VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

November 24th, 2018

By the time evening settles over London, the O2 Arena is already alive with excitement. Deep in the fighters’ locker-room area, however, Malik Adebayo remains under a pressure unlike anything he has felt before.

After watching the recording of Ryoma’s fight against Cabello, Malik had a miserable night. He was haunted by a demon through a long disorienting nightmare, where his own body refused to move properly whenever he tried to flee. No matter where he attempted to run, the demon was always there ahead of him, waiting.

It was not the kind of nightmare that ended with a sudden scare and sent him jolting awake. The fear lingered, stretched out over what felt like an exhausting eternity. And the mental exhaustion from that restless night still lingers with him now, following him into the locker room.

Meanwhile, Coach Darren keeps pacing in front of him, his expression growing more irritated and impatient with every turn.

”That’s more than eighteen pounds, Malik,” Darren grumbles. ”What the hell were you thinking? You’ve put eighteen bloody pounds back on in barely thirty hours. That’s a hell of a lot for your body to carry into a fight.”

And sure enough, aside from the mental exhaustion, Malik has also taken his weight regain a little too far. After dropping all the way to 60.53 kilograms at the weigh-in, he apparently decided he hadn’t had enough of the weight-cut drama and went straight to 68.7 kilograms instead.

”That’s more than thirteen percent,” Darren adds. ”Ten percent was more than enough, Malik. Now look at you… Maybe you’ll hit a bit heavier. But your body hasn’t had thirty hours to figure out what the hell you’ve just done to it.”

Malik keeps his mouth shut. From the outside, he looks like a fighter taking his coach’s bollocking without a fuss. Inside, though, his head is somewhere else entirely, still tangled up in all the strange things Ryoma has put into it.

Barry notices the way Malik keeps his head down, and a flicker of sympathy crosses his face.

”Give him a break, Darren,” he says. ”Things have been a bit out of our hands since that fever hit. No point dwelling on it now. We’ve got a fight to deal with. We just need to work around what we’ve got and figure out how to handle Ryoma Takeda.”

Darren finally stops pacing and looks back at Malik. Now that he actually takes a proper look at him, he can see the hesitation in his face, and the uncertainty. This is not the Malik he knows.

Malik is usually the joker of the camp, always ready with some stupid remark or a laugh at someone else’s expense. He usually fights with the same loose energy, with enough of explosion behind it.

A new game plan alone will not be enough today. Darren knows he needs to bring that version of Malik back first.

”Come on, Malik,” Darren says, walking over to grab the focus mitts. ”Let’s get that big body moving. Hopefully most of that weight’s just water. Might sweat a couple of kilos out.”

”You’re having a laugh.” Malik scoffs. ”If I sweat off two kilos, I’ll have no gas left for the first round.”

Darren chuckles. ”I’m joking, mate. Now come on. Let’s get every muscle in you warmed up.”

Malik gets to his feet and walks over to him. ”That joke was shit. If you’re not funny, don’t force it.”

Darren raises the mitts. ”I know already. Now, jab.”

Malik snaps a left into the target.

Pak!

”Again. One-two.”

PAK! PAK!

”Hook. Cross. Move.”

Malik follows, his breathing still heavier than Darren would like.

”There we go. For a bloke carrying nearly sixty-nine kilos, you’re not completely useless.”

Malik gives him a sideways look.

”What a lovely compliment.”

”Don’t get emotional. Right hand.”

Malik snorts, but the corner of his mouth finally lifts. And Darren keeps the rhythm going, calling combinations faster now.

The lighthearted mittwork does its job. Little by little, it pushes most of the pressure in Malik’s head to the back of his mind. The hesitation disappears from his punches completely.

His movements become sharper, his explosiveness starts coming back, and even his footwork begins to look like itself again. But Darren knows that explosiveness is going to cost Malik somewhere else.

”I’m going to be straight with you now.” Darren lowers the mitts, and looks directly into Malik’s eyes. You’re not keeping this pace for twelve rounds. Hell, I’m not even sure you’ll still be sharp after the seventh.”

Malik’s shoulders sag. ”I know. I can feel it myself.”

