The sun was dipping toward the horizon when Ayodeji followed Raphael down the winding path that cut through the neighbourhood. Shadows stretched long across the sandy ground, and the late-afternoon heat had mellowed into a warm haze that shimmered above the rooftops.
Ayodeji kept glancing ahead, half-excited, half-nervous. He had no idea what to expect from a community club.
He imagined a small office somewhere, maybe even a worn-out container acting as a clubhouse, or at least a banner with the team's name on it.
But as they stepped out of the narrow path and onto the open field, his expectations dissolved.
It was the same pitch.
The same pitch he played on two days ago. Except now, it was filled.
Over a dozen players were already scattered across the field. Some were running passing drills with sharp, rhythmic taps; others jogged around cones arranged in zigzag patterns.
The goalkeeper was stretching in front of the posts, his gloves dusty, his knees already dirty—as he had been diving long before Ayodeji arrived.
The dusty air hung thick with the thumps of boots on the ground, the sharp calls of players demanding the ball, and the whistle of the coach cutting through everything in steady intervals.
They tried to look like a professional club despite the environment.
Ayodeji stared.
Raphael noticed and snorted.
"You're surprised?" he asked, hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts.
"I thought…" Ayodeji gestured vaguely. "I don't know. An office. Or a building."
"Guy. What office?" Raphael burst into a laugh as he pointed at the cones. "This is the whole structure. You're lucky they even arranged drills." He bumped Ayodeji lightly with his shoulder. "Guy, this is a community club. Their office is probably the coach's pocket."
Ayodeji scratched his neck, embarrassed. "True."
Raphael slowed to a stop at the edge of the field. "Anyway… this is you now." He nodded toward the players. "Go on."
Before Ayodeji could respond, a firm voice called out:
"Ah! Our new left winger."
A broad-chested man in his late thirties jogged toward them. He wore a faded dark-blue tracksuit, sweat stains already forming on the collar. A whistle hung around his neck, bouncing as he walked.
This was Coach Jidenna.
"Good afternoon," the coach greeted, voice rich and steady. "You came on time. Good."
He extended a hand. Ayodeji shook it immediately.
Up close, Jidenna's presence was heavier—firm, commanding, someone used to dealing with young players and their egos.
He turned to Raphael. "Thank you for bringing him." Raphael responded with a polite nod, stepping aside.
He clapped Ayodeji on the back. "Come. Let me introduce you to your new teammates."
Raphael stepped back, giving Ayodeji a small nod—the kind that was half encouragement, half warning and then began walking away.
Jidenna led Ayodeji toward the players, who were now turning to look his way. Some paused mid-pass, others raised eyebrows, and one or two gave curious nods. The coach raised his voice. "Alright! Pause for a moment!"
Cleats scuffed the ground. Cones rattled.Training didn't freeze instantly; it dissolved. Passes shortened, then stopped. Conversations tapered off. Within moments, heads began turning—one, then three, then almost the entire squad pivoting toward the touchline where Raphael and Deji stood.
The players gave Deji the kind of look seasoned guys give a newcomer: a quick scan from head to toe, checking his size, his build.
Some curious.
Some doubtful.
Some already dismissing him.
A few exchanged glances, the kind that silently asked, This one? For real? Someone wiped sweat off his chin and muttered something under his breath.
Another squinted at Deji like he was trying to remember if he'd seen him around before.
Then—
A soft "wait…" came from the semicircle of players.
One of the boys leaned forward slightly, staring at Deji as if trying to confirm something his mind had already decided. His expression shifted from confusion… to recognition… to disbelief.
He nudged the teammate beside him with a sharp elbow. "Bro, that's the winger I was telling you about," he whispered, not nearly as quietly as he meant to.
The teammate's head snapped toward Deji instantly. "Serious? This one?" he asked, studying Deji from head to toe.
Conversations around them softened, then stalled. Subtle glances turned into open staring. A few players shifted their stances like they were suddenly more awake.
The boy shook his head slowly, almost amused. "I've been telling you since…" he muttered. "Guy scattered pitch when he played."
Ayodeji kept his expression steady, though inside he felt a tight coil of nerves from the weight of the stares.
"They're good boys," Jidenna murmured quietly to him, as if sensing his nervousness. "Just play well and you'll blend in." He then clapped once, drawing attention back to him and then louder, "Ayodeji, welcome to the team."
No cheering. No welcome chorus. Just nods, unreadable expressions, a couple of shrugs, and someone adjusting their shin guards.
"Alright," Jidenna continued. "If you think you know him, good. If you don't, even better. Training first. Talking later." His tone softened slightly for Ayodeji alone. "Drop your bag. Warm up. The boys will ease you in."
But even after the coach spoke, the players' eyes lingered on Ayodeji. They weren't impressed yet, just… curious.
Judging.
***
Jidenna raised his hand, signalling everyone toward the stretch of dirt-lined ground where two cones marked the start and finish. He stepped forward with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a stopwatch dangling from his fingers.
