Trial Match III

The match resumed as soon as Coach Mande's whistle pierced the air.

Amani and his red-clad teammates pressed aggressively, immediately marking the green team's forwards. Wagaluka and Ochieng, the two midfielders in green bibs, found themselves with no option but to pass the ball back to their defenders. The red team was relentless, pinning their opponents within their half and the center of it all was Amani orchestrating every play.

Dark clouds loomed overhead, and soon, the first droplets of rain began to fall. Most of the scouts retreated to the stands for shelter, but a few remained by the pitch, their eyes fixed on the unfolding drama.

On the sideline, Coach Juma stood beside Mr. Christophe, the head scout for Olympique Lyon's Youth Academy. The Frenchman's decision would determine the fate of the young players battling for a place in European football. The other French and English officials in his delegation were merely along for the ride, more interested in their travel allowances and sightseeing than scouting. But Christophe was different — his sharp gaze never wavered from the field.

"That Nondi boy is impressive," Christophe said, nodding slightly. "As you mentioned, his dribbling and finishing are impeccable."

On cue, Stephen Nondi dribbled past Bonde, the red team's right-back, slicing through the defense like a hot knife through butter. He stormed into the box and unleashed a low shot, only for Baraka, the keeper, to make a crucial save. He was the only one keeping the green team alive.

Coach Juma furrowed his brow. "And what about Amani?" He pointed toward who was quite tall for his age in the red number-eight jersey. "He's got presence, vision — an excellent ball distributor."

Christophe's lips curled slightly as he glanced at Amani. "He's good, but we already have plenty of players like him at the academy. His physique gives him an edge now, but what happens when the others grow stronger? His uniqueness will fade."

"I choose Nondi," he stated firmly. "Musyoka, the green team's winger, is another possibility."

Juma's jaw tightened. "We've been tracking Amani since he was twelve. He's not just another midfielder — his intelligence on the pitch sets him apart. With his physicality and awareness, he could be shaped into a world-class center-back or even a deep-lying playmaker."

Juma wanted to see young African talent thrive in European academies. It was the only way Kenya could produce competitive international players.

Christophe exhaled sharply, a smirk creeping onto his lips. "Do you doubt my judgment? Do you think we'd be here if it weren't for AFTA's sponsorship?" His tone dripped with condescension. "We promised to pick four players, and we will. Be satisfied with that."

Juma bit back his frustration, eyes shifting back to the match. "Mr. Christophe, aren't you watching?"

On the pitch, Amani had just delivered a precision through ball to Emanuel Obuya, who took a shot — but it sailed over the crossbar. The green team would take a goal kick.

Christophe barely looked. "We know about the injury."

Juma stiffened. "What?"

"The accident that damaged his left foot," Christophe continued, shaking his head. "We did our background research. The boy has a history of ankle problems. We won't risk investing in a player prone to injuries."

Juma's chest tightened. "That's absurd! Players get injured all the time and recover. Give him a chance to take a medical."

Christophe scoffed. "We checked his records at Afya Centre Community Hospital. The x-rays were clear — his left foot will never be the same. Do you think top European clubs gamble on damaged goods?"

Juma clenched his fists as the scout continued, his words laced with disdain. "African coaches never do their due diligence. You see one promising game and rush to sign a player. Do you check their medical history? Their family background? Their injury records? No. You waste resources on players who will never make it."

Juma refused to back down. "We've seen players recover from serious injuries — even at the international level."

Christophe chuckled darkly. "One in a million. And those one-in-a-million players have elite medical care. What did Amani get? A bed in a local hospital, waiting for his body to heal itself. What did you expect would happen?"

He spread his arms, his smirk widening. "Tell me, Coach Juma."

A grin was plastered all over his face, wide and open, showing his over-whitened teeth. At that moment, his motives were laid bare; he was a mocker, one who enjoyed tormenting others. That was Juma's conclusion.

Juma turned away, disgusted. He had to find another way to help Amani.

Amani, oblivious to the heated discussion, was focused on one thing — winning.

