“Been busy,” I said.
“Yeah, I heard. Banks Reserve keeping you locked down?” He turned his attention to Yusef, his expression softening. “And who’s this young king?”
“This is Yusef. Mygirl’sson.” I put a hand on Yusef’s shoulder. “He needs to learn how to handle himself.” I can’t believe I just called her my girl. I hadn’t even hit yet. I had never referred to a woman as my girl. She had me actin’ all outside myself.
Pharaoh crouched down to Yusef’s level, looking him in the eye. “You ready to put in that work, lil man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like that. Respect.” Pharaoh stood back up, nodding at me approvingly. “And you came to the right place. We don’t train boys here. We build warriors. You feel me?”
Yusef nodded, his nervousness starting to transform into determination.
“Aight, let’s get you warmed up.” Pharaoh led us to an open section of the gym. “Prime, you remember where everything is.”
“I remember.”
I started Yusef with suicides. Sprinting from the wall to the first line on the floor, back to the wall. Then to the second line, back to the wall. Then to the third. Building speed, building endurance, building mental toughness.
By the third set, Yusef was breathing hard, his face flushed.
“My legs hurt,” he gasped out.
“They supposed to,” I said, watching him bend over, hands on his knees. “But you not done. Two more sets.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just don’t want to. There’s a difference.”
He looked up at me, sweat dripping from his face, his glasses slightly fogged.
“Everything worth having hurts first,” I told him. “Your body wants to quit because it’s comfortable being weak. But weak don’t survive in this world. Weak gets you beat up at school. Weak gets you robbed. Weak gets you disrespected.” I moved closer, my voice firm but not harsh. “You wanna stay weak?”
“No.”
“Then finish your sets.”
He straightened up, his jaw setting with determination I recognized. I’d had that same look at his age. That same moment where you either quit or you find something inside yourself you didn’t know was there.
He ran the last two sets. Slower than the first ones, but he finished.
“Good,” I said when he collapsed on the mat, chest heaving. “Now give me fifty push-ups.”
“Fifty?”
“You heard me.”
He groaned but got into position. Made it to fifteen before his arms started shaking.
“Keep going,” I said, dropping down beside him. “I’ll do them with you.”
We did them together. Me calling out the count, him struggling but refusing to quit.
When we hit fifty, he rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, breathing like he’d run a marathon.
“That hurt,” he said.
“It’s supposed to. But you did it. You know what that means?”
