I sat in bed, nursing my injuries from the whopping my dad gave a week ago, I couldn't train nor play that week, firstly cause of the injuries and secondly, because they haven't quickly forgotten how I almost singlehandedly threw the game against Lokoja.
I cried as I applied balm on the injuries, not just due to the pain, but also because I was looking at the awards on my shelf, accolades which I had won from football not over two years ago. I wasn't always bad at football, and my dad, let's just say Dad wasn't always against me playing.
As I sat, massaging my ankles, I started to drift, reminiscing on when things were better. When I was but a child and was newly introduced to the footy,
"Hey son, come sit with me," Dad said while watching his weekly game. I was four, and that was the first time I was introduced to the beautiful game. I sat there with him, asking questions as we watched, "Daddy, this short one on red can play, oh. Who is he?" I asked. My dad laughed a little before responding, "He can, right? He's the best footballer in the world right now. Messi is his name. " I watched on, with all the emotions, both the ones my little brain could understand, like frustration when "Messi" hits a shot too wide, to the feeling when one of the players on red splits a player in what I later found out was called a dribble, a feeling I couldn't understand then. I watched Messi. If Dad said he was the best player in the world, then he must be very good.
After that day, watching football with my dad became a weekly activity. I would join him as he watched when he was "resting from work." His favourite team, I found out was Barcelona, and little Messi was the player who gave him all the joy in the world.
A few years later, on my ninth birthday, I came back from school with Jordan, who was already registered to Ikeja City kids centre, and had a ball of his own, bought by his father. I had begged Dad to get me one for months. As I walked in, I was greeted by my dad, who normally would be at work by this time, shouting SURPRISE!! as he handed me a ball, my first ever ball. I jumped for joy and hugged my dad and mum. They sang the Happy birthday song, and after cutting and eating the cake, I rushed outside with Jordan to play ball. We played from 4 when we came back from school till 8:30 pm, when his Mum came to pick him up.
For months, my schedule became split between playing football with Jordan, whenever he wasn't at the football centre for kids under the age of 10, playing football with my dad as he showed and thought me things I could do with the ball, and watching Barcelona play with my dad. Most days, I didn't even study for school.
My dad taught me how to "kill a ball with my foot," something everyone else called controlling the ball. As he taught me, he would say, "The ball is your servant, and sometimes, you need to tell your servant to stop work."
"Let the ball serve you," he would fondly say as he taught.
He also taught me how to take free-kicks, how to stand over them, the run-up, and the secret to hitting it perfectly. We had a plastic cut out of people standing, which he used to teach me. I'd first taken free kicks until I was able to lift it over the cut out, then was the next step, getting it to go over the cardboard cutout, and also get into the goalpost he built.
When we watched the games, my dad would ask me what I saw; he would always say, "The best players were the ones who could see everything on the pitch." He would point out top players like Messi, Ronaldo, and Mesut Ozil, among others. He would show me how each player would take time to watch the whole pitch.
He was very specific with showing me that about Ozil in a game where Arsenal played Everton. "Watch him, see how he scans the pitch, he turns his head round to see where the ball is, where the opposition players are, and where his teammates are, he also watches the pace of the game and the pace of the players". Then when Ozil held the ball and did something magical, which Ozil always did, Dad would say "You see, he could do that because he's already seen the big picture, he has the pitch and everyone in his imagination" he would then add that that was what separated the good players from the best in the worlds.
Dad really taught me a lot about football.
There was a knock on my door. It was Chialuka. She came around so we would head to school like we always did. She stayed furtherest from school, so she'd walk to mine, and we'd both take a bus to Jordan's, whose mother would then drive us to school.
"Give me a minute," I said as I hurriedly wiped my eyes. I bandaged my feet, wrapping it thoroughly as to support my ankle and ease the pain when I put on my shoe. Mum practised as a nurse before she married my father, so she taught me how to take care of my injuries.
"Burn your uniform, oh," Chialuka said, referring to my uniform, which I always ironed to a crisp. "New week, same you, did you even wash this thing you have on now?" I asked, pointing at her cardigan. "Leave me, I did not have the time." We both laughed as we left, bidding both my parents goodbye.
In the car, Jordan and I talked about the next game. That Saturday, we were welcoming Abuja City stars u16 in yet another friendly game. He had a game with the u18 in the evening today, and there was a rumour that the first team manager would be in attendance. It was a real opportunity for Jordan to push on and maybe get the manager to take interest in his development.
School today was normal; we newly got into SS1, and all three of us were science students. Jordan and I sat at the back of class, although he didn't like it that much. Me? I tend to be a delinquent at times, it didn't affect my grades and teachers were confused on whether or not to punish me as I was the best student in the class and I had always been since I started at the school.
During break, we went out to play ball in the fields. I enjoyed these games. They were small, mocking post games, so I didn't need to do much, which meant that I hardly did anything to trigger my injuries. Jordan and I always played on the same team, in a 5-aside game, I would walkabout the area until I got the ball, and when I did, I hardly took more than 3 touches, maximum of two touches to free myself for a space to pass. We played "sets," where two groups of five players would play until a goal is scored and another group of players would replace the team that was scored on.
