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.

"Thirty minutes," Robby Alflen barked, whistle poised. "Two touches max. When we lose it, counter quickly. Play!"

0-5 minutes

The tempo started cruelly high. Kali took the kick‑off for the Blues, popping a waist‑high pass to Takagi, who cushioned it out of the air with a dancer's ease. Two touches later, it was at Mulenga's chest; he laid off first time, and suddenly every red bib was spinning. Amani kept a rigid ten‑metre width on the left, waiting to be fed. Balls zipped over his quadrant but never came.

During the second blackout, he mapped the noise: Takagi's studs light, skittering; Mulenga's heavier, piston‑like; Wuytens rumbling forward from centre‑back. Amani edged a fraction nearer the middle, trusting that the darkness hid the adjustment from Jan Wouters' hawk eyes.

Flash. The ball finally arrived, Kali arrow‑pinged a knee‑high bullet. With vision gone again almost instantly, Amani relaxed his thigh, letting the ball die neatly into his stride. A sneeze of frost popped up off the grass. He felt, more than saw, Wuytens closing, long legs scissoring the distance. Amani dipped a shoulder as though driving inside, then used his second allowed touch to roll the ball backward, behind the Dutchman's blind hip, perfectly into Takagi's lane.

Takagi exhaled a laugh, "Nice!" and streaked away down the chalk. The veterans' chatter grew sharper. Someone muttered that the academy kid had good feet. Good start, Amani told himself, but possession without penetration would not be enough.

5-15 minutes

Reds lost possession twice, gift‑wrapping quick counters that forced Michel Vorm into sprawling blocks. Amani sprinted back on both transitions, the strobe's darkness turning his own breath into loud, rhythmic barrels.

He felt the thicker lungs of the adult game; every recovery run dragged an extra kilo. Yet in each blackout burst, the mental map brightened: the precise angle of Kali's hips before a long switch, the habit Mulenga had of brushing his right hand across his chest a split second before darting diagonally.

The third time the Reds regained the ball, the counter cue came: Jacob Mulenga chopped a defender, slid the pass inside. Amani drifted narrow, inviting the filthy angled ball he'd pictured. Kali obliged with a firm eight‑metre feed. Blackout swallowed it mid‑roll, but Amani had already drawn his right foot back.

Weighted Through Pass was more feeling than technique, strike low with firm instep, hinge the hip late, drag the toe a breath to splice back‑spin. In real light, it looked like a wedge shot; in the blackout, it sounded like a muted whip‑crack.

The ball skimmed past one defender, skidded once on the damp grass, then slowed exactly in Mulenga's predatory arc, begging to be hit. The striker did not squander invitations: he side‑footed across Vorm, low and cruel, and the net rippled.

Red bibs exploded in celebration. Mulenga jogged back, slapping palms. "He, keep feeding me those," he said, a grin flashing white against brown skin. "If you see that run, send it." Amani tried to answer but only managed a breathy thumbs‑up.

Across the marked‑off line, Wouters' shoulders were still folded, but Stein saw the quick lift of his chin. That was the manager's code for a note taken.

15-25 minutes

Confidence grew; so did attention. Blues began pressing Amani harder, Takagi switching sides to shadow him. During one five‑pass sequence, Amani felt Takagi's weight hover a blade‑length behind his planted foot.

He flicked a blind croqueta between the Japanese winger's legs, spun out of the squeeze, and the sideline erupted with appreciative shouts. He did not see who congratulated him; the blackout kept faces hidden. It was better that way, with less star‑struck, more problem‑solving.

Robby Alflen upped the difficulty: two players on each side were now restricted to one touch. Wouters pointed at Amani when he announced the tweak. Duty accepted. Every reception tightened; the ball arrived, left arrived, left like a current through a switch. One sequence built to twenty‑one passes, the seniors rediscovering playground glee every time the kid's risky no‑looks came off.

But Alflen wanted the end product. "Next goal wins," he barked, watching already ticking over the 25‑minute mark.

25-30 minutes

Blues over‑committed press, smelling the knife‑edge. Kali read it too late: his square ball was pounced on by Takagi, who tried to wriggle away. Amani lunged, not a tackle, just toe‑nick contact enough to knock the ball loose. It spun toward the centre circle, where both teams hesitated a fraction, unsure whose ball it was.

