He shook his head.
“Means next time, you can do fifty-five. Then sixty. Then a hundred. The pain builds you. Makes you stronger. Makes you better.” I sat up, looking at him. “Nobody gets strong by doing easy shit. You understand?”
“Yeah.”
“This is life, Yu. Hard things make you harder. Make you tougher. Make you into a man instead of a boy.” I paused, thinking about my own past. About Tre. About that padlock. About what I’d become because nobody taught me how tocontrol the violence inside me until it was too late. No one taught me how to fight before it was too late. “I wish someone had taught me this when I was your age. Before I…” I stopped myself. “Just know that what we’re doing here? It’s not just about fighting. It’s about discipline. Control. It’s about learning to be a warrior in a garden not a gardener in a war.”
We spent the next hour working basics. Stance. Footwork. How to hold your hands. How to move your head. How to throw a jab without telegraphing it.
Yusef was uncoordinated at first. His punches were wild, his feet got tangled, his balance was off. But that was normal. I’d been the same way when Rashid first taught me in prison. Muay Thai, Boxing, Jujitsu. All of it had felt impossible at first.
But I’d learned. And so would Yusef.
“You’re dropping your right hand when you jab,” I told him, correcting his form. “Keep it up. Protect your face.”
He adjusted, tried again.
“Better. Again.”
We drilled until his arms were too tired to lift. Until sweat soaked through his shirt. Until his legs were shaking.
But he never quit. Never asked to stop. Just kept pushing, kept trying, kept working.
I was proud of him. Proud in a way I didn’t expect. This wasn’t my kid. Wasn’t my blood. But watching him fight through the pain, watching him refuse to give up, something in my chest tightened.
“Aight, that’s enough for today,” I said finally. “You did good.”
“Really?” He was panting, exhausted, but smiling.
“Really. You worked hard. Showed heart. That’s what matters.”
Pharaoh came over as we were leaving, dapping me up again. “Young king got potential. Bring him back next week. We’ll keep building.”
“Will do. Thanks for letting us use the space.”
“Anytime, brother.” But his expression shifted slightly. “Yo, you talk to Rashid lately?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just… nothing. Never mind.” But I could see something in his eyes. Something dark. Old anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Pharaoh was one of Rashid’s sons too. One of the many men Rashid had mentored in prison, molded, turned into something sharper. But there was tension there. Beef that Pharaoh had never fully explained and I’d never pushed on.
“If you need to talk…” I started.
“I’m good. Just keep your eyes open, aight? Rashid ain’t always what he seems.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he walked away, back to his fighters, leaving me with more questions than answers.
We stoppedat Chipotle on the way home. Yusef demolished a double chicken bowl like he’d been starving.
“This is so good,” he said between bites.
“You earned it. Burned a lot of calories today.”
“My whole body hurts.”
“It’s gonna hurt worse tomorrow. But that’s how you know it’s working.”
