VISION GRID SYSTEM: THE COMEBACK OF RYOMA TAKEDA

By the following day, Umemoto’s accusation about Ryoma Takeda watching porn during the negotiation has spread far beyond the boxing world. And naturally, the Japanese media has absolutely no intention of letting something that stupid go to waste.

Television panels replay Umemoto’s accusation, commentators debate whether Ryoma’s behavior was disrespectful, and entertainment programs happily drag the story into discussions that have absolutely nothing to do with boxing.

Kurogane’s explanation is repeated just as often. Ryoma had been reading an article. An advertisement had suddenly started playing audio. That was all.

Online, however, logic is apparently optional.

@OsakaPunch: ”Ryoma watching porn during a negotiation is somehow the most Ryoma thing imaginable.”

@KansaiBoxingFan: ”Wait. He LEFT THE SOUND ON?”

@TokyoRonin: ”Umemoto went to Ronin to negotiate a world title fight and came back with a porn story. And you’re just gonna eat that shit up?”

@Mika_1988: ”Maybe it actually was porn. Kurogane is just doing his job.”

@FightNerdJP: ”An advertisement can literally play sound automatically, you idiots.”

@UmePower: ”Imagine being Umemoto and having to explain to everyone that you spent half an hour in a room where a porn ad became the most interesting thing that happened.”

@CruelKing’sKnight: ”Ryoma needs to stop making it so easy for people to hate him.”

@BoxingDad77: ”Umemoto needs to stop talking about Ryoma every five minutes.”

@NeutralCorner: ”I came here for boxing. Somehow I’m now an expert on Japanese porn advertisements.”

Ishimaru knows exactly how to use the chaos. By the time he returns to Osaka, he wastes no time turning the whole ridiculous controversy into promotion.

Standing in front of the press, he delivers the announcement with the confidence of a man who has just been handed several days’ worth of free publicity.

”The fight is officially confirmed. Ryoma Takeda will defend his WBO Lightweight World Championship against Umemoto Kimitada on May 25, 2019, at EDION Arena Osaka.”

”That’s less than six weeks from now, so once the tickets go on sale, I suggest you buy them early. With all the attention surrounding this fight, I don’t expect them to last very long. May 25. EDION Arena Osaka. Ryoma Takeda versus Umemoto Kimitada. Don’t miss it.”

Ten days after tickets go on sale, all eight thousand seats for Ryoma Takeda vs Umemoto Kimitada are gone.

Inside the management office of Shin-Osaka Teppan Boxing Gym, however, nobody looks particularly happy about it.

”Eight thousand. Ten days. We should’ve priced them higher from the beginning.”

One of the staff members stares at the sales report on the table as if the numbers have personally insulted him, while another staff member sits beside him with the same expression of regret.

”A lot higher,” the other staff member says. ”If we’d known demand was going to be this crazy, we could’ve started with much higher prices.”

Kamiya sits at the head of the table, listening to them complain before admitting his mistake..

”We left a ridiculous amount of money on the table,” he says.

And indeed, this is one of humanity’s more amusing habits. A person can spend one moment worrying about whether something will sell, then spend the next complaining that it sold too quickly.

Truth to be told, Kamiya had already priced the tickets with Ryoma’s drawing power in mind. They were not cheap, and nobody at the gym had expected them to be.

But apparently, success has a curious way of creating new problems. Once every seat disappears in ten days, the money they made suddenly feels like pocket change.

After rubbing his forehead for quite a while, Kamiya finally lifts his eyes from the report and turns toward the staff around the table.

”Fine. Then raise whatever we can still raise. Start with the sponsor slots. If the demand is really this strong, there’s no reason we should leave money sitting on the table.”

One of the staff members immediately shakes his head. ”The main sponsor slot is already sold. Even if we increase the prices for the remaining slots, we can’t suddenly charge more than what the main sponsor paid.”

”Then raise them as much as you reasonably can,” Kamiya says. ”Get in touch with the marketing agency and tell them to adjust the prices before the remaining slots disappear.”

Another staff member glances at the report and gives a doubtful smile. ”Honestly, I’m not even sure the remaining sponsor slots are going to last very long.”

”Then move faster,” Kamiya replies. ”I don’t want to hear about another thing selling out after we’ve already decided we should have charged more.”

A third staff member, who has been quietly looking through the broadcasting figures, finally speaks up.

