CHAPTER 56: CHAPTER 56: TOMMY VS LIAM I – COUNTER-PUNCHER’S CLINIC

The bell rang sharp and clear, cutting through the tournament atmosphere like a blade. Both fighters moved toward center ring, their sneakers squeaking against the canvas that still showed scuff marks from previous bouts.

Tommy bounced forward with explosive energy, his usual aggressive style on full display. Each step pounded the canvas with purpose, sending vibrations through the ring floor. His gloves tapped together twice, a nervous habit that had become ritual.

Liam glided to meet him with predatory calm, his feet barely making a sound against the worn canvas. The contrast was immediate and dangerous—Tommy’s raw energy versus Liam’s calculated control.

From ringside, Javier could see the difference in their approaches. Tommy looked like he was about to sprint a hundred meters; Liam moved like he had all day.

"Box smart!" Danny called from the corner, his voice cutting over the tournament crowd.

Tommy opened with his signature jab, the leather snapping through the air toward Liam’s headgear. The punch carried good form—elbow tucked, shoulder behind it, feet planted properly.

Clean contact with the front of Liam’s protective headgear. The impact echoed through the venue with a satisfying snap that made the judges lean forward slightly. First point scored.

"There you go!" Danny shouted, pumping his fist. "Stay behind that jab!"

Liam’s response came immediately and with surgical precision. As Tommy reset his stance, Liam’s head moved two inches to the left and his jab shot straight through Tommy’s guard like a piston.

The leather connected flush with Tommy’s forehead through his headgear, snapping his head back slightly. Sweat droplets flew from the impact point, catching the gym lights like tiny diamonds.

The referee’s eyes tracked both shots, noting the clean technique for the scoring officials positioned at ringside.

Tommy pressed forward immediately, his footwork sharp as he cut off the ring. Miguel’s lessons showed in his movement—step, cut the angle, step again—forcing the opponent toward the ropes where there was less room to maneuver.

His pressure worked at first. Liam found himself backing toward the ropes, forced to deal with Tommy’s advancing aggression. When Liam tried to circle left, Tommy was ready.

Tommy threw his bread-and-butter combination—jab to set up distance, cross to score the point. The jab caught Liam’s glove with a sharp thud, but the cross slipped past his defense completely.

Solid contact with Liam’s chest protector. The punch drove him back a half step, and Tommy felt the satisfying impact travel up his arm. Clean scoring shot that the officials could see clearly from their elevated positions.

"Beautiful! Keep pressing!" Danny’s voice carried pride and encouragement.

From his corner, Javier leaned forward against the barrier. This looked competitive. Tommy was using his pressure intelligently, scoring clean points while staying in control. Maybe the size difference wouldn’t matter after all.

The tournament crowd began to stir. Other fighters stopped their warm-ups to watch. This wasn’t the mismatch some had expected.

But Liam remained calm under pressure, his breathing controlled and steady. When Tommy stepped in with another combination, eager to build on his success, Liam’s defensive response was minimal but perfectly executed.

Tommy’s jab came straight down the middle—Liam’s head moved three inches to the right, the leather whistling past his ear. Tommy’s follow-up hook aimed for Liam’s ribs—Liam ducked just enough, the punch grazing the top of his headgear.

Before Tommy could reset, Liam exploded upward with a counter left cross that caught Tommy flush on the side of his headgear.

The impact rattled Tommy’s head inside the protective padding. His vision blurred momentarily, but the headgear absorbed most of the force. Still, the clean technique was unmistakable—textbook counter-punching.

"Stay focused!" Danny called, recognizing the shift in momentum.

Tommy shook his head to clear it, the protective gear doing its job but the stunning effect of perfect timing still registering. His feet felt slightly unsteady for a moment.

"Box!" the referee commanded, keeping both fighters active and engaged.

Tommy tried to reestablish his rhythm, throwing steady jabs to control the distance and pace, but Liam’s counter-punching was becoming a problem. Every time Tommy committed to an attack, Liam’s return shot found its mark with surgical precision.

Tommy jabbed—Liam slipped left and his counter right hand caught Tommy’s temple through the headgear. Tommy hooked to the body—Liam ducked and drove an uppercut into Tommy’s chest protector. Each exchange looked competitive, but Liam’s shots were landing cleaner and more precisely.

The tournament officials at ringside leaned forward, making careful notes on their scorecards. Clean technique was being rewarded, and Liam’s counters were sharper than Tommy’s aggressive rushes.

"He’s timing you!" Danny shouted from the corner. "Change your rhythm! Feint before you attack!"

But Tommy was starting to feel the pressure of fighting a superior technician. His breathing became slightly heavier as he worked harder for each scoring opportunity, while Liam seemed to move with effortless efficiency.

Halfway through the round, frustration began creeping into Tommy’s approach. He could feel the round slipping away despite his early success. His punches started carrying more desperation and less technique.

Tommy loaded up on a big right cross, dropping his shoulder slightly before throwing. The tell was obvious to anyone with experience—Liam saw it coming from a mile away.

Liam stepped back half a step, letting Tommy’s power shot sail harmlessly past his chin. Tommy’s momentum carried him forward, slightly off balance from overcommitting to the punch.

