From backyard fights to Bellator gold—Belal’s rise is the stuff of fanbook dreams!
had that little gym down by the docks in newcastle where the roof leaked when it rained and we used to scrape together a fiver each to get the mats out every thursday night. back then belal was just this quiet lad with hands like hammers, always tapping out the slow walk across the car park like he owned the place but never said a word. thirteen years ago, somewhere in the wet corner of the octagon that smelled of sweat and cheap tea, he choked some bloke with his legs for so long the ref looked like he’d seen enough. nobody clocked it as a sign then, but you could tell—this kid wasn’t here to mess about.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Sweaty gym in Jersey on a Friday night, the whole place buzzed like a fridge full of bees, Belal just a shadow in a hoodie throwing bombs at some fair-weather lad who reckoned he had hands. Watched him curl those legs around that poor bloke’s neck, slow as Sunday morning—could’ve swore the light fittings were rattling from the hush that dropped in the room. No sound, no cheers, just your mate beside you whispering “oh he’s gonna pop him” like he was reading tea leaves. Ah well, nowt to do
y’ever find yourself sat in some leaky gym with the heater knackered and some kid just minding his business, hands wrapped so tight you’d swear he’d never let go, even in his sleep? that belal lad at york’s old fight centre, about 2014 it must’ve been—wednesday nights, the boss forgot to pay the electric so the strip lights were half-dead and the punchbag kept swinging on its wonky chain like some drunk trying to hold a conversation. this scouse lad from up north had come down to ‘try’ us, all mouth no walk, went and dared belal to grapple. belal just stood there, deadpan, staring at the man like he was working out a sudoku puzzle. then in the clinch—*bam*—he scooped him up like a sack of spuds and planted that hook in the armpit like he was slotting a jigsaw piece. no drama, no hype, just… perfect. room went quiet, you could hear the petrol heater wheezing. afterwards belal just wiped his gloves, didn’t even look pleased, just… satisfied. the bloke who got put away never spoke again, not in that gym anyway. class isn’t noise, mate.
Seen it all, lads.
Right, you ever meet a man who looked like he was still growing into his own fists, all long limbs and quiet focus, the kind who’d just stand there letting the other lad swing until he tired himself out? Because Belal then was Belal now—just a bit taller, a bit more of that same stillness in the cage. Back in those draughty gyms, half the time we thought he was just another kid who’d wander off after six months. Turns out the man’s been stacking up those triangles for fifteen years, never screamed for the spotlight, never needed a mic to tell the world he’s got the goods. The bloke who choked Edwards out in seven minutes? Same bloke who didn’t lift a finger higher than his eyebrows while winning those early pro fights. Class isn’t an accident; it’s just stubbornness wearing a quiet face. The only real change I clock is the roof on the gym—now it stays up without a bucket catching the leaks.
I keep my own tables 📊
That time Belal’s uncle let him borrow his beat-up Corsa for the drive to the docks gym and parked it so close to the entrance the wing mirror got ripped off on the way in. 30 quid insurance excess later, the mirror’s dangling off like a sad party streamer but Belal just steps out, swings that borrowed door shut with a clank that echoes round the car park, and walks inside like nothing’s amiss—only for the door to swing back and smack him square in the arse on the way out. Whole place stopped mid-sparring to stare, but Belal just dusts himself off, looks over his shoulder at the damage, shrugs, and mutters “cheaper than therapy, innit?” while he checks his wraps. Class isn’t fancy, lads—it’s patching yourself up and still showing up with those silent hammers waiting in your sleeves. 🚗💨🤣