Tiny Dreams, Big Suplexes (And Big Hugs)

CHAPTER THREE

The gym's cracked speakers squealed like a dying possum, cutting through the sweaty chaos.

"Attention all students!" boomed a voice so nasal it could scrape paint. "Sign-ups for the Eastwood High Wrestling Invitational are now OPEN! Tournament happens in two weeks! First prize: fifty bucks and a trophy that definitely isn't from last year's bowling banquet!"

A slow cheer rippled through the room — more sarcasm than spirit.

Malik blinked at the intercom. An amateur tournament? In two weeks?

His fingers itched. His brain itched. His soul itched. Two weeks wasn't long... but it was a start.

He pulled up the holographic STATUS again, swiping clumsily like a grandpa discovering TikTok. A new side quest had already popped up:

🎯 **New Side Quest:

Win the Eastwood High Wrestling Invitational. Rewards: +10 Strength, Unlock 'Crowd Pleaser' Skill, Minor Boost to Fanbase.**

Malik's grin widened. "This is it," he whispered. "The warm-up tour."

But before he could celebrate too hard, another notification pinged — louder and brasher.

🔥 **Opportunity Alert!

Backyard Wrestling Federation (BWF) Trials — in 30 Days. Location: McHale's Parking Lot and Tire Fire Pit (yes, seriously). Top Two Finishers Get Fast-Tracked for Local Indie Promotions!**

Malik chuckled, shaking his head. "McHale's Parking Lot. Man, destiny really doesn't do subtle."

He knew the BWF — a scrappy, barely-legal backyard federation that had birthed a few real stars... and hospitalized a lot more. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't glamorous. But it was real, and it was a shot.

A memory flickered: a teenage Malik, standing in a muddy backyard ring, slamming a friend onto a questionable trampoline, dreaming of Madison Square Garden.

"This time," Malik said to the empty locker room, "I'm making it count."

Later That Day — Homecoming

The sun was dipping low when Malik finally worked up the nerve to walk up the cracked driveway of the Smith family home.

The same rusted mailbox. The same squeaky screen door. The same smell of fried chicken and cheap carpet cleaner leaking into the air.

His hand hesitated over the doorbell.

Would they know it was him?

Would they believe it?

Would they still be the same?

Before he could decide, the door flung open — and a woman in a colorful headscarf and an apron covered in flour pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

"Malik Jamal Smith Junior!" Bianca Smith shrieked, tears already pouring down her face. "Where have you BEEN, boy?! You missed dinner!"

Malik gasped, half from emotion, half from a crushed ribcage.

"Hey, Ma," he managed to wheeze. "Missed you too."

Behind her, his dad — Malik Smith Senior, built like a retired bulldozer — crossed his arms and grunted.

"You finally show up smelling like old gym socks and dreams, and you think you're too good to call?"

Malik just grinned at him, the lump in his throat too big to speak around.

Then came the bullet: a teenage girl barreling down the hallway.

"BIG BRO!" Sasha Smith screamed, launching herself into Malik's midsection like a WWE spear.

He staggered but stayed upright, laughing, spinning her around in a circle.

"You got tall," he said, ruffling her hair.

"And you got ugly!" she shot back, laughing through tears.

Dinner Table Chaos:

Over plates piled high with Bianca's famous cornbread and fried okra, Malik listened, heart bursting.

Sasha was killing it in her science classes. Malik Senior had switched jobs again — now working security at the local college. Bianca was leading a cooking class at the masjid on Sundays.

Everything was so normal... and so perfect... it almost hurt.

For a second, Malik just sat there, spoon halfway to his mouth, drinking it all in.

This was what he had lost.

This was what he had back.

And he was never, ever going to take it for granted again.

Later That Night — Malik's Old Room

The posters were still on the walls — Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Eddie Guerrero.

The tiny twin bed still squeaked when he flopped onto it.

His phone — a 2005 flip phone — buzzed weakly.

A text from his old best friend popped up:

"Yo, you hitting the open gym tomorrow? Need a tag partner for the tourney."

Malik smiled. Some things never change.

He stared up at the cracked ceiling, STATUS icon pulsing faintly at the edge of his vision.

Training Montage — (Extended Cut)

➡️Malik jogging around the school field, getting lapped by freshmen and flipping them off playfully. ➡️Malik wrestling with his best friend at the open gym, getting slammed, laughing, getting up again. ➡️Malik and Sasha practicing moves on old couch cushions in the backyard ("I'm not gonna German Suplex you, calm down!")

➡️ Malik sneaking VHS tapes into the VCR after midnight, watching and rewinding The Rock's eyebrow raise like it was ancient magic.

And every night, before sleep took him, he would whisper:

"I'm not wasting my second chance."

Two weeks.

To rebuild.

To dominate a high school tournament full of acne and energy drinks.

Thirty days.

To survive the wild, chaotic battleground of the BWF trials.

Malik Smith Jr. cracked his neck, cracked his knuckles, and cracked a slightly deranged smile.

This wasn't just about wrestling.

It was about family.

Dreams.

And becoming the legend he was always meant to be.

And if the past had taught him anything...

It's that nobody out-dreams a man with nothing left to lose.