With two minutes left, the score was still tied at 2-2. The green team's midfielders, Ochieng and Wagaluka, had been suffocating him, cutting off his passing lanes. His forwards, Obuya and Beni, had squandered several golden chances.

Hitting the post, air balling twice and even missing shots.

'I can't lose now.'

While others played for personal recognition, Amani played for something bigger. Losing meant the system would shut down for a year. He couldn't afford that.

His eyes scanned the field for a weakness. The red team's defenders slowly advanced, passing the ball around, and probing for an opening. Then, he saw it — an oversight by the green team.

A grin tugged at his lips. 'Maybe… I can try that.'

He signaled Malik and the strikers, then made his move. Feinting forward, he suddenly reversed direction, shaking off Wagaluka and Ochieng. The defenders hesitated, confused.

"Here! Pass here!" Amani shouted to Chrisy, who wasted no time sending the ball his way. Wagaluka lunged in, but Amani spun past him in a fluid motion, breaking free.

"Ochieng him, tackle him," Amani thought he heard Nondi yelling from behind him as he continued running with the ball. However, he ignored everything behind him and focused on the goalkeeper. Amani had noticed that Jackson Lunga tended to stray away from his line whenever the ball was at a distance from him. He intended to exploit that error.

Accelerating, he tore through the midfield, gliding past Ochieng and Wanjala. A vast, unguarded space lay ahead. The green team's defense braced themselves, marking the forwards outside the box. But Amani had his eyes set elsewhere.

From forty-five yards out, he struck the ball with precision.

The stadium held its breath as the ball soared in a perfect arc, the arc was so clean you could draw it. The green team's keeper, Jackson Lunga, scrambled back, but he was too late. The ball dipped over his outstretched hands and nestled into the net.

GOOOAAAL!!!

The goal seemed to have set off a spark in the green team's ranks. Nondi, Wanjala, and Musyoka all attacked like there was no tomorrow for the next minute. However, Amani's red team held out until the final whistle, with Baraka making two more spectacular saves.

3-2.

The Final whistle was blown.

Silence.

The spectators stared, their faces frozen in shock. They were confused as to how children of ages 13, 14, and 15 played this well.

"Shit!" Wagaluka swore. "What kind of luck does Hamadi have today?"

And then, a roar erupted. The crowd exploded in cheers, the stadium alive with electrifying energy.

On the sidelines, as the final minutes ticked away, scouts and spectators alike marveled at Amani's orchestration. His ability to read the game, anticipate movement, and create opportunities out of thin air spoke volumes about his talent. At that moment, Amani wasn't just playing; he was conducting a symphony on the pitch, each pass and run perfectly timed to shift the momentum of the match.

Christophe let out a long sigh. "What a pity. He could have been one of the greats."

The green team launched one last desperate assault, but the red defense held firm. Baraka made two more stunning saves before the final whistle blew.

Amani's teammates rushed to him, showering him with praise. Malik grinned. "That was insane. No doubt the scouts will pick you."

Even Chrisy bumped fists with him — a first in their history.

Amani smiled. 'This is what the game was made for. A game of unity, not rivalry.'

Behind him, Nondi smirked. "Next time, I won't lose."

Amani grinned back. "I'll be waiting."

~~~~

Coach Juma hurried away from the touchline towards the dressing room right after the final whistle. He felt dejection wash over him when Amani scored the third goal.

All his efforts at convincing Mr. Christophe to give Amani a chance had proven futile. A talented player was about to be neglected by a conservative scout due to an unverified latent injury.

He could see Amani becoming a pillar of the Harambee Stars in international competitions a few years in the future.

"Excuse me, Coach Juma. Can we talk for a minute or two?" Juma heard a familiar hoarse but mellow voice from beside him. He turned back only to find an aged Caucasian man in a sunhat and a blonde girl standing behind him.

"Hahaha," Coach Juma laughed after seeing the Dutch scout.

"Mr. Carlos Stein, nice meeting you again," he said, extending his hand for a handshake. "I was about to come looking for you. I need a favor from you this time."

"Oh, same here," Mr. Stein smiled, shaking Juma's outstretched hand. "Can we talk in your office?" He said.

~~~~~