Medical

The day dawned crisp and clear, with a low winter sun peeking through the narrow streets of Utrecht. Frost glazed the pavements, and every breath Amani took formed little white puffs in the freezing air.

By 8:55 AM, Amani and Malik were already waiting in the hotel parking lot, bundled up in heavy jackets, gloves, and scarves. Excitement danced in their eyes, but under that lay a thin layer of nerves — today, they'd take their first official step into life as academy players in the Netherlands.

Right on time, Mr. Stein's Toyota Camry glided into the lot. The old scout gave them a once-over as they climbed into the backseat.

"How was your first night in Europe?" Stein asked as he pulled onto the main road.

"Fantastic!" Malik declared, his grin wide. "I slept like a baby."

"Same here," Amani added. "That bed was… something else."

He could still feel the plushness of the silk duvet and cotton sheets. His body had sunk into that mattress like it was made of clouds. After cooking himself a hot dinner and listening to the hum of the room's heater, he slept deeper than ever before.

"Glad to hear that," Stein said, his eyes locked on the road. "Because today, you've got work to do. First stop — UMC Utrecht for your full medical assessments."

"Medicals?" Malik groaned. "Again? We already did check-ups back in Mombasa!"

Stein smiled, shaking his head. "That was basic screening, just to make sure you didn't collapse on the flight. This is different. The academy coaches need a full breakdown — your strengths, weaknesses, and any hidden risks. They'll design your training plans around what the doctors find."

Amani listened quietly, his fingers tapping against his knee. The reality was setting in — this wasn't just a trip. This was a job interview for their dreams.

"And what happens if we fail?" Malik asked, the humor briefly draining from his voice.

"You won't fail," Stein assured them. "Worst case, you get six months to prove yourself. But I've seen what you can do. You'll be fine."

The boys exchanged a glance. Neither was as sure as Stein sounded.

The car wove through Utrecht's neat streets, passing rows of cyclists riding to work and school. Amani marveled at how smoothly the traffic flowed — no honking matatus, no dust clouds kicked up by overloaded trucks. And then, just before they reached the hospital, Amani caught a glimpse of Stadion Galgenwaard in the distance.

For a moment, he forgot the cold, forgot the nerves. There it was — the stadium where he dreamed of playing one day.

Stein followed his gaze. "Work hard enough," he said softly, "and that pitch will be yours."

~~

The hospital's sports department was vast, sleek, and intimidating. Glass walls framed state-of-the-art facilities, and everywhere Amani looked, doctors moved with practiced precision. The boys were immediately separated — two exam rooms and two different doctors.

Amani's doctor was a stern-faced middle-aged man who introduced himself briefly: "Dr. Saris. Let's begin."

Without further explanation, Amani was placed on an exercise bike and ordered to start pedaling. The resistance increased every few minutes until his quads burned like fire. Despite the cold room, sweat poured down his back.

What the hell kind of warm-up is this? Amani thought, gritting his teeth.

But he didn't complain. He kept pedaling until Saris, still expressionless, finally said, "Enough."

What followed was a battery of tests, each one more unfamiliar and demanding than the last.

First came the Biodex assessment, where Amani found himself strapped into a futuristic-looking machine that resembled a cross between a gaming chair and a medieval torture device. Thick straps locked his legs into place, and Dr. Saris, still expressionless, adjusted the machine's settings like a pilot preparing for takeoff.

"Extend your leg — hard," the doctor instructed his tone as clinical as the room itself.

Amani kicked forward, his muscles flexing against what felt like a steel cable pulling back. Then came the reverse — he had to pull his leg back in with equal force. The machine logged each movement, every tremor of muscle strain recorded in real-time.

"Again."

The resistance increased.

"Again."

By the fourth set, Amani's quads burned like they were on fire, his hamstrings trembling with every pull. Beads of sweat ran down his temples, but he grit his teeth and pushed through, reminding himself: Every test is a step closer to that pitch.

Next came the treadmill run — a seemingly simple task that quickly turned into a battlefield of endurance. Amani was fitted with a mask covering his mouth and nose, connected to a long tube that snaked toward a nearby machine. Every breath was monitored, analyzed, reduced to cold numbers on a screen.

"Start jogging," Dr. Saris instructed.

The treadmill hummed to life beneath his feet. Easy enough — at first. But every two minutes, the speed climbed, turning a comfortable jog into a brisk run, and eventually, into a punishing sprint. The mask made breathing harder, like sucking air through a narrow straw.

This isn't running. This is survival, Amani thought, arms pumping, legs churning, heart pounding in his chest.

His mind flicked back to Mbakari — the sandy pitches, the blazing sun, the bare feet hammering against uneven ground. If he could handle that, this should be easy.

It wasn't.

Dr. Saris stood nearby, watching the numbers climb but offering no praise, no feedback. Just silent observation — as if Amani was an experiment in a lab.

After the treadmill, Amani was marched into a flexibility station where a mat and a measuring bar awaited.

"Touch your toes."

Easy.

"Now sit. Legs straight. Reach forward."

Amani reached, fingertips skimming past the edge of the bar, surprising even himself. All those late-night stretches before system drills had quietly worked wonders.

