After an hour of drills, Coach finally set the broomstick aside. "Now, throw a proper punch. Keep your stance steady, twist from the hips, and let the power flow from your feet to your fist."
Ali squared up, took a deep breath, and threw a right jab at the bag. The sound of the impact was satisfying, a sharp thwack that echoed through the gym.
Coach Rahman raised an eyebrow. "Not bad. Do it again."
Ali repeated the motion, this time with a left hook. The bag swayed slightly, and Coach nodded.
"Alright, let me tell you about Muhammad Ali," Coach said, his voice taking on a storytelling tone. He leaned against the ropes of the old boxing ring, his eyes gleaming with nostalgia.
"Muhammad Ali was more than just a boxer. He was an artist. His footwork was poetry in motion—light, quick, and unpredictable. He floated around his opponents, making them swing at air. That's where his famous line comes from: 'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'"
Ali listened intently, wiping sweat from his brow.
"But it wasn't just his footwork," Coach continued. "Ali had a jab so precise it could split a hair in half. He used it not only to score points but to frustrate his opponents. Every punch was calculated, part of a bigger strategy."
Coach demonstrated with a quick jab at the air, his movements fluid and sharp. "And then there was his defense. Ali would lean back, dodge punches by millimeters, and counter with devastating speed. His ability to anticipate and react was almost superhuman."
Farid, now lying flat on his back, groaned. "Coach, I think I dodged too much oxygen. Feeling faint here."
Ignoring him, Coach pressed on. "Ali's greatest strength, though, was his mind. He understood that boxing wasn't just physical; it was psychological. He got into his opponents' heads, broke their confidence before the first bell even rang. That's what made him unbeatable."
Finally, Coach's voice softened. "But remember, Ali wasn't perfect. He lost fights. He faced hardships. What made him great was his ability to rise every time he fell. That's what I want from you, kid. Resilience. Now, let's get back to work."
---
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Crystall appeared at the gate, her school bag slung over one shoulder. Ali froze mid-punch when he saw her.
"Crystall?" he blurted, startled.
"Hey," she said, smiling warmly. "I heard you were training here, so I thought I'd stop by."
Coach Rahman glanced between them, a sly grin forming. "Well, don't just stand there, Ali. Show her what you've got!"
Ali's cheeks turned crimson, but he forced himself to focus. With renewed energy, he landed a solid one-two combo on the bag.
"Nice!" Crystall said, clapping.
Her encouragement sent a surge of confidence through him. For the first time, he felt like he could actually do this.
---
By the end of the session, Ali was sprawled on the gym floor, drenched in sweat and barely able to move.
Coach Rahman stood over him, smirking. "Tired already? That was just the warm-up."
Ali groaned, his limbs feeling like lead. "Warm-up? You're kidding, right?"
Coach chuckled. "Nope. But don't worry, kid. You'll thank me when you're champion."
As Zahra snapped a photo of Ali's defeated pose, Farid handed him a bottle of water. "You survived, bro. Barely."
Crystall knelt beside him, her smile soft but encouraging. "You're doing great, Ali. Keep it up."
Her words lingered in his mind long after she left. Despite the aches and exhaustion, he felt a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could prove everyone wrong.
The next day ...
The shrill ring of the school bell echoed through the corridor as Ali dragged himself into class, his legs heavy and his eyelids heavier. Last night's training had left his muscles aching, and the endless drills Coach Rahman demanded of him felt like a punishment for crimes he didn't remember committing.
As he slid into his seat, he glanced at the clock. Double mathematics first thing in the morning. Great. He let out a soft groan and dropped his head onto his desk, only to be jolted awake seconds later by a sharp tap on his shoulder.
"Sleeping already, Muhammad Ali?" Zahra grinned, leaning over his desk. Her mischievous eyes sparkled as she mimicked a boxing stance, throwing slow-motion punches into the air. "Maybe you should save some energy for the ring—or, you know, this thing called school."
Ali sighed, trying to muster a retort, but his brain was too foggy to cooperate.
Zahra's grin widened. "Let me guess: Coach Rahman made you fight a bear last night?"
Farid, sitting behind them, chuckled. "Nah, he probably lost a round to a skipping rope. Tragic, really."
Ali shot them a halfhearted glare. "Some of us are actually trying to improve."
Farid nodded solemnly. "True, but some of us also need sleep, my guy. You're starting to look like a zombie. If I were you, I'd just give up and embrace the sweet life of gaming."
Ali opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the arrival of their teacher, Mr. Kamal. The middle-aged man's sharp eyes scanned the class as he set down his books with a resounding thud. "Ali, I hope you're awake enough to participate today."
The entire class chuckled, and Ali felt heat creep up his neck. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, sitting up straighter.
The lesson dragged on, and despite his best efforts, Ali's head drooped once more. Just as he began to nod off, a soft nudge from the seat beside him jolted him awake. He turned, his eyes widening as he met Crystall's concerned gaze.
"Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
Ali swallowed hard. "Yeah, just…tired."
She gave him a small smile. "You should ask for help if you're struggling. I can tutor you if you want."
Ali blinked, unsure if he'd heard her correctly. Crystall? Offering to tutor him? "Uh…y-you'd do that?"
Her smile widened. "Of course. Let's talk after class."
The rest of the period passed in a blur. Ali barely registered Mr. Kamal's droning voice or the equations scribbled on the board. All he could think about was Crystall's kind offer and the way her smile had made his heart race.