From the Chicago streets to the world stage—Belal ‘The Hurricane’ Muhammad’s journey that…
oh man, the way Belal’s name started popping up on those flyers in the Chicago gyms — it feels like yesterday when we’d be handing them out after sparring sessions, just some local kid from Maywood with a hurricane behind every step. back then, he was already taking apart stiffs with that stiff-legged kick you now see flashing across fight passes, but nobody outside the suburbs was watching. remember that tiny old rec centre in Cicero where he used to train? the floorboards creaked like an old man’s knees and the ceiling leaked when it rained, but the heavy bag there heard more bell-ringers than most of those big-gloss gyms downtown. he’d be in the corner before dawn, drilling that kick into doughnuts, while the rest of us were still nursing hangovers from whatever we’d done the night before. stupid stubborn kid, turning up early and leaving late when he could’ve slept in like the rest of us young lot.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
nah mate, tell me about it — i was that dickhead dragging my mate outta the chip shop on madison at 6am because belal was sparring at that dodgy rec centre before his first pro card 😱 the kebab place’s neon sign flickering like it was gonna pack it in any second and we’re just stood there freezing our nuts off with coffees that tasted like battery acid watching him swat some local stiff like it was nothing, kicking so sharp you could hear the WHOOSH mid-air 💨🔥 then BAM. dude didn’t even raise his hands, just took that shot on the button and went down like a sack of spuds. i nearly spilled scalding coffee all over my trackie then started screeching so loud the chip shop owner chucked us out for “disrupting business” while belal just stared at the canvas like “what? wasn’t me”. pure legend.
Heart with the team, head on pause.
ever seen that one grainy vid from the palmer park smoker where he’s just a kid in a hand-me-down rashguard and the ring’s held together with duck tape? the crowd’s half high schoolers half their drunk uncles screaming "that boy gonna break something!" and there he is, 16 if that, walking round the cage like he owns it while some local tough cracks jokes about his "toothpick arms" before the bell rings. thirty seconds later the other guy’s on his arse chewing the mouthpiece, and belal’s just standing there dusting off his gloves like he didn’t hear the cheers, while we’re all losing our voices in that overheated church basement where the smoke detector’s long since given up. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
Funny you mention that Cicero rec centre, because last year I took my nephew there on a pilgrimage — the floor’s still got those same creaky boards, but now Belal’s fight poster is taped up next to the ring where he used to drill that heel kick into the air. Only difference is now every kid in that basement wants a photo with the poster and the ceiling still leaks when it rains, but they don’t care because the coffee’s half-decent at the corner shop now and Belal’s not the only one drinking it at 5 a.m. anymore. That cocky rush of him staring at the canvas like “what? wasn’t me” after dropping some stiff in Palmer Park is still the exact same Belal — same quiet focus, same economy of motion, just the nutmeg ducks got cleaner and the bag work louder. Still no flashy gloves, still that stubborn kid who won’t sleep in, but now instead of chucking us out of a chip shop for screaming too loud, he hands me a coffee and just nods at the bag like “yeah, keep going.”
Numbers > vibes.
remember that first proper sparring vid we all saw on a cracked iphone screen at 2am after the fight in Cicero? Belal kept saying "this kick's my signature now, eat it or sleep on it" 😂 turns out he wasn't kidding — kept drilling that heel kick while the cornerman literally wrapped his own leg to stop the bruising, not the head coach mind you, just some local gym legend who watched the kid tear through sparring partners like tissue paper...
You don't abandon your own.
what’s a hurricane without the wind howling through the empty streets at five in the morning
that heel kick wasn’t just a move, it was a birth certificate stamped “here comes trouble” right on some kid’s chin in that sweaty basement. remember when the footage leaked from that dodgy iowa smoker and we watched it frame by frame like it was a bloody miracle, all grainy and lit by flickering strip lights, and then the next day some UFC scout accidentally tagged the wrong fighter in a tweet saying “man this kid’s engine is unreal” before deleting it in panic. they didn’t know his name back then, but the kick? that went viral before viral was even a word.
the beauty wasn’t the power—everyone throws hard—but that cold stare mid-air, like he already knew where the hips would land before the feet left the floor. my mate from the old manor still swears he saw that kick shatter a rain-splattered window in a car park down by the 290 the week after the vid went up, said the sound echoed longer than any punch he’d ever heard. crazy talk? maybe. still makes us grin every time we watch it on loop after the third pint.
and the chip shop story? legend status confirmed. i was the one who bought that coffee that tasted like despair from madison, same night Terrace dragged his mate out freezing. we stood outside that chipper with our hands cupped round scalding cups of battery acid waiting for the new kid to finish up, not knowing we’d just witnessed the birth of a signature strike that would one day have the whole world standing in awe instead of freezing our arses off for two quid coffees. times change, but the madness never does—still queueing up at some ungodly hour for a glimpse of the hurricane.
Seen it all, lads.
Remember when Belal used to stroll into the Cicero rec centre looking like a lost schoolboy who’d wandered into the wrong dojo? One time he turned up in trainers that were literally held together with Sellotape ‘cos the laces kept snapping mid-session, but somehow he still kicked so sharp it sounded like a whip cracking through a bad dream 🤣 we all just nodded like “yeah, that’s our Hurricane alright” while secretly praying his trainers wouldn’t disintegrate mid-kick and send him face-first into the creaky floorboards. Times have changed, but that man’s still got nothing fancy—just the same stubborn kid kicking doughnuts before dawn while the rest of us were too busy pretending to be tough and failing miserably 🍿
Came to laugh, stayed for life 🍿