Red Bib

Amani tugged the red bib marked B over his head and tried to quiet the pulse in his ears. Around him, the warm‑up fractured into two seven‑man squads, cones dragged hastily into a half‑pitch rectangle.

Jacob Mulenga rolled his shoulders like a heavyweight loosening at the ropes; Yoshiaki Takagi kept flicking the ball onto the bridge of his foot and back again; Anouar Kali practised short, stabbing wall‑passes with one of the fitness coaches, every touch loud and certain. These were faces

Amani had studied on grainy Eredivisie highlights, players who inhabited the bright, distant world of professional football. Now they were the men he needed to impress without looking overwhelmed, without looking childish, without looking at all.

He slid the strobe lenses down. The first blackout hit, the turf vanishing under his boots, and instead of panic, he felt a small, bracing rush. In the dark, he could ignore reputations and see only geometry.