”Instead of squeezing the sponsorships, why don’t we focus on the international broadcasting revenue? A few overseas broadcasters have already contacted us asking about the rights, and some of them are showing more interest than we originally expected. We could push the marketing side to raise their target, and if necessary, renegotiate their commission.”

Kamiya stares at him for a moment, his expression slowly shifting into one of disbelief as he tries to process what he has just heard.

It has only been twelve days since the fight was announced, yet overseas broadcasters are already approaching them for the rights.

”Do it,” he says at last, still staring at the figures. ”I want them to find out how much more the international market is willing to pay before somebody else finds out first.”

The staff members immediately begin making calls, opening spreadsheets, checking figures, and sending messages to the outside marketing teams.

Kamiya remains where he is, staring down at the event plans spread across the table. Now he finally understands what Kurogane was trying to tell them during the negotiation.

He can see how Ronin managed to generate more than two hundred million dollars from last year’s Tokyo Dome mega event. The gate had been enormous, but the real money had come from somewhere much larger: the global broadcasting rights.

He leans back slightly as he begins recalculating the entire project in his head. If they had been given even another month, Kamiya believes he could have pushed the event much further and chased revenue beyond one hundred million dollars.

The arena may only hold eight thousand people, but the audience watching from outside it has no such limit.

***

While Kamiya remains buried in the increasingly complicated business of the fight, Ishimaru and Umemoto are already fully focused on their own preparations.

Their training camp is set in the quieter mountain area of Minoh, north of Osaka, far enough from the city to keep reporters and curious fans from constantly appearing at the door.

For Ishimaru, the business can be handled by everyone else. For Umemoto, there is only one problem worth solving now: Ryoma Takeda.

And the best solution they can come up with is bringing in former Japanese champion Shinichi Yanagimoto, who relinquished his title last year and now sits eighth in the WBC rankings.

”Don’t chase him! Cut the fucking angle!”

Ishimaru’s voice cracks across the gym as Umemoto steps forward again, only for Yanagimoto to slip outside his lead foot and disappear from the line of attack.

Actually, Umemoto has already grown accustomed to dealing with opponents who refuse to retreat in a straight line, but Yanagimoto presents a different problem.

The southpaw stance alone disrupts the geometry he has learned to navigate. And to make it worse, Yanagimoto can switch stance whenever Umemoto begins to settle into the pattern.

When Umemoto turns with him, trying to adjust his angle, Yanagimoto’s left hand snaps across his guard…

Dsh!

…and catches him cleanly against the headgear, followed by a short right hook as Umemoto tries to recover his position.

DSH!

The impact still jolts his skull despite the padding.

”Don’t follow his feet! Make him move where you want him to move!”

Umemoto hears Ishimaru, but the advice does little to solve the mess in front of him.

Every time he thinks he has Yanagimoto trapped, another stance switch changes the angle, and every attempt to force his way inside is met with another counter.

He keeps coming anyway, and again…

Dsh!

A right hand clips his headgear.

And then…

Dsh!

A left cross catches him as he steps through, before…

Dhuack!

Another counter snaps his head backward.

For a moment, even the headgear does little to soften the force behind it. And instead of becoming frustrated, Umemoto lets his body answer on its own.

Yanagimoto circles, fires a jab-cross, then angles out before switching stance and firing another combination.

Dug. Dug.

Dsh! Dug. Thud! Bugh! Dug.

And once again, he slips outside the incoming right, pivots around the shoulder, and snaps a short hook before angling out again.

Umemoto makes another mistake with the angle, and…

DSH!

…gets punished by another counter.

Still, he keeps walking forward, breathing steadily, allowing the pressure to build inside him as he searches for that strange sensation he felt against Liam O’Connell.

After what should be the seventh counter of the round, finally the noise around the ring seems to recede. Umemoto’s eyes narrow, and somewhere beneath all that confusion, something begins to wake up.

Yanagimoto draws him in again, then traps him with another smooth switch-stance, his counter comes toward Umemoto’s face.

But at the last instant, Umemoto reacts, and the glove only clips the edge of his headgear near the forehead.

Dsh!

At the same time, Umemoto is already answering with a body blow.

BUGH!!!

The punch buries deep and stops Yanagimoto’s legs in place.

Immediately, Umemoto unleashes four devastating combinations in less than two seconds.

BUGH! BUGH! BAM! BOOM!!

Yanagimoto’s body folds under the assault, and the final punch drops him onto the canvas.