Chapter 7: TRIALS AND TARGETS

The stadium lights flickered on one by one, casting sharp white beams across the turf at Kings Park training grounds. There were no roaring crowds. No media cameras. No scoreboard. Just twenty-five hungry footballers pacing across the pitch, heartbeats thundering like war drums, all hoping for one thing: to be seen.

Stephen stood among them, lacing his boots tight, fingers trembling—not from fear, but from the electricity coursing through his veins. His jersey bore no name, no club badge. Just a number. He was Player #19, stripped of past glories and given the same shot as everyone else.

This wasn't a match.

This was survival.

The KZN Provincial Trial Camp was a meat grinder.

A week-long showcase of the best unsigned youth in the province. Representatives from PSL clubs, university scouts, and even international development partners sat high in the observation booth with clipboards, cameras, and cold eyes.

They weren't there to hope. They were there to scrutinize.

Stephen knew this. He could feel their eyes crawling over his every step. Every touch. Every decision. And so could everyone else.

He recognized a few faces from his academy days—players who'd gone on to sign contracts, get injured, or disappear into the Sunday league circuit. Some nodded at him. Others scowled.

And then there was Tsepo "Spike" Makhanya.

One of the most hyped midfielders in the province. Tall, fast, and vicious. Rumor had it he was already fielding offers from clubs in Gauteng, but showed up at trials anyway—just to assert dominance.

And from the moment he saw Stephen, the tension ignited.

"So the fallen prince returns," Spike said, bumping Stephen's shoulder as they lined up. "Hope your knee doesn't collapse under the spotlight."

Stephen didn't bite. He just smiled.

"We'll see whose legs last longer."

The trial opened with physical assessments—speed tests, agility drills, vertical leaps. Stephen held his own. Not the fastest. Not the tallest. But efficient. Controlled. Every movement economical.

Then came the small-sided matches, played at blistering tempo with no coaching, no instruction. Just chaos and instinct. This is where players rose—or drowned.

Stephen was slotted into a midfield trio with two unknowns. Opposite them? Spike, of course, and two runners built like tanks. From the first whistle, the match exploded. Tackles flew. Voices clashed. Sweat turned the turf slippery.

Stephen moved like water—slipping past presses, distributing clean passes, always three steps ahead. But Spike? He was fire. Aggressive, ruthless, commanding the game with sheer force of personality.

Their duel became the center of attention.

Midway through the match, Spike cut off a pass, barreled forward, and shoulder-checked Stephen off the ball. Clean? Debatable. The ref didn't blow the whistle.

Stephen hit the ground hard. Gasps rang out from the sideline.

Spike stood over him. "You're not built for this anymore, Smith."

Stephen sat up, smiled through the sting, and simply said: "Then stop trying so hard to prove it."

The next session was tactical—positioning, situational plays, set-piece execution. This was where the scouts paid close attention. Football wasn't just about flair. It was intelligence. Stephen's strongest weapon.

He anticipated runs. Moved into pockets of space before they opened. Played silent chess while others chased checkers. The scouts took notes. He saw them. But every time he felt that sliver of confidence, Spike made sure to jab at it.

Late in one drill, Stephen intercepted a ball, flicked it past two defenders, and sent a lofted ball to the wing. Perfect pass. The sideline murmured.

Then—bam.

A flying tackle from behind. Spike again. This time, no ball. Just bone and turf.

Stephen cried out, clutching his calf. Coaches blew whistles. Players stepped in.

"Keep it clean, Makhanya!" one shouted.

Spike raised his hands. "Just pressure. Can't handle it, he should sit out."

Stephen stood, limping slightly. He stared Spike down.

"I don't sit. I play."

By the end of day three, the fatigue was real. Players limped, some dropped out, others began to fade mentally. But Stephen grew sharper.

That night, back in the dorm-style housing, Stephen stood alone outside, staring at the moonlight reflecting off the pitch. He replayed every move in his head—every mistake, every pass, every unspoken challenge. He hadn't come here to blend in.

He came to rewrite his story.

Jayden, who'd arrived at the trial late due to his club obligations, finally joined him.

"You're making noise," he said, stepping beside him.

Stephen smirked. "You're late."

Jayden shrugged. "You're making enough waves for both of us. Scouts already know your number."

Stephen exhaled. "You think they'll pick me?"

Jayden turned serious. "I think… this time, no one can ignore you."

Final day. Full 11v11 match.

Each player had 45 minutes. One half to make their mark.

Stephen was in the second group. His team faced a side captained by Spike—of course. As he warmed up, his nerves didn't scream anymore. They listened. Every breath was controlled. Every heartbeat a drumbeat to a rhythm he finally understood.

Kickoff.

The match was war. Spike's side pressed high. Tackled harder. But Stephen found the cracks. He operated between the lines like a phantom—always moving, always scanning.

In the 23rd minute, the moment came.

A loose clearance landed in midfield. Stephen caught it mid-air, cushioned it with his chest, turned on a dime, and threaded a pass through three defenders to his striker—who buried it bottom corner.

The scouts scribbled notes.

In the 38th minute, another chance. Stephen danced past one, cut left, struck with his weak foot.

Off the post. So close.

Spike growled orders at his side. He wasn't used to losing ground. In the final minutes, he slid in again, catching Stephen's ankle.

This time, the ref blew. Yellow card.

Stephen stood calmly. Looked Spike dead in the eyes.

"Looks like I'm still standing."

When the match ended, the players gathered for closing remarks.

The lead scout stepped forward.

"We'll be releasing names this weekend. Some of you made an impression. Some of you… made excuses. The game doesn't care about your story. Only your impact."

He glanced briefly at Player #19.

Stephen didn't smile.

He just exhaled, fists clenched at his side.

He had done what he came to do.

That night, Jayden found him again. They sat on the rooftop of the housing block, legs dangling over the edge.

"You were on fire out there," Jayden said.

Stephen shrugged. "It's not about one match."

"No," Jayden agreed. "It's about all the pain behind it. You showed it. That's rare."

Stephen looked up at the stars above Durban.

"I'm not who I was before. But I'm still meant for this."

Jayden nodded.

"You're not rising from a fall anymore. You're rising for war."

To be continued…