The Golden Generation

The rhythmic hum of treadmills filled the air, blending with the clinking of weights and the low grunts of exertion. The scent of sweat and rubber mixed with the crisp, air-conditioned chill of the FC Utrecht U17 gym.

This wasn't just a training facility.

It was a battlefield.

A place where potential was carved into reality, where boys forged their bodies into weapons, where limits were shattered and rebuilt stronger.

Amani's sneakers pounded against the treadmill. His breath was steady, and his focus was locked. His shirt clung to his body, drenched in sweat, but his posture remained upright, and his strides were precise. He wasn't running to get through the session.

He was running to conquer it.

To his left, Tijmen moved with a smooth rhythm, his breathing sharp but controlled, and every step calculated. To his right, Sofyan Amrabat powered through an incline sprint. His jaw clenched, his muscles taut, and his body moved like a machine that refused to break.

Around them, the rest of the squad was fully engaged as some hammering out weighted squats, others rotating through core circuits and cycling drills. No one dragged their feet. No one coasted through reps.

This wasn't a recovery session.

This was war.

And at the back of the room, two figures watched in silence.

Coach Pronk stood with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze flicking from player to player, absorbing everything. His face was unreadable, but his fingers tapping against his bicep betrayed the thoughts racing through his head.

Beside him, Assistant Coach De Vries leaned against the wall, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"This group is different," De Vries muttered, his voice barely audible over the steady thrum of machines.

Pronk didn't respond right away, his eyes locked on Amani whose pace had only increased. While others reached their limits and eased up, Amani bumped up the speed. Pushing and keeping on testing himself.

Pronk finally spoke, his tone lined with something close to admiration.

"That boy." His gaze didn't waver. "He changed the culture."

De Vries exhaled, gesturing toward the gym.

"Look at them. Last year, training sessions weren't like this. It was just drills, just routine. But now?" He shook his head. "They push each other. They refuse to take it easy. They treat every session like it matters."

Pronk's lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"And he's not even fifteen yet." Not yet, for now.

They watched as Amrabat finished his incline sprint, his chest rising and falling, but he didn't stop.

He dropped to the ground immediately into a plank position.

Tijmen saw him and followed. Then another player. And another.

Until half the squad was locked in, holding their cores steady, refusing to be the weak link.

No one had ordered them to do it.

One player pushed, and the others followed. Even though they followed they did not look like sheep.

Because It wasn't about instructions.

It was about mentality.

Pronk's arms remained crossed, but his jaw tightened as if he were fighting off a dangerous thought.

"This might be it, you know."

De Vries turned to him. "What?"

Pronk's eyes never left the players.

"The golden generation. The group that finally wins something meaningful for this club."

De Vries exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing back at the gym floor.

FC Utrecht had always been in the shadows.

Always chasing Ajax, Feyenoord, PSV.

Always fighting for respect but never quite getting over the hump.

The dream of building a title-winning squad had always felt just out of reach.

But now, watching these players with hunger in their eyes, fire in their training, and the way they moved as one, De Vries felt it, too.

"This could be it, you know," he admitted, his voice quieter. "If they stay together, even for a while if they keep growing…"

Pronk finished the thought.

"We might finally have a team on our hands that makes history."

Back on the treadmill, Amani's legs burned, sweat stinging his eyes. His chest ached, but his mind was clear.

He had heard the whispers.

About the other team's dominance. About how Utrecht's academy was just another stepping stone for talent to be poached.

He didn't care.

Because he knew the truth. This wasn't just another team. This wasn't just another generation.

They weren't here to play.

They were here to win.

And when the time came?

The world would remember them.

***

The sharp blast of Coach Pronk's whistle cut through the heavy gym air like a finishing blow.

The machines slowed. The rhythmic pounding of treadmills faded. The clanking of weights settled into a dull hum.

Amani stepped off his treadmill, his breath still steady despite the burn in his legs. Sweat dripped down his back, his shirt clinging to his skin. His body ached, but there was something else beneath the exhaustion.

Satisfaction.

Across the gym, the other players moved at their own pace — some hunched over, hands on their knees, gulping for air. Others stretched, rolling out their sore muscles.

Sofyan wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, breathing hard but composed as always. Tijmen was still shaking out his legs, muttering something about needing a new pair of lungs.

It had been a brutal session.

But no one complained.

They had learned by now because this was the standard.

Pronk and De Vries stepped forward, their presence immediately demanding attention.

"Gather up," Pronk said.

The players instinctively tightened their circle, forming a huddle in the middle of the gym floor. Some were still catching their breath, others downing water. But everyone knew that when Pronk called the team together after training, it was never for small talk.

