The dim light of the setting sun filtered through the windows of a small, cluttered living room. Posters of legendary boxers adorned the peeling walls, and a worn-out punching bag hung in the corner, its leather surface cracked from years of use. Seated cross-legged on the floor was Ali, a wiry fifteen-year-old with messy black hair and wide, expressive eyes. His focus was entirely on the flickering screen of an ancient VHS player, where the grainy footage of a boxing match played out.
The man in the video—a younger, leaner version of Ali's father—danced across the ring with a determination that seemed almost tangible. His movements were fluid, his punches precise. Each jab and hook landed with the force of a man fighting not just an opponent, but life itself.
Ali leaned closer, his breath hitching as his father's right hook sent his opponent staggering. "Come on, Ayah," he whispered, his fists unconsciously mirroring the movements on the screen. The match ended with his father's hand raised in victory, but the crowd's cheers on the tape were drowned out by the weight of reality in the room.
The video stopped abruptly, and the screen went black. Ali stared at the reflection of his own face on the screen. The weight of his father's unfulfilled dreams pressed heavily on his chest.
"Ali, makan! Dinner's ready!" his mother's voice called from the kitchen.
"I'll be there in a minute!" Ali replied, hastily ejecting the tape. He placed it back in its case with reverence, as if it were a sacred relic.
As he walked to the dining table, the faint scent of spices filled the air. His mother, a petite woman with a sharp gaze, was setting down a plate of rice and curry. She noticed the distant look on his face.
"Still watching those old videos?" she asked, her tone tinged with concern.
Ali hesitated, then nodded. "Ayah was amazing. I just… I wish I could've seen him in his prime."
His mother sighed, sitting down across from him. "Your father was passionate about boxing, yes. But look where it got him. A broken hand and a pile of bills. Focus on your studies, Ali. That's where your future is."
Ali didn't reply, but his grip on the spoon tightened.
---
The next day at school, Ali sat slumped at his desk, trying to blend into the background. SMK Perak's classroom was abuzz with chatter, and as usual, he felt like a bystander in a world that moved too fast.
"Ali! Stop daydreaming and pass me the textbook," Zahra's voice cut through his thoughts.
He turned to see his best friend grinning at him, her glasses slightly askew and her wild curly hair tied into a haphazard bun. Zahra had a knack for noticing when Ali was lost in thought—and for teasing him about it.
"What were you thinking about this time? Let me guess, your grand plan to become the next Muhammad Ali?" she teased, poking his arm.
Ali rolled his eyes, handing her the book. "It's not daydreaming. It's focus."
"Sure it is." Zahra flipped through the pages with exaggerated drama. "While you're busy focusing, Jason's out there winning medals and charming half the school."
As if on cue, Jason walked into the classroom, his confident stride turning heads. Tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly charismatic, Jason seemed to embody everything Ali wasn't.
"Good morning, everyone!" Jason greeted, flashing a grin that made even the teachers smile.
Ali sighed, sinking lower into his chair.
"Don't let him get to you," Zahra said, leaning closer. "Remember, even a pebble can take down a mountain. You just need to figure out how."
Before Ali could respond, the door opened again, and Crystall entered. She was carrying a stack of books, her long hair shimmering in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Ali's heart did an awkward somersault.
"Great," Zahra muttered, smirking. "Here comes trouble."
Crystall walked past their row, her smile lighting up the room. Ali's eyes followed her, and for a brief moment, she glanced his way. Their eyes met, and Ali felt his throat close up.
"Say something, genius," Zahra whispered, elbowing him.
"H-Hi," Ali managed to croak, but Crystall had already turned her attention elsewhere.
Zahra sighed, shaking her head. "Smooth as sandpaper, Ali. Smooth as sandpaper."
---
Lunch break found Ali and Farid sitting under a tree in the school courtyard. Farid was engrossed in a game on his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen.
"You know, you could just give up this whole boxing thing and join me in esports," Farid suggested, not looking up. "Less sweat, more snacks."
"Not happening," Ali replied, stealing a fry from Farid's lunch.
"Suit yourself." Farid paused his game and turned to Ali. "But seriously, man. Why boxing? It's not exactly... safe."
Ali hesitated. "Because it's not just about fighting. It's about proving something—to myself, to Ayah, to everyone who thinks I can't do it."
Farid studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, if you're going to chase this crazy dream, you'd better win. Otherwise, I'm never letting you live it down."
Ali laughed, grateful for Farid's unwavering loyalty, even if it came with a side of relentless teasing.
---
That evening, Ali returned home to find his mother in the living room, sorting through old photo albums.
"Ali," she said without looking up, "we need to talk."
"About what?"
"About this boxing obsession of yours." She placed the album on the table and fixed him with a stern look. "I know you miss your father, but this isn't the way to honor him."
"It's not an obsession, Mak," Ali replied, his voice firm. "It's a dream."
"A dream won't pay the bills," she shot back. "You have school, exams, a future to think about."
Ali clenched his fists. "Ayah had a dream too. And he gave it up because he didn't have a choice. I do."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then his mother sighed, her expression softening. "Just don't lose yourself in it, Ali. Dreams are important, but so is reality."
"I won't," he promised, though deep down, he wasn't entirely sure how to balance the two.
---
Late that night, after his mother had gone to bed, Ali returned to the VHS player. He popped in the tape and sat cross-legged on the floor, the familiar sounds of the boxing match filling the room.
As his father's final match played out on the screen, Ali felt a surge of determination.
He clenched his fists, his eyes burning with resolve. "I'll finish what you started, Ayah," he whispered.
The screen flickered, and in that moment, Ali's journey began—not just to prove himself in the ring, but to discover who he truly was outside of it.