"What happened after that?" Farid asked, leaning on the ropes.
"I got back up," Coach Rahman said simply. "I lost the match, but I learned something important that day. Boxing isn't about how hard you hit. It's about how hard you're willing to work to get better."
The room was quiet for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in.
"Even Muhammad Ali didn't start as the greatest," Coach continued. "Do you know what made him special? His belief in himself, even when others doubted him. He had the drive to turn failure into fuel."
Ali nodded slowly, his shoulders straightening. "So you're saying there's hope for me?"
Coach smirked. "Plenty. But only if you're willing to put in the work."
After the gym cleared out, Ali stayed behind to practice. The sting of failure still lingered, but Coach Rahman's words had sparked something inside him.
He stood in front of the mirror, his gloves raised. "Jab, jab, cross," he muttered, throwing each punch with as much precision as he could muster. His movements were sloppy, his arms heavy, but he kept going.
Zahra and Farid sat nearby, munching on chips and offering their usual commentary.
"Not bad," Zahra said, holding up her phone. "But maybe aim for the imaginary opponent's head instead of their kneecaps."
"Shut up," Ali grumbled, his lips twitching into a faint smile.
Farid nodded sagely. "I think he's got potential. If boxing doesn't work out, he can always try interpretive dance."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Ali said dryly, rolling his eyes.
The next morning, Ali opened his locker to find a small folded note sitting atop his books. He glanced around the hallway, puzzled, before unfolding it.
"Don't let one bad day define you. Keep working hard—you'll get there. - C"
His heart skipped a beat as he reread the words. Crystall's neat handwriting was unmistakable.
"Who's it from?" Zahra asked, peering over his shoulder.
"No one," Ali said quickly, stuffing the note into his pocket.
Zahra raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Farid, on the other hand, grinned knowingly. "Ah, the power of love. It's like a training montage for the soul."
"Shut up," Ali said again, but this time, his tone was lighter.
That evening, Ali returned to the gym with renewed determination. The soreness in his arms and legs was a reminder of how far he had to go, but he welcomed it. Each jab, each cross, each duck was another step forward.
By the time he finished his shadowboxing routine, sweat dripped from his brow, and his chest heaved with effort. He leaned against the ropes, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"This is just the beginning," he muttered, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew he wasn't just fighting to prove himself to others. He was fighting for the belief that he could be better—that he could be great.
---
The faint buzz of excitement filled the air as Ali walked into Zahra's backyard. He was greeted by a jumble of laughter, music, and the smell of grilled kebabs wafting through the crisp evening breeze.
"What's all this?" Ali asked, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
"It's a boxing party, duh!" Zahra declared, throwing her arms out dramatically. "You've been moping around like someone stole your gloves, so we're here to fix that."
Farid appeared beside her, wearing an oversized pair of novelty boxing gloves and a plastic championship belt around his waist. "And who better to cheer you up than the reigning Backyard Boxing Champion?"
Ali couldn't help but laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing. "You guys are ridiculous."
"And you love us for it," Zahra said, smirking. "Now, come on. We've got a full night of ridiculousness planned just for you."
In the center of the yard, a makeshift boxing ring had been set up using jump ropes tied to chairs. Streamers dangled from the ropes, and a poster of Muhammad Ali hung on the side fence, proudly declaring, Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!
Zahra handed Ali a pair of regular gloves. "Your first match is against the great Farid 'The Featherweight Fiasco' Khan."
Farid stepped into the ring with exaggerated swagger, shadowboxing as if he were preparing for a world championship bout. "I hope you're ready, Ali. I've been training for this moment my whole life."
Ali rolled his eyes, climbing into the ring. "Oh, this should be good."
The match was a chaotic display of flailing punches and over-the-top commentary from Zahra, who acted as both referee and announcer.
"And Ali lands a jab! Wait, no—Farid's tripped over the ropes! Someone call the medic!" Zahra shouted, her phone camera capturing every moment.
Farid sprawled dramatically on the grass, clutching his chest. "I've been defeated... but I'll rise again!"
The group erupted into laughter, the sound carrying through the night like a healing balm.
As the evening went on, the activities grew even sillier. There was a "punch-the-balloon" contest, where Farid ended up popping them all with his oversized gloves, and a round of trivia where Zahra grilled Ali on famous boxing legends.
"You're telling me you didn't know Muhammad Ali's real name was Cassius Clay?" Zahra teased, shaking her head in mock disappointment.
"Hey, I knew that!" Ali protested. "I just... forgot for a second."
"Right," she said, smirking as she scribbled on her notepad. "You're officially banned from trivia night."
Despite her relentless teasing, Ali found himself laughing along, the weight of his earlier frustrations momentarily forgotten.
Halfway through the night, Zahra disappeared into the house, leaving Ali and Farid to clean up some of the scattered balloons.
"You know," Farid began, leaning on the jump rope ring, "you're lucky to have us. Not everyone would throw a party just because you got your butt kicked at the gym."
Ali smirked. "Remind me to send you both a thank-you card."
Farid waved him off. "No need. Just remember me when you're a famous boxer winning world titles."
Before Ali could respond, Zahra returned, dragging someone by the arm.
"Look who decided to crash the party!" she announced with a grin.
Ali's breath hitched when he saw Crystall standing there, looking slightly embarrassed but smiling nonetheless. She held up a small box wrapped in colorful paper.