Amani wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt, his pulse still strong in his ears. There was something in Pronk's tone.

Something different.

Pronk let the silence sit for a beat before he spoke.

"Big news," he said simply.

The room stilled.

Tijmen stopped messing with his socks. Amrabat, who had been stretching out his quads, straightened. Someone in the back muttered, "What now?" under their breath.

Amani felt a flicker of anticipation in his chest.

Pronk's gaze moved across the team, then landed on him.

"Hamadi."

Amani blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of every set of eyes turning toward him.

Pronk's expression was unreadable for a second. Then, the smallest smirk pulled at the edge of his mouth.

"You turn fifteen next week."

Amani nodded slowly, his heart kicking up a notch.

Pronk didn't drag it out.

"Which means, you're officially part of the U17 team."

For half a second, there was nothing.

Then —

Chaos.

"AYOOO!"

Tijmen shoved Amani's shoulder, grinning. "Let's goooo!"

Sofyan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Took them long enough."

Amani barely had time to process before someone slapped him on the back. Another voice from the group... "About time, man."

The noise spread, a ripple of approval moving through the team.

Some of the younger guys just stared, like they were realizing in real time what this meant.

This wasn't just some birthday promotion.

This was official.

Amani had been training with the U17s for a year, fighting for minutes, proving himself every single day.

But now? Now, he wasn't just a prospect.

He was one of them.

Pronk let the noise go for a moment before he clapped his hands once — a sharp, no-nonsense sound.

"We're not done."

The huddle quieted.

Pronk's eyes scanned the group again.

And then...

"Malik."

Amani's head snapped toward his best friend.

Malik, who had just taken a sip of water, froze mid-drink.

"Uh…" He quickly swallowed. "Yeah, coach?"

Pronk's expression stayed firm, but there was something softer beneath it.

"You're in too."

Silence.

Then—

"WAIT, WHAT?"

Malik stared, completely blindsided.

Amani felt his chest tighten before the reaction exploded.

Tijmen's jaw dropped. "Bro, WHAT?!"

Sofyan just smiled, nodding. "Knew it."

One of the older defenders let out a low whistle. "Damn. Both of 'em."

Malik still wasn't moving.

"Hold on... officially?" His voice sounded unsure like he was waiting for someone to tell him this was a mistake or even a prank.

De Vries nodded.

"Yes, Officially."

For a second, Malik didn't react. Just stood there, blinking, like his brain was still buffering.

Amani couldn't hold back anymore.

"BROOOO!"

He grabbed Malik by the shoulders, shaking him like a madman.

Malik finally snapped out of it.

"No, wait.... HOLY SH*T "

He barely got the words out before the team swarmed.

Tijmen yelled something incoherent, grabbing Malik in a headlock. Someone else threw an arm around his neck. Laughter. Cheers. Slaps on the back.

One of the goalkeepers called out from the back, "Man, I thought he was gonna be stuck in the U15s forever!"

Malik flipped him off without looking. "SUCK YOUR MOM, MAX."

More laughter.

But underneath the jokes, the energy was real.

Because the team knew.

Malik had spent the last year grinding in extra training sessions, fighting to catch up.

And now?

He was standing right where he belonged.

Pronk let it go for another few seconds. Then — he clapped again.

The celebration settled, but the feeling in the room didn't fade.

This wasn't just some academy rotation.

This meant something.

And Pronk knew it.

He looked at both Amani and Malik, then at the rest of the team.

"Enjoy the moment," he said, his tone even. "You earned it."

Then, his voice dropped just slightly.

"But understand this, nothing changes."

Silence.

"You keep working. You keep pushing. Because this? This is just the beginning."

Pronk paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle before adding:

"And it starts this weekend."

Amani's breath hitched slightly.

Pronk's gaze swept across the huddle.

"We face PSV Eindhoven U17. Away. Our first away league match of the second half of the season."

A murmur rippled through the squad. PSV's academy was no joke — one of the best in the Netherlands.

Pronk's voice hardened.

"If you thought training was tough, wait until you step onto that pitch. They don't care about how much you've improved. They don't care about promotions. They care about winning."

His eyes locked onto Amani and Malik.

"You two want to prove you belong? You do it in Eindhoven."

Amani exhaled, the reality of it hitting him full force.

His first official U17 match.

And it wasn't against just anybody.

It was PSV.

The celebration had lasted less than five minutes.

And just like that... The real work began.

Amani felt his chest settle, his breath slowing as the weight of it all sank in. Malik was still grinning beside him like he hadn't fully processed it yet.

But Amani knew.

This was the start of everything.

And they weren't about to waste it.

***

Thank you. Any kind of Engagement is appreciated.