der rote Henker
Der rote Henker
Frank Lorca
Tom Schreck: On the Ropes
On the Ropes
Tom Schreck
Tom Schreck: Out Cold
Out Cold
Tom Schreck
Отзывы о книге «TKO»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «TKO» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.