Road to Amsterdam

The team bus groaned like an old beast as it carved through the frost-kissed Dutch countryside. Fields blurred into smears of winter brown and faded green, sliced by canals that glinted like steel blades under the slate-gray sky. Amani pressed his temple harder against the icy windowpane, the cold seeping into his skin as if trying to freeze the nerves churning in his gut. 

Ajax. The name thrummed in his head, relentless as the engine's growl beneath his feet.

The name alone carried weight. This was a club that wasn't just a team but a legacy. It had produced some of the greatest footballers ever: Johan Cruyff, Marco van Basten, and Dennis Bergkamp. Even now, in 2011, their academy was still the best in the country, a machine designed to create stars.

Even though this was just a closed-door friendly, the weight of the match pressed against Amani's chest like a second heartbeat, he had no illusions — this was a test. A real one. And there were no retakes in football.

Two weeks in the Netherlands, and he still hadn't shaken the surrealness of it all — the crisp academy pitches, the tactical drills barked in rapid Dutch, the way his breath hung in ghostly clouds during morning training. Now this: a closed-door friendly against a club that minted world-class talent like coins.

The air inside the bus smelled of stale sweat and citrus gum. Near the front, assistant coach De Vries chuckled at a joke while three players debated FIFA ratings, their voices sharp and playful. Tijmen lounged across the aisle, earphones glowing white as he smirked at his phone — untouchably calm, as usual. Amani envied that. His own legs bounced like live wires beneath his seat.

Then he saw him.

A boy sat rigid three rows ahead, shoulders squared beneath a black Utrecht jacket, gaze locked on the horizon. His posture screamed intensity — chin up, spine straight, hands clasped tight on his knees like he was already bracing for a tackle. Fresh fade haircut. His hairline was so crisp you'd tell yourself he won't ever lose it. Eyes dark and unblinking. Amani didn't recognize him from drills.

As if sensing the stare, the boy turned.

"You're Amani, right?" The voice was low and steady, with the control of someone who never wasted words.

Amani nodded. "Yeah."

The boy tilted his chin slightly. "Sofyan. Sofyan Amrabat."

Amrabat.

The name landed like a hammer in Amani's mind.

He knew this name.

Not from training. Not from whispers in the locker room. From the future.

Amani had to stop himself from grinning. He was sitting just a few rows away from a player who, in another timeline, would become one of the most dominant defensive midfielders in world football. A man who would run the midfield against European giants, stand toe-to-toe with the likes of Luka Modrić and Kevin De Bruyne and lead Morocco to a historic World Cup semifinal in 2022.

Amani felt a strange sense of admiration mixed with disbelief. He had watched Sofyan command the midfield on the biggest stages, dictating tempo, winning duels, and covering every blade of grass. To the world, he had been a revelation. 

But right now?

Right now, Sofyan was just a 14-year-old kid, grinding through the ranks, completely unaware of the greatness that awaited him. No different from Amani himself.

"They let you out of the kiddie league?" Amani quipped, nodding at Sofyan's spotless running shoes.

The corner of Sofyan's mouth twitched. "Only to babysit you lot." He jerked a thumb toward Tijmen, now air-drumming to whatever hip-hop thumped through his earbuds. "Someone's got to clean up when fancy feet over there loses the ball."

Amani barked a laugh, drawing glances from nearby teammates.

"You've played Ajax before?" he asked, leaning into the aisle.

Sofyan's playful edge vanished. His knuckles whitened. "Last year. They're quick. Smarter than us. Always one step ahead." He leaned closer, eyes burning. "But their midfielders? Tap them early, rattle their rhythm — they fold like cheap chairs."

Amani's pulse quickened. "You make it sound easy."

"Nothing's easy." Sofyan cracked his neck, a sound like snapping twigs. "But fear makes you slow. And slow gets you buried."

Outside, a windmill's shadow sliced across Sofyan's face, turning his grin feral for a heartbeat.

"You ready?" Sofyan asked, tilting his head.

Amani flexed his hands, still calloused from Nairobi's dirt pitches. "Feel like I might puke."

"Good." Sofyan tossed him a peppermint from his pocket. "Means your head's in the game. Now shut up and breathe. Ajax isn't the monster here." He nodded at the fogged window, where Utrecht's training complex loomed in the distance. "We are."

The bus hissed to a stop.

Amani unwrapped the mint, the sharp sweetness flooding his mouth as doors wheezed open.

Sofyan stood, shoulders blocking the aisle. "You walk in there like you own the grass," he said, quiet and lethal, "and they'll believe you do."