But there was no time to feel proud — next was reflex testing, where he had to tap flashing buttons scattered across a large wall. The lights blinked randomly, some high, some low, demanding split-second reactions and lightning-fast footwork.

His fingers darted across the wall like a pianist on fire. Left, right, up, down — his system-enhanced reflexes kicking in as if the wall was a field and the lights were defenders to dribble past.

"Good speed," Dr. Saris murmured. It was the first compliment the man had offered.

Then came the balance test: standing barefoot on a wobbling platform while keeping a laser dot centered on a screen. Every minor shift in his body weight sent the dot sliding off course. Amani's core muscles clenched, stabilizing him almost instinctively. His brain and body remembered the endless one-legged shooting drills from the system's training menu.

Next, the bone scan — a strange, humming machine that moved over his legs, reading bone density and structural health. Amani lay still, his mind drifting to the rumors back home — the whispers about his left ankle injury. He knew it had been exaggerated, but was there some hidden weakness the scan would reveal?

Dr. Saris gave nothing away.

Blood and urine tests followed — needles, vials, and awkward silences — then a return to the mat for more joint mobility checks.

"Rotate your hip."

"Flex your knee."

"Rotate your ankle."

The doctor's hands moved with professional precision, testing range of motion, applying pressure, gauging resistance.

Amani couldn't help but wonder if this was normal, or if they were digging so deep because they couldn't believe a boy from the outskirts of Malindi could turn up this fit, this prepared.

"Ever been injured?" Dr. Saris asked suddenly.

Amani hesitated — memories flickering in his mind. That fall from the bicycle on his left ankle, the limp he'd tried to hide after his from his mother before. But the system had fixed him, layer by layer, every training session patching up old weaknesses.

"Nothing serious," he said carefully.

"Hmm." The doctor didn't seem convinced.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the tests ended. Amani's muscles ached in places he didn't even know could ache, his throat dry, his mind buzzing with everything they'd put him through.

He dressed quietly, wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve. Outside the exam room, Malik was waiting, bundled in his jacket, his face twisted in exaggerated exhaustion.

"Bruh," Malik groaned. "I feel like I just ran the Nairobi Marathon backwards."

"Same," Amani laughed weakly. "Any idea if we passed?"

"No clue. My doctor was all serious and scary. Yours?"

"Same. Straight face the whole time."

They stood there in silence for a moment, both realizing that for all the drills, all the hours on the pitch, this—the science of football—was something neither of them had prepared for.

"Think they'll send us back?" Malik asked quietly.

Amani shook his head. "Nah. This was just to design our training plans. They don't need us match-ready yet. As long as nothing's wrong with our bodies, we're fine."

"Hope you're right," Malik muttered.

~~~

In a quiet office down the hall, Dr. Saris presented the results to Mr. Stein and Coach Boyd Pronk, the academy's interim head coach.

"Carlos," Saris began, his poker face finally cracking into a smile, "you found yourself a perfect specimen."

Stein raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"The boy Amani is exceptionally fit for his age — so much so that it's almost suspicious. His skeletal range of movement is outstanding, and his lower-body muscle groups work in perfect coordination. It's as though he's been training professionally for years."

Pronk frowned. "Are you sure this kid wasn't already with a pro team back home?"

Stein shook his head. "He's turning fourteen soon. There's no way. Kenya has few of those kinds of facilities but not in Malindi."

Saris continued, "I checked his joints, his pelvic stability, his left leg — everything's in top shape. Whatever rumors you heard about old injuries? Nonsense. The boy's clean. Stronger than average, even in his left leg."

Stein's relief was palpable. "That's exactly what I needed to hear."

But Pronk remained skeptical. "Physical talent is one thing. Football intelligence is another. I want to see him in action before I believe the hype."

Stein sighed. "That's what the trial match in Mombasa was for."

Pronk snorted. "A game against some village boys? Please. I'll see for myself — next week. I'm throwing him into the Under-17 friendly against AZ Alkmaar next week."

Stein's jaw dropped. "He's barely even fifteen! For God's sake the boy is only thirteenyears!"

"Doesn't matter," Pronk said, standing up. "Pressure makes diamonds — or breaks them. If he's as good as you claim, he'll cope."

"But he hasn't even trained with the team yet!" Stein protested.

"Tough. He gets from Friday upto Monday to train. After that, he plays Tuesday. My decision's final."

Stein turned to Dr. Saris for backup, but the doctor was already typing up his report, distancing himself from the argument.

Johansen gave a parting shot. "And the other boy — Malik?"

Dr. Saris flipped through a second file. "Decent fitness. Good lower-limb strength. Stamina's passable. But he's carrying a little extra weight — could be diet-related."

Pronk frowned. "Six months. That's how long I'll give him to get in proper shape. After that, if he's still lagging, he goes back."

"Why are you so hard on them?" Stein asked, exasperated.

"I'm hard on everyone," Pronk replied. "No exceptions."

With that, the manager left the room.

"Boyd's a tough nut," Saris said, shaking his head. "But you've handled worse."

Stein ran a hand through his thinning hair. "It's not the pressure. It's the politics. Someone upstairs is gunning for my neck, and Pronk's their puppet."

"So what now?" Saris asked.

"I tell the boys the truth," Stein said, exhaling hard. "They deserve that much."