The next few weeks tested Jamal and Rico more than any street fight, eviction notice, or courtroom had. Turning a dream into action wasn't just about hustle—it was paperwork, phone calls, meetings with people who barely glanced up from their desks.
They met at Rico's aunt's cramped living room every night, using her old dining table as their war room. Jamal handled the layout of the proposal, and Rico chased grants, non-profits, and community board contacts.
"This ain't the kind of grind we're used to," Jamal muttered one night, scrolling through grant application guidelines.
"No, it's worse," Rico said. "But at least this grind builds something."
Their old crew didn't get it. Dre laughed when Jamal told him. "A youth center? What, you turning preacher now?"
"Nah," Jamal replied calmly. "Just tired of watching kids fall into the same trap we crawled out of."
Still, they kept pushing.
One day, a reply finally came. A local community foundation invited them to pitch in person. Jamal wore his one good shirt. Rico brought the visuals—a mock-up of the rec center reborn with fresh paint, basketball leagues, mentorship programs, even art classes.
The room was full of old white folks in suits. But Jamal didn't flinch.
"We're not asking for charity," he said. "We're asking for a shot—same thing this place once gave us."
Silence.
Then came a nod.
Then a few more.
A week later, an email arrived.
*Grant approved.*
They sat on the old rec center's steps that evening, watching the sunset bleed into the horizon.
"This the beginning," Rico said.
Jamal smiled. "Of what?"
"Of us building what we never had."