Morning of August 13, 1985. Tom Wilson, veteran reporter for Boxing Illustrated, rubbed his tired eyes, grabbed a handful of colorful pill bottles, and knocked back his blood-pressure, blood-sugar, cholesterol, heart, and angina meds all at once. Only then did he hit "send" on his final preview piece about "Razor" Ruddock versus Victor Li.
He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and stared at the headline glowing on his massive computer screen:
Tech vs Brutish Power: A Massacre With No Suspense.
"Lord, I just hope the fat kid lasts three rounds," Tom muttered to the empty office. "Otherwise the fans are gonna want their money back."
The same scene was playing out in sports desks from New York to Chicago to L.A.
Pretty much every boxing writer in America was saying the same thing in their own words: Victor Li stepping in against Ruddock was like a clumsy rhino squaring up to a lightning-fast cheetah. No contest.
The cover of Sports Illustrated showed Ruddock's trademark uppercut frozen mid-flight, with a screaming headline:
RAZOR READY TO HARVEST: His fists will slice that giant Eastern body wide open like a straight razor!
Inside, the stats breakdown was brutal:
Donovan "Razor" Ruddock
23 years old, Ontario, Canada
6′3″, 238 lbs, 82-inch reach
Record: 13-0 (11 KOs)
Style: slick mover, silky combos, signature "Ruddock uppercut" has sent five guys straight to the ER.
Mental grade: A+.
Victor Li
19 years old, South Side Chicago
6′1″, 385 lbs, 80-inch reach
Record: 2-0 (2 KOs)
Style: scary power but raw as hell, no real training visible, moves like a refrigerator.
Mental grade: C (based on two quick fights).
The New York Times columnist Fisher didn't even try to be nice:
"If this were a real fight instead of a circus act, the promoters better have an ambulance on standby—for that poor Eastern fat man."
Vegas sportsbooks had the odds lopsided as hell.
Caesars Palace opened Ruddock at 1.05-to-1 and Li at 8.5-to-1.
Bet a hundred bucks on Razor, you'd win five bucks.
Bet the same hundred on Victor and (if pigs flew) you'd cash out $850.
"This is free money," veteran gambler Jack Morris said at the casino bar, sipping whiskey. "I looked the fat kid up. His last opponent was a debut guy. The one before that got wrecked by Mike Tyson. Now he's fighting Razor? Give me a break!"
But on August 13, as the whole country was laughing at Victor, something wild happened.
Ruddock stepped off a private jet at Atlantic City's Trump Plaza Hotel looking like a million bucks—sharp navy suit, shades, bodyguards, the works.
Reporters swarmed him the second he hit the VIP lane.
"Razor, what's your prediction for the fight?"
ESPN shoved a mic in his face.
Ruddock stopped, slowly took off the shades, and gave that hawk-eyed stare.
"Prediction?" he smirked. "Do you need a prediction when a grown man is about to teach a toddler a lesson?"
He scanned the crowd and raised his voice. "I hear y'all calling that Eastern fat boy a 'giant killer'? Ha! I'm gonna show him what real pro boxing looks like in two rounds—maybe three if I'm feeling generous. All he needs ready is a nice, comfy stretcher."
The clip went viral across every network in America.
Reporters hunted for Victor Li to get a comeback, but the mysterious kid went radio silent—no press conference, no interviews, nothing.
That is, until the morning of August 14, when Victor finally showed up at the Trump Plaza media center… wearing a perfectly pressed gray suit, looking more like a Wall Street banker than a prizefighter. Frankie, his trainer, stood beside him.
"Mr. Li, any response to Ruddock calling you a 'little kid'?"
An Atlantic City Press reporter fired first.
Victor smiled, reached into his jacket, and slowly pulled out a betting slip. He unfolded it right in front of the cameras.
It was a Trump Casino ticket:
Victor Li – betting on Victor Li to win – $500,000.
The room exploded. Cameras flashed like a thunderstorm. Reporters shoved each other trying to get closer.
Half a million dollars!
Biggest self-bet by a fighter in years. If Victor won, Trump would owe him $4.25 million.
"This… this is insane!" a CNBC money guy yelled. "At current odds, he'd walk away with over six million total!"
Victor calmly slipped the ticket back in his pocket, looked at the chaos, and dropped one line:
"Ben Franklin don't lie."
Boom. The entire boxing world lost its mind.
Ruddock heard about it and flipped out. He called an emergency press conference, screaming that Victor was "insulting the sport" and "desperate for attention."
But when reporters asked if Razor would bet on himself? Crickets. Dude refused.
"That yellow-skinned pig thinks money scares me?" Ruddock roared into the cameras, ignoring his manager's frantic signals. "Tomorrow I'm putting him and his cash in the hospital together!"
Victor got on the phone right then and there: "Big talk. Put your money where your mouth is."