***

The cold hit Amani like a slap the moment he stepped off the bus. Sharp. Dry. The kind that clawed through layers and settled deep in his bones. His breath curled into the icy air, disappearing like smoke.

And ahead of him, stretching across the horizon like a footballing temple, stood Sportcomplex De Toekomst — Ajax's legendary training ground.

The facility was breathtaking in its precision. Beyond the iron gates, a network of perfectly maintained pitches spread out like emerald carpets, their frost-kissed blades standing stiff against the winter chill. The main building, sleek and modern, bore the Ajax crest on its glass façade, reflecting the pale January sun. Red and white banners lined the walkways, some carrying quotes from Ajax legends, others showcasing academy graduates who had gone on to light up European football.

Amani felt a weight settle over him — not fear, not quite pressure. Something bigger.

This wasn't just another academy ground. This was where legends were made.

He had seen it before — on TV, in documentaries, in interviews with Dutch greats. But standing here in the flesh, feeling the history press down on him? That was different.

A voice beside him snapped him out of it.

"You're taking it all in, huh?"

Amani turned to see Sofyan Amrabat stepping off the bus beside him. The 14-year-old midfielder moved with quiet confidence, his sharp eyes scanning the facility like he was already studying it. Unlike Amani, he didn't seem overwhelmed. If anything, he looked ready.

"You don't look nervous," Amani said, adjusting his backpack.

Sofyan shrugged, rolling his shoulders to loosen up. "Why would I be?" He motioned toward the fields. "Same grass, same goals. Just different shirts."

Amani let out a small laugh. "Ajax isn't just 'different shirts.' This is their home. They live for these games."

"Good," Sofyan smirked. "So do we."

As the rest of the Utrecht squad unloaded, Amani noticed something different about the energy. Normally, there'd be light jokes, someone juggling a ball, casual conversations. But today?

Today was quiet.

Even the most confident players carried a different edge to them. Focused. Serious.

Because this wasn't just another match.

This was Ajax.

Tijmen finally pulled out his earphones, stuffing them into his jacket. He glanced at Amani and smirked. "Feels different, doesn't it?"

Amani nodded. "Yeah."

Tijmen stretched his arms above his head. "Don't overthink it. Just play."

Easy for him to say. He had played against Ajax for years.

A sharp clap cut through the cold air. The assistant coach, De Vries, had gathered the team just outside the entrance. "Alright, listen up!" His voice carried easily over the frozen ground. "No cameras, no crowds, but don't let that fool you, this is still Ajax. They don't 'take it easy.' They play every game like a final. And so do we."

The players murmured in response, shifting their weight, rolling their shoulders, mentally preparing.

Then Coach Pronk stepped forward, arms crossed, his sharp eyes sweeping across the squad. "Ajax doesn't respect opponents," he said, voice low and firm. "They dictate. They expect to control the game, to pull you into their rhythm. If you let them do that, you lose. Simple."

A beat of silence.

Then, Pronk's gaze locked onto Amani. "Hamadi."

Amani straightened. "Coach?"

"You'll get your minutes." Pronk's tone was unreadable. "When you do..." He held Amani's gaze for a second longer. "Make them count."

Amani nodded the weight of those words settling deep in his chest.

He would.

Because this was his stage.

Inside the Locker Room

The Ajax facility was just as polished inside as it was outside. White walls, bright lights, and that signature red-and-white Ajax branding everywhere. The hallways were lined with framed jerseys, match photos, and quotes from club legends which reminded them that this wasn't just a place for development. It was a proving ground.

As the Utrecht squad walked through, Amani's eyes scanned the walls, landing on a particular photo — Johan Cruyff, arms outstretched, dictating the game with just a look. Below it, one of his most famous quotes:

"Football is a game you play with your brain. You can only play at your best if you understand everything that's happening around you."

Amani swallowed hard. That was exactly what he was trying to learn.

They filed into the away locker room, a space that smelled of fresh laundry and disinfectant. Jerseys were already laid out and folded with precision. Amani spotted his—37. HAMADI. His pulse kicked up a notch.

He belonged here.

Sofyan dropped onto the bench beside him, unzipping his training jacket. "You starting?"

Amani shook his head. "Second half."

Sofyan nodded like that was the right call. "Good. That means you get to see everything first." He tied his laces with sharp, practiced movements. "Watch their midfield. See how they move, how they press. By the time you step on, you'll know exactly where to hurt them."

Amani absorbed that. Sofyan spoke with certainty like he already knew how this would play out.

"You start?" Amani asked.

Sofyan smirked. "Of course."

Of course.

Because some players didn't wait for their moment. They took it.

Amani clenched his fists. His time was coming.

And when it did, Ajax would remember his name.

Kickoff was near.