The sky was overcast — thick, rolling clouds drifting over the town like heavy thoughts. The sun was nowhere in sight, but the heat still lingered beneath the air, gentle but loaded with tension.
It wasn't gloomy.
It felt like the whole day was holding its breath.
The stadium sat just beyond the market road, tall lights stretching toward the clouds, stands wrapped around a pitch of real, living grass. White lines freshly painted. Nets pulled tight. Clean. Professional. Nothing like the cracked dirt Wisdom was used to.
Vendors set up shop outside the gates — puff-puff, meat pies, chin chin in plastic wraps, crates of cold drinks sweating in the morning shade. Some boys juggled balls nearby, showing off for passing girls. Others just watched, hoping for a miracle.
This was a scouting match.
And today, anything was possible.
---
Wisdom rolled up slowly on his bicycle, legs steady, face calm. He parked beside a line of other bikes and a few cars, slung his bag over one shoulder, and took it all in.
Players were already arriving.
Clean boots. Polished kits. Laughter. Swagger. They came in clusters — academy boys with names already known across the state. Some rode in silence. Some had music in their ears. A few were taking selfies in front of the stadium sign.
Wisdom walked alone.
No crowd. No entourage. No academy badge. Just a neat white jersey, black shorts, and his father's pendant tucked under the collar.
He wasn't here to impress anyone.
He was here to fight for a future.
---
On the pitch, a sharp whistle rang out — loud and clear.
Everyone looked up.
A man walked out from the tunnel entrance.
Green tracksuit. Broad shoulders. Bald head. Chest out like he was born on a battlefield. A stopwatch bounced from his neck. Whistle still in hand.
The man didn't shout. He didn't need to. His presence did the talking.
> "Alright, gather round."
Players moved quickly. They lined up near the center circle, some stretching as they walked. The nervous energy was real now. Everyone felt it.
> "Name's Coach Aremu," he said, voice steady. "Some of you know me. Most of you don't. That's fine."
He glanced at each face, his eyes sharp but not unkind.
> "This stadium has seen stars rise. Some of them walked through this gate just like you. Some of them didn't have clean kits or flashy shoes. They just had heart. Brains. Fire in the blood."
A pause.
> "That's what I want to see today."
He pointed toward the stands.
> "Scouts are here. More than one. Some look the part. Some don't. That's on purpose. You don't know who's watching… so play like everyone is."
> "You'll be split into rotating teams. Ten versus ten. One hour. No breaks. No subs. No complaints."
Then, one final line — quieter, but heavier:
> "For some of you… this may be the only match that ever matters."
He blew the whistle.
The tryout had begun.
---
First Half
Wisdom was slotted into the first group. The moment the whistle echoed across the field, chaos erupted.
No passes. No formation. Just noise and ego.
Everyone was trying to be the star.
Every run was selfish.
Every shot was wild.
Wisdom made three sprints — good ones. Timed his calls perfectly. Twice he was wide open.
Ignored both times.
Then, when he tried to carry the ball up on his own, a tackle swept his legs. He lost possession.
The other team countered instantly. Two sharp passes. One quick strike.
1–0.
He jogged back to his side of the pitch, jaw tight. He didn't look at the coach. Didn't look at the stands.
But behind him, someone muttered:
> "Guy, this one dey drag us down."
He didn't flinch.
He just lowered his head… and kept running.
---
They continued the first half like that — disconnected, desperate, drowning. Every player too focused on standing out to realize they were blending into failure.
Then, just before the break, someone stepped forward.
Tall. Calm. Broad-framed midfielder with sharp eyes — Emeka.
> "Guys… what are we doing?"
A few heads turned. Most stayed down.
> "This isn't football. This is a free-for-all. Dribbling into traps. Shooting from thirty yards out. Making it easy for them."
He pointed across the field.
> "Look at the other squad. Their number 9 is shining — because they're playing for him. Teamwork. Movement. Space." If not for David in goal, we'd be down 4–0.
A short silence. Then:
> "You think scouts want solo clips? They want results. Structure. Discipline. Any fool can dribble. Not everyone can play smart."
He stepped back.
> "Coach didn't say they'd pick one person. They might pick five. Or ten. Or none.
So let's stop begging to be noticed… and give them something they can't ignore."
---
Wisdom looked up.
Across the field, he saw the number 9 again — lean, explosive, deadly. But what struck him wasn't the striker's skill.
It was how the others played for him.
Covering space. Pressing as a unit. Running not to steal the spotlight… but to earn the win.
Wisdom clenched his fists.
He wasn't here to be flashy.
He was here to matter.
"They're playing a 4-4-1," Emeka continued. "That's what's making them solid. Their midfield keeps feeding that number 9 non-stop."
He looked around the huddle. "So here's what we'll do. We counter it with a 4-3-2."
Paul frowned. "But aren't we ten on a team?"
Emeka didn't blink. "Have you forgotten the keeper?"
A few boys chuckled under their breath. Even the tension felt lighter now — but the focus stayed sharp.
Then, he pointed.
"Hey, kid."
Wisdom looked up.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you." Emeka nodded. "You've got heart, but you're not built for long midfield runs — and that's fine. You're quick, so I want you on the left forward."
He turned.
"Michael, take the right. You two stay high, stay wide. Our job in midfield is to feed you. Just focus on attacking and let us handle the engine room."
They both nodded.
"Okay."
"Peter. Paul. You're with me in midfield. Tight and smart. No showboating."
He looked at the defenders.
"Rest of you hold the backline. Stay sharp. Communicate."
Then, a glance toward the goal.
"David — we're counting on you, man."
David gave a small smile. "Always."
Suddenly, there was a shift in the air. Everyone felt it.
The energy was different now.
Not nervous. Not afraid.
But hungry.
It felt like they could actually win this.
"Alright," Emeka said, clapping his hands once. "Let's take a short break before second half. But listen — we're not playing small anymore. Let's play like we're already big shots."
The whistle echoed again — sharper this time.
This wasn't just another half.
It was their shot at rewriting the story.