Ruddock lost it and slapped $50,000 on himself.
Trump was laughing his ass off—house always wins on the vig.
"See that?" the Donald grinned to his people. "That's how you spot a smart guy!"
The tension hit fever pitch at the afternoon weigh-in.
The Trump Plaza grand ballroom got turned into a weigh-in stage. Hundreds of reporters, VIPs, ESPN broadcasting live nationwide.
Ruddock came out first—black trunks, ripped to shreds, muscles popping under the lights like a Greek statue. He stepped on the scale: 238 lbs—perfect heavyweight.
He flexed his steel abs for the cameras, dragged a thumb across his throat, and the crowd went nuts.
Victor thought the guy's whole routine was about as creative as a kindergartener's drawing.
Then Victor walked out.
The vibe in the room got weird fast.
This mountain of a man lumbered toward the scale in nothing but trunks. His belly was round as a barrel, pecs like three stacked slabs of beef, arms thick as tree trunks, and that same don't-mess-with-me baby face.
"385 pounds!"
The announcer shouted it, and the place erupted in gasps.
That's 147 pounds heavier than Ruddock—basically a whole extra grown man.
Victor was about to step off when Ruddock charged forward until they were nose-to-nose.
"Tomorrow's your funeral, fat pig," Razor hissed, low enough most mics barely caught it. "I'm gonna make sure that stupid yellow face never forgets today."
Victor didn't blink. But if you looked close, his eyes turned ice-cold.
He leaned in just enough for the mic to catch: "I thought Canadians were polite. Guess you're the exception."
Ruddock burst out laughing for the crowd. "Hear that? The dummy's trying to school me on manners!"
Then he flipped Victor the bird and pointed right at his eyes. "Can those little slits even see my punches coming? Or are you too busy staring at takeout boxes?"
The room went dead silent, then exploded in outrage.
A bunch of Asian-American reporters jumped up—blatant racism on national TV.
Victor started forward, hand already cocked for a slap, but Frankie grabbed him.
"He's baiting you!"
Security rushed in, pulling them apart. As they dragged Victor back, he got close enough to whisper so only Ruddock heard:
"Tomorrow I'm putting you to sleep with your own uppercut pose. Remember this moment. It's the night your career starts going downhill."
Victor shoved him hard enough to almost start a riot.
Security finally separated them. The weigh-in ended in total chaos, but everybody knew the real fireworks were coming tomorrow night.
That evening, Victor was alone in a quiet corner of the hotel gym, stretching slow and easy.
Frankie walked in with a fat stack of newspapers.
"Every single one of 'em is clowning on us," Frankie said, tossing the pile onto a chair. "Even the National Enquirer called your bet 'the dumbest gamble of the year.'"
Victor didn't stop stretching. His breathing was deep and steady.
"Let 'em laugh, Frankie. You know why Foley picked Ruddock for me?"
"'Cause he's a tough son of a bitch!"
Frankie lowered his voice. "Soft guys make you think every fighter's a pushover. A real hard man earns your respect. Outside that uppercut, Ruddock can't touch you!"
Victor nodded and finally stood up.
He walked over to the heavy bag, ran his hand across the rough canvas.
"Thirteen wins, eleven KOs. Everybody's scared of that uppercut."
A sly grin crept across his face. "I don't get it. Why's everybody acting like Razor's gonna kill me? Like this fight's already a death sentence?
One year ago I left the South Side and started this ride. Golden Gloves nationwide—crowds loved me everywhere I went, won the whole thing, had the world by the tail.
That energy, that spring-in-your-step feeling—it's still right here. And now, just a few months later, this is supposed to be my graveyard?
These media guys flip faster than a burger on a grill.
Who writes that script?
My heart's pounding, sure. But I'm not afraid of burning hot. I'm not afraid of things getting white-hot. I'm not afraid of getting scorched here, scorched there. These hands? They don't shake.
Bottom line: tomorrow night it's 385 pounds against 238 pounds.
The edge is mine."
Frankie got dead serious. "Victor, weight doesn't win fights—"
"Money don't lie, Frankie."
Victor repeated his line from earlier, then threw a weird, whipping motion at the bag—right hand slicing upward in a blur you could barely track.
"And me? I don't gamble."
Meanwhile, up in the presidential suite, Ruddock and his crew were popping champagne like the fight was already over.
Three empty bottles on the table, room thick with cigarette and weed smoke.
"Boss, you shouldn't have poked the bear like that," his manager Carl said, sweating. "I watched tape on the kid. Something off about him."
Ruddock waved him off and cracked another bottle. "Off? That walking pile of blubber? Carl, relax. Tomorrow night we'll be cashing checks and tearing up the clubs!"
He raised his glass to the Atlantic City skyline and yelled:
"To tomorrow's KO! Let that dude find out who really runs this town!"