The Boxing System: I Became the King of the Ring-Chapter 8: The Decision

"Javier, let’s go!" Grey Williams shouted from the van. "We ain’t got all day!"

The engine idled rough, spitting exhaust into Brooklyn air. Other group home kids pressed faces against windows, waiting for him.

Javier’s pen remained frozen over the Golden Gloves application.

Miguel understood the pressure. "Take the form. Think it over tonight."

The paper crumpled as Javier stuffed it into his jacket pocket. His hand shook slightly from the adrenaline crash after sparring.

"Whatever you decide, you showed heart today," Miguel said, offering a firm handshake.

The van door slammed shut behind him. Seventeen sweaty teenagers crammed into seats designed for twelve. Grey accelerated hard through a yellow light, cursing under his breath about overtime pay.

"Yo, tell them about the uppercut," Tommy said, twisting around in his seat. "Kid caught Miguel clean."

"No need to," Javier said quietly, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

"Man, you should’ve seen it," Tommy continued, ignoring Javier’s protest. "Carlos, Kevin, y’all were playing basketball, so you missed everything. Javier steps into the ring for his first time ever, right? Miguel’s testing him, throwing combinations, backing him into corners."

Tommy gestured wildly with his hands. "Then in the second round, Miguel gets lazy with this jab. Javier slips right and BAM! He catches him clean with a cross."

"Miguel let him," Carlos countered from the back row. "No way a beginner tags a real fighter."

"Was there," Kevin added. "The punch was real."

The argument continued until Grey threatened to make everyone walk home. Javier stared out the window, watching familiar streets blur past. Corner stores with bulletproof glass, Graffiti-covered walls. Kids younger than him dealing drugs on corners.

Back at Marcus Garvey Group Home, dinner meant Overcooked chicken, instant mashed potatoes, vegetables that tasted like water. Mrs. Rodriguez ladled portions while Grey supervised from across the cafeteria.

"Eat up," Mrs. Rodriguez called. "Growing bodies need fuel."

The cafeteria buzzed with usual dinner conversation. Carlos complained about his history teacher assigning weekend homework. Kevin argued with Marcus about which NBA team would make the playoffs. Three tables over, older residents discussed their upcoming aging-out process - the terrifying transition to independent living at eighteen.

"Man, social worker said I gotta find my own place by March," said David, the oldest resident at seventeen and a half month."Where I’m supposed to get first month’s rent and security deposit?"

"Get a job at QuickBurger," suggested Eric. "That’s what my cousin did."

"QuickBurger don’t pay enough for rent in Brooklyn."

Grey walked between tables, monitoring conversations and confiscating sneaked in snacks. "Ten more minutes, then cleanup duties. Homework starts at seven sharp."

Javier pushed food around his plate, the Golden Gloves form burning in his jacket pocket. The crumpled paper felt heavier than it should, weighted with possibility and fear. Around him, other kids complained about teachers, argued about basketball teams, planned weekend activities that went nowhere.

Tommy dropped into the plastic chair beside him. "You really thinking about Golden Gloves?"

"Maybe."

"That was sick, what you did today. Landing shots on Miguel like that." Tommy picked at his mashed potatoes. "Been watching you train this week. You got something special."

"Just beginner’s luck."

"Nah, man. I seen plenty beginners. They flail around, get tired in thirty seconds, quit after one session." Tommy leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You moved different out there. Like you belonged."

Javier shrugged, not wanting to explain his supernatural advantages.

"I been thinking about boxing for years," Tommy continued. "Watching fights on TV, studying technique, dreaming about it. I also want to box too and maybe be a professional boxer. Just never got the guts to tell Miguel."

"Why not?"

"Scared, I guess. What if I suck? What if I get my ass kicked?" Tommy stabbed at his chicken with more force than necessary. "But seeing you today... man, if you can do it, maybe I can too."

"It’s not about being scared. It’s about wanting it bad enough."

The idea hit Javier like a clean cross. Having a training partner from the group home, someone who understood where they came from. "You serious?"

"Dead serious. Always wanted to try, but never had someone to do it with."

"Having a partner could help," Javier said. "Push each other, you know? Make sure we both stick to it when it gets hard."

"Exactly. Plus Miguel might take us more seriously if we’re both committed."

After dinner came mandatory TV time. Basketball highlights played on the common room television while kids argued about draft prospects and trade rumors. Javier sat in the back corner, half-listening to conversations about futures that seemed impossibly distant.

"You think LeShawn’s still got it?" Tommy asked during commercial breaks.

"He’s old," Carlos replied. "Game’s too fast for him now."

"Age is just numbers," Kevin said. "Look at boxers. Some champions fight into their forties."

The conversation drifted to sports, dreams, what they’d do once they leave group home life. Most kids talked about easy money like drug dealing, robbery, schemes that promised quick cash and guaranteed prison time.

Javier said nothing.

Lights out came at ten PM sharp. Grey walked the dormitory, checking beds and confiscating electronics. "Sleep tight, ladies. Big day tomorrow."

Darkness settled over narrow beds and whispered conversations. Javier lay awake, studying the Golden Gloves form by moonlight streaming through barred windows. The requirements seemed simple enough: medical clearance, training commitment, age divisions.

But reading between lines revealed deeper truths. Six months of daily training meant no time for easy money schemes. Strict nutrition requirements meant discipline most group home kids never learned. Competition pressure meant handling failure and success without destroying yourself.

Vicente materialized beside his bed, ghostly form solid in darkness. "So what’s the answer?"

"I want to do it," Javier whispered. "Register for Golden Gloves. Train seriously. See how far boxing can take me."

"Good. But understand what you’re choosing. No shortcuts this time."

"What if I’m not good enough?" Javier whispered.

"You landed clean shots on Miguel Santos in your first sparring session. Natural talent can’t be taught." Vicente’s voice carried conviction. "But talent alone never made champions. You need dedication that goes beyond wanting success."

"In my other life, I wanted easy money. Quick scores. Immediate rewards."

"Boxing offers none of those things. Years of training for minutes of competition. Months of sacrifice for single moments of triumph." Vicente leaned closer. "But those moments change everything. They transform who you are."

"What if I fail? What if I train for months and still lose my first fight?"

"Then you get back up and train harder. Failure in boxing teaches more than success in crime ever could."

"How do I know I can stick to it? The discipline, the sacrifice..."

"Because this time you’re not running from something - you’re running toward something. That makes all the difference."

Javier nodded slowly, feeling the weight of commitment settling in his chest. "I should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

"Rest well. Your real journey starts when you sign that paper."

Vicente’s form faded as Javier closed his eyes, leaving only the faint scent of old leather and forgotten dreams.