”Well, we might as well make that extra weight work for us,” Darren says. ”You know Takeda’s habit of fighting passively early on. First round, he likes to study his opponent. So use that. Put him under pressure. Don’t give him room to breathe. Work the body, keep the distance tight, and hit him as hard as you can.”

Malik gives him a crooked smile. ”Still ruthless as ever, aren’t you?”

”Of course,” Darren says. ”We make a living beating the shit out of people around here. Don’t go soft on me now.”

***

By the time both fighters stand opposite each other in the centre of the ring, the transformation in Malik is complete. The uncertainty that had weighed on him earlier is nowhere to be seen.

In its place is the familiar swagger of the fighter everyone had seen the day before; the loud, confident joker who seems to treat even the biggest moments like another opportunity to make someone laugh.

He rolls his shoulders, and flashes Ryoma a grin. ”Oh, where’s your superhero mask from yesterday? Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose half your powers without it?”

”Forget my mask,” Ryoma says with a casual smile. ”Tell me, Malik… are you sure your fever is gone?”

The referee glances between them, already looking fed up with the exchange. ”Right, both of you. Enough with the drama, already. This is my ring, so you listen when I tell you to do something. Keep it clean, protect yourselves, and no funny business. Understood?”

Malik gives a casual nod. ”Yeah, yeah. Got it.”

Ryoma doesn’t say a word or even bother to nod. He simply keeps his eyes locked on Malik’s, as if diving into his mind.

The referee looks at them for another second, as if making sure neither of them is about to start another argument.

”Good. Touch gloves.”

Malik raises his gloves first. Ryoma meets them with a brief tap, neither fighter taking his eyes off the other as they retreat to opposite sides of the ring.

”Well, here we go, then,” the first commentator says, his voice carrying through the broadcast. ”Ryoma Takeda and Malik Adebayo, moments away from getting this one underway. And what a build-up we’ve had. Yesterday’s weigh-in was quite something.”

”Quite something is putting it mildly,” the second commentator replies. ”Masks, conspiracy theories, talk of viruses being engineered by pharmaceutical companies, and then Takeda casually predicting that this fight won’t make it past four rounds.”

”And Adebayo certainly didn’t let him get away with it.”

”No, he didn’t. Malik was having a fair old laugh at Takeda’s expense. But he also made one thing very clear… he believes that belt is coming home with him tonight.”

”A bold statement from a challenger. Though after everything we heard yesterday, I suspect neither man is short on confidence.”

The bell for the opening round finally rings across the O2 Arena.

Ding!

Malik immediately steps out from his corner and takes the centre of the ring. His feet are light and his movements sharp from the very first second, the sudden intensity drawing a huge roar from the crowd.

Ryoma calmly moves toward him, stopping just outside Malik’s range. He settles into a loose guard held slightly forward, his upper body swaying subtly with relaxed movement.

From what he has seen so far, Ryoma can already tell that Malik looks noticeably bigger. His Vision Grid System has already accounted for the possibility of that extra, unwanted weight, and he understands exactly what it could mean for Malik’s performance, right down to the smallest details.

Now, he simply wants to see how Malik will approach the fight while carrying all that extra weight.

”Come on, brother…” Ryoma taunts. ”Show me what you’ve got.”

Malik raises an eyebrow. The taunt immediately reminds him of Darren’s words in the locker room; that Ryoma will likely spend the opening round studying him. So he wastes no time putting that advice into practice.

Stepping in sharply, he takes the initiative with a heavy three-punch combination: a stiff jab, a diagonal lead hook aimed at the body, followed by an overhand right.

Ryoma catches the jab cleanly on his right palm, drops the guard just in time to absorb the hook, before snapping both hands into a tight double guard.

Dap!

Dug!

DHUGH!

The final punch crashes into Ryoma’s guard, driving both gloves back against his face.

”He’s fast…”

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Malik quickly slides his lead foot forward, already loading a follow-up to build another pressure.

But Ryoma swiftly makes a side step, shifts to a new angle, and lets Malik’s left cut only the empty air.

Malik keeps the hunt with a series of heavy and sharp punches, but Ryoma never lets him build his combination. He keeps changing angle with economical movements before Malik can send the third punch.

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