Boyfight

"Return from Reno"

            If anyone that personally knew me or Leo had been on the flight with us heading back to Philly, they would've thought I'd just lost a fight. However, we just had that look on our faces due to the lack of a real challenge. I'd won my match against Ricardo Rodriguez in Reno in a unanimous decision. I took it easy on him because I could've easily knocked his cocky untalented ass out. After all that shit he talked to me before the fight, he could barely last the twelve rounds with me in the ring. If there was one thing I hated about soft niggas, it was soft niggas who thought they were hard and talked too much shit.

            I knew a soft nigga when I saw him. Growing up on the hard streets of North Philly taught me how to easily identify those who were like me and those who weren't. My very first fight happened because a boy named Chase Rolland in second grade thought I was a little soft nigga because I was quiet and decided to test me. After two black eyes, a busted lip, and a broken nose; he soon learned not to ever fuck with me again. That fight was the final straw for my foster mama and her crackhead boyfriend, so I got placed in an all-boys group home. It was the first time I'd been placed in a group home instead of with a foster family. I was never taken in by another family again. Life truly changed for me in that place. I learned just how hard I truly was.

            "You still got too much anger, boy," Mr. Curtis, the head director of the group home, once told me when I was thirteen. "I can tell you right now, Khalil, your anger is gonna ruin your life if you let it. You've been here for six years and it's time for you to start thinking about what you want out of life."

            "Can I go back to the room now?" I asked with an attitude.

            "No, you can't. I keep telling you boys that I see so much potential in all of you. Why in the hell can't you see it in yourselves? Huh?"

            I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "Because maybe we all know we really ain't shit."

            "Khalil..."

            "Nah, it's true. We're here for a reason, Mr. Curtis. Nobody wanted us. The moment I realized that I wasn't shit was the moment that I accepted it."

            He stood up from his desk and approached me before asking, "How tall are you?"

            "What?"

            "How tall are you?"

            "I'm five-eight."

            "Hmm, still got a few more years to grow. Hold out your arms." I held my arms out for him and he looked me over. "Listen, an old buddy of mine just opened up a boxing gym downtown. I want you to stop by there tomorrow after school."

            "Boxin'? I don't know anything about boxin'."

            "Boy, as many fights as you have been in here and you're afraid to box?"

            "I ain't say I was afraid." I got in his face and he laughed a little.

            "See there, that right there; that's exactly what you'd need to give it a try. You're gonna be angry, huh? Well, you're gonna put that anger to good use. Leo is gonna straighten you out just right."

            I stopped by the boxing gym—called TKO Palace—and met Coach Leo Morris the next day after school. For the first time in my life, I got along with someone while meeting them. I can't even explain it really; it was like Leo just understood me. He sat down with me and just talked to me man to man, even though I was a thirteen-year-old kid. Since I'd been referred to him by Mr. Curtis, Leo let me train at the gym for free but I had to accompany him and the more skilled fighters to their boxing matches and carry their equipment and towels and other stuff they'd need. The amount of respect I experienced every time I stepped foot into the gym made me feel special. I actually felt like a somebody whenever I was there.