After the break, we went back to class, our next class was Mathematics and we were going to be taking a test. The teacher came in, taught, and brushed us up on a few topics he had taught weeks beforehand. "Okay, everybody, tear a sheet of paper," the teacher said after wiping off the board. Murmurs was heard in the classroom. People tore out papers for the test, and others used the opportunity to swap seats in order to sit with someone who they thought was smarter and willing to help them in the test.
Jo turned to me, "With ease abi?" He asked. "With ease as always," I responded. Chialuka laughed as we all tore our sheets of paper for the test. The teacher wrote the questions on the board, and in 10 minutes, we were done. The teacher took the papers and then did corrections. After the corrections, he left. Then, the bell rang, signalling the end of classes for today. As we made to leave, I grabbed a marker and wrote on the board. "10/10 again. With ease, as usual." This was something I did from primary school and how I got the nickname Ease.
We headed for the Ikeja CFC training centre after school. I joined the rest training with the under 16s, even though I wasnt going to join them in training, I just wanted to be there, talk to the guys, walk about a bit to help myself get better quicker as well as visiting the u-16 physiotherapists for at the very least, a quick rub down, Jordan on the other hand went to the u-18s to warm up for the match they had at hand.
When the u-16 was done training, I headed to the other side, where the game was already going on. Getting closer, I started to hear chants from the supporters at the game. "Zlatan!!! Zlatan!!! Zlatan" they chanted as they clapped their hands in unison. I walked into the pitch, looked at the scoreboard, and was met with only what I could describe as a demolition job. Our u18s were thrashing the Mountain of Flames u18s 9-nil in the 81st minute.
"Bro, you missed." Chialuka said as I took a seat beside her in the stands. "You people were already winning 4-0 in the first half, so the coach decided he was going to substitute in Jordan and Dinho at the start of the second half, but it now looked like Dinho and Jordan were even better than the players in the under-18." She continued. I listened on as she described Jordan's performance from the start of the first half till when I showed up. How he scored a goal and assisted Dinho's hat trick as well as the fifth goal, which was scored after he came on. He was involved in every single goal since he came on the pitch. I nodded as she went on with my eyes glued to the pitch as I noticed that something was shaping up for us.
Jordan brought a crossed ball down with his chest, then he hit a roulette to evade the player rushing towards him from behind, then he placed a well timed through ball to his left where Dinho was charging forward. Jordan moved, pulling one defender with him and creating space for Dinho to run into. Dinho took advantage. One elastico later, with an opposition defender split on the floor, his legs spread wide like butter on a slice of bread, and Dinho who'd received the ball, was now cutting into the space created by Jordan's movement off the ball. Dinho faked a shot, yet another defender took the bait, sliding right out of the pitch. The whole crowd shouted, "Ye!!!!!" Dinho then laid it back to Jordan, who had successfully evaded his marker and now bearing on goal. The opposition goalkeeper charged forward, Dinho was already off celebrating, all of us from the u15 who came to watch the rest of the game already knew it was a goal. Zlat ran and made his foot as though he was going to blast a shot at the first touch. The keeper went low; Jordan chipped the ball. GOAL. 10-2.
As we headed home, I was fondling Jordan's Man of the Match award, trying to open it to see what's inside it. Maybe it was different from the ones I had won when we were in the u-14s, and since those were the last ones I had won, I just wanted to know. "It's the same thing, guy." Jordan said to me as I pryed it open. "Two goals and 4 assists," Chialuka cut in, just as I was about to respond. "You are becoming like the best player in Lagos under 14 years," she added in praise before sprinkling a few, "Zlatan, Zlatan" into the praise. "Stop, I beg." Jordan said. You could see that he really loved the praise even though he tried to remain humble. "There's still Ronaldinho; that guy is a different animal on his own, a mad player"(The word mad is often used to describe something or someone very good, exceptionally. The same way the Americans use sick.) "What do you mean you're 14 years old, most of your mates are still in the u-14s but not only are you in the u-16s, you have scored 67 goals in the last 40 games." Jordan said, shifting the praise onto Dinho. "Plus, 4 goals in 6 u-18 matches." I added. "If he continues like that, he can be our very own Max Dowman or even Yamal." Jordan added, shaking his head in clear marvel at what Dinho has achieved at such a young age.
"Who is Yamal? Dowman?" Chialuka asked, raising her eyebrow. Jordan and I shared a look, chuckling a bit before I playfully shoved her backwards. "You be going, please" I said sarcastically. "You don't even watch any other game except us and if not for us, will you even know what a throw-in is?" Jordan asked jokingly. "Why will I ever watch any other football matches? When I have the two best players in the world as my friends," she said as she walked back towards us, putting her hand around both our shoulders and swinging a couple times before hopping off, but not taking her arms from around our shoulders.