"We'll open with a sixty-meter sprint test," he said, tapping his stopwatch. "One runner at a time. I want good numbers."
The players moved into a loose semicircle, their shadows stretching long across the dusty field. The light wasn't harsh anymore, but the heat still clung to the ground.
"Emeka," Jidenna called.
A broad-shouldered player walked up. He rolled his neck once, took position, and glanced at the far cone like it was farther than sixty meters.
"Ready… go."
Emeka burst forward with effort, his feet pounding hard. Each stride sent little puffs of dust into the air.
He leaned too early, almost overstriding near the middle of the run, but to his credit he held his pace all the way to the second cone. He crossed with a gasp.
"11.4 seconds," Jidenna called.
Emeka bent over, hands on his knees. "Coach, I swear I can get 11.2 next time."
Another player, slimmer and quicker-looking, took his place.
"Ready… go."
His run was cleaner. He didn't have real explosiveness, but he reached top speed without losing balance and finished with a small hop to slow himself down.
"10.9 seconds."
A few players hummed quietly. Not bad. Not great. Normal. Then Jidenna turned toward Ayodeji. "You're next."
The players' eyes quietly drifted to Ayodeji. He stood a little apart from the crowd, rolling his shoulders, adjusting the hem of his bib. His face wasn't nervous, only focused, curious about what his legs could do.
Ayodeji inhaled slowly and walked up. The evening dirt felt firm under his studs—no soft patches, no loose stones. He shook out his arms once, lowered to a comfortable stance, and locked his eyes straight ahead.
Jidenna said, thumb poised on the stopwatch.
"Ready…"
The breeze stilled.
"…go!"
Ayodeji launched forward. His first steps were controlled. His acceleration was sharp enough to be noticeable, but he didn't look like he was forcing anything.
Once he settled into full stride, his movement looked almost unnaturally smooth—knees rising evenly, arms pumping without stiffness, feet tapping the ground cleanly without heavy thuds.
He didn't slow, didn't stagger, didn't drift. The run was efficient the whole way through. By the time he crossed the cone, he eased to a stop and turned back, breathing normally.
Jidenna stared at the stopwatch, brow furrowed so tightly it seemed his eyes might disappear into the crease. He pressed the buttons again, the screen blinking insistently, almost mocking him.
Then he checked the timer against the notes from the previous two runs. Nine point nine.
Nine point nine?
He lowered the stopwatch slightly, blinking rapidly, as if he hadn't read it correctly. "9.9 seconds?" His voice was low, but it carried a note of disbelief that made the players shift uneasily.
The murmurs started quietly, filling the training ground once more.
"What?"
"9.9 seconds?"
"That's faster than anyone here."
"That's like professional team stuff."
The others clustered together, leaning forward, whispering and pointing, shaking their heads. A few took tentative steps closer, measuring the boy against the line they had all run before. Every whispered comparison seemed to emphasize how impossible it was.
Jidenna didn't speak immediately. He lowered the stopwatch to his chest, gripping it as if it could explain itself. His eyes scanned Ayodeji, back and forth, measuring his form, his stance, the way he breathed—like he was trying to find a hidden flaw, anything to explain it away.
"Run it again," he finally said, voice calm but firm, cutting through the rising chatter. "I need to confirm something."
"Did I do something wrong?" Ayodeji asked, confusion etched on his face, and his coach shook his head in response: no, you did not.
Ayodeji nodded once and walked back to the starting cone, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. He felt the dozens of eyes following him as the murmurs rose again: questions, confusion, half-skeptical awe.
He bent down once again, ready and focused. Jidenna reset the stopwatch with a sharp click. "Whenever you're ready," he said, tone clipped, eyes locked on the boy's feet now instead of his face.
Ayodeji leaned forward slightly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. The field fell quiet once more as he launched off.
This time his first step was even cleaner—low, controlled, cutting through the dirt. His strides lengthened quickly, arms swinging with that same smooth rhythm that didn't look forced or frantic. He was just composed, efficient and natural. His footfalls were soft but rapid, carrying him down the makeshift track in a straight, confident line.
He hit the final cone and slowed to a jog, then to a walk, turning back toward the group. His breathing deepened, but didn't break rhythm.
He just looked at the stopwatch like it had betrayed him. Slowly, he raised it to eye level again, squinting, tapping the screen twice with his thumb.
"…9.7 seconds"
It was quiet for half a second.
Then the shock hit like a wave.
"What?!"
"No way....9.7?!"
"That's a whole second faster than me!"
"Twice? He did it twice?!"
One of the older defenders took a step back, blinking rapidly. "9.7… with sand on the ground? That's—that doesn't even make sense."
Jidenna's face was unreadable for a moment, then he pressed the stopwatch to his chest, still staring at Ayodeji. The man who had seen hundreds of young players in similar drills felt something shift—a flicker of interest he hadn't felt in years.
"Alright," Jidenna finally said, voice steady despite himself. "Now, who's next in line?"
Ayodeji walked towards the back of the group,maintaining a calm expression as if he hadn't just left the rest of his teammates struggling in his wake.
——
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