Damn, what happened to the summertime cookouts?
Every time I turn around, a nigga getting took out
Shit, my Momma got cancer in her breast
Don't ask me why I'm motherfuckin' stressed
Things done changed...

- Christopher "The Notorious B.I.G." Wallace, "Things Done Changed".

Harlem. Known as both the home to some of the most famous African American artists to ever live and one of the harshest neighborhoods in North America, it's a place that's synonymous with both the arts and violence. Some choose to hang on the streets and sell drugs, others aspire to get out of the hood and away from the negativity and stereotypes that surround it, and others still are content with just getting by.

And I should know. I used to be one of the ones who was trying to get by the best they could. Mama would've killed me if I tried to push dope to people on the corners. But when you're both a black and fairly young, your career options can be somewhat limited if you don't know the rules to the game of life.

And that's what happened to me after high school. I was doing various odd jobs around the city trying to help my mama pay her rent. In three years time, I had gone through so many jobs trying to find something better for myself.

Now I've got a penthouse loft in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, living the life me and my friends from the hood thought we'd never get to experience for ourselves. I've rubbed elbows with movie stars, dined with President Obama, freestyled with Jay-Z, and been in places around the world I still can't pronounce.

So what am I doing inside a old, dingy boxing gym that looks like it hasn't been opened in years?

I shake my head as I walk down the corridor, trying not to cough from the dust. This place takes me back a good fifteen years, way before I even considered Hollywood a realistic option. I thought after I transitioned to Hollywood, I'd leave all this behind. Yet I keep coming back here as if it was calling me. Why, I have no idea.

I come to the end of the hallway and push through the double doors that lead to the main room. I don't even have to look around the place to see what's here. I've been here enough times to know this place by heart. I could tell you exactly where the supply closet is, where the weights are kept, where I snuck in all my junk food during the times I was supposed to make weight for my fights... Heh, good times.

I walk over to a mirror propped up against a weight rack and wipe the dust off of it to get a better look at myself. Gone was the big-ass Afro that I rocked for most of my career, replaced by a hi-top fade and a carefully trimmed beard. Gone were the flashy leisure suits, loud disco shirts, skates and platform shoes, and in place were designer clothes and fancy brand-name sneakers.

I bet if anyone from the Rumble Tournaments saw me now, they wouldn't recognize me. Shoot, I barely recognize myself half the time. It's funny how so much can change over fifteen years. I've gone from being an over the top prize fighter in the Rumble Tournament, to being one of the highest paid actors in North America.

But even with all the success I've had for the last decade, I'm not happy. Even with all the awards and eight figure checks I've cashed, there's been a void in my life...

I sigh and turn away from the mirror. This shit always happens every time I let myself into this old place. A nagging voice in my mind opens up and tries to convince me to return to boxing. Like anyone would take me serious. I'm thirty-six years old and I haven't been sparring for ten years, let alone a straight up fight. Going back into the ring would be a disaster for me.

A buzzing sound from my jacket pocket pulls me out of my thoughts.

"What now?" I say aloud as I pull out my cellphone. "I told my agent not to call me about any movie offers today. Hello?"

"Yo, holmes! It's been awhile!"

A nostalgic grin spreads across my face. I'd know that voice anywhere.

"Angel Rivera! It's been years man! What you been up to all this time?"

"I've been starting a family man. I'm a father now!"

"Word? Yo, I'm happy for you dawg! Congrats!" My words are sincere, but the stab of pain I feel in my soul is hard to ignore. I got a kid of my own, but I hardly see him; no thanks to his mother still holding a grudge...

"Aye, she looks just like her mama!" Angel's excited voice pulls me out of my thoughts. "But that's not the main reason I called you. I'm in NYC for the next few weeks, and I wanted to see if you wanted to link up."

"Link up..." I mumble. Shit, I've got no reason to turn Angel down. I don't got nothing to do for the day and seeing him beats wandering around in a dusty old gym I don't use no more. It'll get my mind of of things.

Hopefully.

"Sure, brotha," I finally say. "I'm pretty free today, where you at right now?"

"I'm staying at this fancy hotel near Central Park. I think it's called the Mandarin Oriental, or something like that."

"Yo, what the fuck? That hotel costs over a grand a night! You could've stayed at the Hudson New York for a tenth of that!"

"What I do with my money is my business, holmes. Now are you gonna come see me, or bitch at me about the over inflated prices of New York hotels?"

I let out a sarcastic laugh. "Don't get your drawers in a twist, barrio boy. I'll be up your way in about an hour."

"Cool, holmes. It'll be good seeing you again!"

"Same to you, Angel."

I hang up the phone and slide it back into my pocket. Time for me to leave this place. But I know I'll wind up coming back at some point. It's inevitable. As much as I hate to admit it, a part of me still has a desire to get back into the sweet science, and Angel is a reminder of that. But I honestly don't think I can. The Rumble Leauge is gone, and the rules to the game have changed along with me.

I turn around and take a quick look at myself in the mirror. For the briefest of moments, I thought I saw my old self staring back at me, boxing gear and all. I shake my head and quickly head for the exit. The nagging voice in my head is getting louder, telling me to dust off the heavybag and start training right now, but I ignore it. I tell myself I've got more important things to worry about than some boxing fantasy, but the voice in my head isn't convinced.

Things done changed, no doubt. But the desire remains the same.