Amani didn't. He snapped onto it, toe‑prodded forward into space, and saw only Vorm fifteen strides ahead, slightly off his line. Darkness drowned the picture, but memory flashed the keeper's position across his mind's eye. Thirty‑plus metres. Heavy legs, but wind at his back. The Advanced Dipping Shot rose unbidden from the catalogue the System had etched into his muscle fibres. Key: strike valve, lean 10 degrees back, finish with full ankle lock and vertical toe.

He let the ball bounce once, judging weight by sound kicked through the heartbeat of silence, and felt the familiar warmth spool up his shin. Blackout hid the flight, but teammates' collective gasp painted the arc. Flash: momentary sight showed a white‑laced ball climbing like a promise against pale sky.

Vorm backpedaled hard, arms flailing. The ball kissed the April‑cool air, stalled, then dived like a hawk. It clipped the underside of the bar with a metallic thwang that echoed across empty seating, landed a foot over the line, and bulged the small net.

No whistle, no crowd, just stunned exhalations. "Holy!" Mulenga laughed, voice breaking. Takagi pressed both hands to his head. Even Kali, usually deadpan, shook Amani's shoulders hard enough to rattle bones.

Rob van Dijk sprinted from his keeper station, swinging a glove in mock surrender. "Enough! No more of that." His grin belied the plea.

Alflen blew the final blast. Players bent double,e catching breath, but every glance drifted to the skinny academy kid, bib skewed, goggles flashing. Amani removed the lenses; the world looked almost disappointingly normal without them.

Jan Wouters approached last, Stein at his wing. Up close the head coach's weathered face cracked a small approving smile. "The blind passes they're theatre," he said, voice pitched low so only Amani heard, "but the scanning before contact that's what matters. Keep processing like that, and you'll earn minutes that count."

"Thank you, coach," Amani managed, throat dry.

"We'll pull you into eleven‑v‑eleven later this week. Different chaos. Be ready." Wouters looked to Stein, nodding once, decision logged, then walked away.

Rob van Dijk clapped Amani's back. "Noise is temporary, Davids Junior," he said, teasing glint still in his eye. "Vision is forever."

Walking back toward the youth pitches, Amani felt lighter, each step carrying him as if he'd shed some invisible weight. He glanced up to see Malik sprinting towards him, arms flapping dramatically, a mischievous grin splitting his face.

"Oh, look at this!" Malik shouted theatrically, drawing laughter from nearby teammates. "The big man finally graces us again. Did training with superstars make you forget us regular folk?"

Tijmen stepped forward, sweeping into an exaggerated bow, head almost touching the grass. "Oh, great Amani," he intoned mock-seriously, barely holding back laughter, "bless us mortals with your blind wizardry!"

Laughter rippled through the group as Amani smiled, shaking his head good-naturedly. He lifted the strobe glasses in a playful toast. "Class is in session, boys. Try to keep up."

Malik chuckled, nudging him gently as they moved onto the pitch. "Seriously, though, how did it feel up there with Mulenga and Kali? Did you nutmeg anyone important?"

Amani gave a sly smile. "Maybe a couple. You'll hear all about it soon enough."

They smoothly rejoined the passing drills, forming quick, efficient triangles, the ball tapping crisply from boot to boot. As he moved through the familiar routines, Amani's thoughts drifted to the session he'd just experienced. Each blackout of the glasses had trained him to see differently to read the field through sound, timing, and intuition rather than relying purely on sight. Every faint whisper of grass blades, each subtle creak of cleats shifting, had sharpened his mind's map of the pitch.

If he could thread perfect passes and deceive senior players while half-blind, he wondered, what would he be capable of at full clarity?

Amani turned smoothly, sensing Malik's quickening steps from behind. Without a glance, without hesitation, he clipped a blind pass effortlessly into Malik's path. The ball met his teammate's stride perfectly, eliciting a surprised, appreciative whistle from the watching coach De Vries.

In that moment, clarity blossomed in Amani's mind not from the sight restored by removing the glasses, but from the confidence etched permanently into his instincts by training under darkness. The session with the seniors wasn't just a taste of first-team football; it had reshaped his vision entirely.

Next time he stepped onto that senior pitch, it wouldn't be for a brief cameo or mere experience. It would be to claim his place among them and to stay.

***

Any Kind of Engagement is appreciated.