From Illinois streets to the UFC O-G: where legends are born and roots never fade

Damn right, UpsetKingBeliever345... I was right there in that same stinking basement gym off Roosevelt Road that night—felt like the floor was gonna give way under us when he lit up that clown with that spinning back kick 🔥 had to grab my mates just so we didn’t all end up on our arses cheering!

remember that time in 2015 when belal was still posting up at that tiny judo club off halsted where the mats were so thin you could feel the concrete underneath if you slid too far? dude used to walk in after a 14-hour warehouse shift, throw on some old shin pads that looked like they'd been dragged through a warzone, and just start blitzing every wannabe grappler in sight—mostly by roundhouse kick to the body. one kid—fresh out of college, all shiny new gear—had the nerve to say "i train in 10th planet" right before bell, and belal just stood there, cracked his knuckles, and boom—one leg kick to the ribs had that poor lad curled up like a prawn on the barbie. whole room froze, then burst out laughing so hard i thought my ribs would crack.

That night at the basement gym in 2016 wasn’t just a highlight—it was a bloody proof point. Back then, Belal wasn’t knocking doors at the UFC; he was kicking them down in smoker slots for fifty bucks while coming straight from a warehouse shift, knees dusty, knuckles raw, still wearing those ancient wrestling shoes like they were fresh off the shelf. You could smell the concrete sweat in the air, hear the ceiling drip every time a roundhouse landed a little too clean. The guy wasn’t built like a fighter; he looked like a bloke who’d just clocked off and needed to blow off steam—and instead he dropped a self-proclaimed black belt with a spinning back kick so surgical it left the whole room silent first, then deaf. That wasn’t fight night; that was street night dressed in mats. Cut to today and you see the same engine, just bigger cylinders. The warehouse boots are gone, replaced by padded fight shoes, but the rhythm’s identical: grind all day, explode all night. Only difference? Now the floorboards are UFC octagons and the knockouts echo on Pay-Per-View instead of damp basements. The leg kick against Usman at UFC 280 wasn’t magic—it was that same Roosevelt Road firebox, scaled up but identical in DNA: thirty seconds of relentless pressure, one perfect weapon, and a man who treats sparring partners like debt collectors. The fire never moved; the stage just grew louder.

remember that alley behind the old el stop in logan square where we used to roll up at 2am with a ghetto blaster and a pair of oven mitts pretending they were gloves? same summer belal was out there trading body shots with any fool who’d step up, usually some wannabe thug fresh off the bus from englewood. guy had hands like hams but feet quicker than his mouth—until one night belal catches him with that same leg kick he’d use on usman years later, just right to the thigh, not fancy, not spinning, just pure retail-grade damage. the bloke went down like his knees forgot how to bend and all us late-night loiterers went "oooh" so loud the transit cops came rolling up, flashlights bouncing. dude still denies it happened when you ask him today. what always gets me is how that kick—the usman one—looked exactly like the ones we used to laugh at him for drilling on wednesday nights when the gym’s ac was busted and the mat reeked of embalming fluid. belal would line up some poor bastard, feint once, then snap the leg back like he was shutting a screen door on their femur. no wind-up, no showboating, just that short chop. by 2018 when he finally turned pro, half the room still thought he was just a chicago street brawler with good cardio. now they’re scrambling for highlight reels and paydays while he keeps doing what he did when we watched him drop that el train mugger: one small motion, maximum hurt, zero excuses. ah well, we'll see

First of all, that spinning back kick in 2016 wasn't a proof point—it was a neon sign screaming "this kid’s built different," and we all just nodded like it was obvious because, well, we saw it with our own two eyes at Roosevelt Road. But let’s be real for a second: how many of us actually bet big money on Belal turning into the guy who drops Usman with that same exact kick in the UFC? I sure as hell didn’t. Because back then, it wasn’t about potential—it was about watching a man work off steam after a shift, not build a highlight reel. And ZoeUltra, that alley behind the old el stop? Yeah, I remember the oven mitts and the ghetto blaster, but you’re missing the bit where half those “wannabe thugs” from Englewood had better hands than Belal did at the time. So when he caught one with that leg kick and dropped him like a sack of potatoes, it wasn’t just skill—it was audacity. The same audacity that lets him walk into the octagon now and treat five-round wars like a midweek sparring session. Cageside23, you’re romanticising the concrete under those judo mats, but here’s the thing: that tiny club off Halsted was basically a death trap. The mats were thinner than a subway token, and Belal was just a warehouse grunt with a grudge. Yet somehow, that poor kid who bragged about “10th Planet” ended up seeing stars from a single leg kick to the ribs. Was it brutal? Absolutely. Was it lucky? Nah. It was Belal treating every session like a street fight—because that’s exactly what it was. And Uncle_Since86, yeah, the fire’s still the same, but let’s not pretend the cylinders scaled up cleanly. Thirty seconds of relentless pressure against Usman wasn’t some basement brawl magnified—it was Belal learning to pick his shots in the dark before he learned to pick his opponents in the light. That leg kick against Usman wasn’t a carryover; it was the culmination of years of treating every session like a warzone. The warehouse boots changed, but the war never stopped.

so hold my pint guys… remember the night belal dropped that so-called bjj black belt at the roosevelt basement gym and the ceiling leak turned the whole place into a bloody water park 🤣💦 the ref called it there and we all sprinted for the exit like the cops were on our tail, only to find a cop car already parked out front with the lights flashing—and it wasn’t even us who called them, turns out some poor bastard slipped on the stairs from all the cheering 🍿 then he went back inside to grab his wallet from the locker room and saw the same bjj guy still on the floor with his leg stuck in a bucket because the water from the leak short-circuited the building’s ancient floor drain—or something—either way, by the time belal got to his car, his shoe had fused to the rusty metal pedal so now every time he presses the gas he hears this tiny voice screaming “ow! ow! ow!” in the gravel… man that kick wasn’t just surgical, it was backed by pure chicago engineering 😂