As Tommy stumbled forward, Liam stepped in with textbook precision. His left uppercut traveled straight up through Tommy’s guard, connecting cleanly under his chin through the protective headgear.

Tommy’s legs wobbled slightly as the shot sent vibrations through his skull. The headgear absorbed the major impact, preventing serious damage, but the clean technique was undeniable. His knees dipped for a moment before his balance returned.

The referee immediately stepped closer, his experienced eyes checking Tommy’s condition. "You okay?" he asked, voice calm but authoritative.

Tommy nodded quickly, shaking his head to demonstrate his alertness. "I’m good."

The ref studied his eyes for another second, then stepped back. "Box!"

Liam didn’t rush forward like an inexperienced fighter looking for a knockout. He maintained perfect distance, patient and controlled. His corner shouted quiet approval for the tactical discipline.

"Stay calm!" Danny’s voice cut through the crowd noise. "Don’t chase him!"

But Tommy was already feeling the pressure. He knew he was behind on points and tried to mount another offensive. His jab came out faster, more urgent. Liam’s head movement was beautiful—minimal but perfectly timed, making Tommy’s shots miss by millimeters.

Liam’s counters began landing with increasing frequency. His left hand found Tommy’s headgear again. A quick right to the chest protector. Another left that caught Tommy’s temple. Each shot was clean and technical, exactly the kind of scoring that amateur judges looked for. Tommy was working twice as hard but landing half as many clean shots.

"Thirty seconds!" the timekeeper called out, his voice echoing through the gym.

Tommy knew he needed something significant. He rushed forward with a combination that mixed aggression with desperation—jab, cross, hook—throwing with everything he had behind each punch.

Liam’s defense was a clinic in amateur boxing technique. Slip left, duck right, parry with his glove—each punch either missed completely or was deflected harmlessly. His footwork kept him in perfect position to counter.

As Tommy’s wild hook sailed over his ducking head, Liam came up with a counter left hook that caught Tommy flush on the side of his headgear.

The shot spun Tommy’s head sideways inside the protective gear. Sweat flew in a spray pattern that caught the overhead lights. Tommy’s legs took a small step to the side to maintain balance.

The bell rang to end round one, its sharp clang cutting through the tension like a knife.

Both fighters separated immediately, walking back to their corners with the automatic response of trained athletes. Tommy’s chest heaved as he moved, his breathing noticeably labored compared to Liam’s controlled rhythm.

Danny was already standing with the stool ready, ice packs and towels arranged with professional efficiency. "Sit down, breathe through your nose," he said, his voice calm but urgent.

Tommy collapsed onto the stool, his legs feeling heavier than they should after just three minutes. Sweat dripped steadily from his chin despite the protective gear, his body having worked much harder than his opponent’s.

"Here’s what happened," Danny said, applying a cold towel to Tommy’s neck. The ice sent shivers down Tommy’s spine but helped clear his head. "You started great, but you’re walking into his counters."

Danny pressed an ice pack against Tommy’s swollen gloves, the cold seeping through the leather. "He’s reading your attacks like a book. Every time you throw straight at him, he’s ready with the counter."

"I can’t catch him," Tommy gasped between deep breaths. "Every time I think I have him, he’s already moving."

"That’s because you’re telegraphing everything," Danny explained, wiping sweat from Tommy’s forehead. "Drop your shoulder before the cross, lean before the hook. He sees it all coming."

Danny grabbed Tommy’s water bottle, squirting a small amount between his lips. "Next round, feint first. Make him react to a fake, then throw your real punch. Mix up your timing."

Across the ring, Liam sat calmly on his stool, his breathing barely elevated. His corner applied minimal ice—just a quick cold towel across his shoulders. The contrast with Tommy’s labored recovery was stark and telling.

Liam’s trainer whispered quiet instructions, but there was no urgency in their body language. They looked like a team in complete control, making minor adjustments to a game plan that was working perfectly.

The officials at ringside compared their scorecards, their expressions indicating a clear preference for Liam’s clean counter-punching over Tommy’s aggressive but less precise attack patterns.

"You’re not out of this," Danny continued, checking Tommy’s pupils for signs of concussion. "But you can’t keep fighting his fight. This is amateur boxing—points matter more than power."

Danny applied petroleum jelly to a small red mark on Tommy’s cheek where repeated shots had found the same spot. "Use your jab to disrupt his timing. Don’t give him clean looks at you."

"Ten seconds!" the timekeeper called out, his voice carrying across the tournament venue.

Danny pulled the stool away and gripped Tommy’s shoulders firmly. "Two more rounds. Make him fight your fight, not his."

Tommy stood on legs that felt heavier than when he’d started. His hands shook slightly as he bounced on his toes, trying to find his rhythm again. But his eyes still carried determination—he wasn’t quitting.

The referee called both fighters to center ring. "Round two! Protect yourselves at all times!"

Liam bounced lightly on his feet, his calm confidence unchanged. His left hand twitched slightly—a southpaw’s natural weapon that had already caused Tommy so much trouble.

The counter-puncher had established clear control through superior timing and technical precision. In amateur boxing, where clean shots scored points and power was secondary, Liam was winning decisively.

Tommy needed to find a way to change the dynamic completely, or his semifinal dreams would end in six more minutes of systematic technical dismantling.

The ref raised his hand. "Box!"