Our Coach Chapter 1 – Nigerian Story, Football, Dapo, Sports Story, Read Free Stories Online, Free Web Novel, Fabling, Pam
The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting an amber glow over the bustling ghetto street. The air buzzed with shouts and laughter as a group of scrappy young boys commandeered the road for their makeshift football match. Stones marked the goalposts, and a battered, worn-out football danced across the cracked asphalt like it had a life of its own.
“Dapo, pass the ball!”
“I’m open, Dapo!”
“Don’t let Dapo score!”
Their voices ricocheted through the air, inviting the attention of passersby. At the heart of the chaos was Dapo, a wiry young man with quick feet and a grin that could disarm the sternest of critics. His movements were fluid, a blur of speed and precision as he dribbled past everyone in sight. Teammates and opponents alike seemed to dissolve into mere obstacles in his singular pursuit.
He reached the goal in a flash, weaving through defenders like water slipping through fingers. With a powerful kick, the ball soared past the makeshift goalposts.
“And Dapo has done it again!” he declared, arms raised in triumph as he spun in circles. “What’s that sound? The crowd is cheering! Ahhh, Dapo! Dapo! Dapo!”
But the imagined roar of the crowd faded quickly. As Dapo pranced around in jubilation, it became painfully obvious: he was celebrating alone. His teammates stared at him, some shaking their heads, others hiding smiles.
————————-
Coach James’s study was a sanctuary of quiet reflection. The small room was neat and unpretentious, a stark contrast to the chaos of the streets where his players honed their raw talent. The bookshelves lining the walls were immaculately arranged, though the books themselves looked as untouched as trophies on display.
Coach James, a man in his early fifties, sat at his desk. His face bore the lines of someone who had seen too much of life’s hardships but never let it harden him. Dressed in a simple tracksuit and T-shirt, his cap tilted slightly, he gazed at a photo frame in his hand.
The photo showed a little boy perched on his mother’s shoulders, clutching a football with the pure joy only a child could possess. The mother’s face was radiant, despite the telltale signs of poverty in their surroundings. It was a moment frozen in time, a celebration of hope in the face of adversity.
“Darling, I just got off the phone.”
The soft voice of Mrs. James broke the silence. She stood in the doorway, her arms folded, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Coach James looked up, his expression unreadable.
“It was the NFA president,” she continued, stepping closer. “They’d really love to have you coach the Super Eagles.”
He leaned back in his chair, considering her words. “What do you think?”
Her eyes fell to the photo in his hands. “If you leave, those kids might not get their dreams fulfilled,” she said gently. “They could end up back on the street.”
“I know that,” he said. “But what do you think?”
A pause hung between them. Finally, she sighed. “I think you should take the offer.”
Coach James smiled, but his gaze drifted to the wall. His wife followed his eyes to the trophy shelf, the centerpiece of which was not a gleaming trophy or medal, but a tin can encased in glass. It stood like a monument, more precious than the dozens of awards surrounding it.
He rose from his chair, planting a light kiss on her forehead.
“My team should be finishing practice about now,” he said with a warm voice.
Mrs. James chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You know I’m always right.”
“I know.”
She reached for his hand briefly, squeezing it. “Go train the next generation to be better than you.”
He laughed, the sound full of hope and determination, as he grabbed his whistle and headed out the door.
———
The game had ended, and the narrow street began to quiet. The sun’s fading light painted the concrete walls in hues of gold and shadow. One by one, the boys dispersed, their laughter trailing behind them like echoes of an ephemeral joy.
Dapo wiped his face with a small, threadbare towel. His sweat-streaked brow glistened as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette. He stuck it between his lips and patted his other pocket for a lighter, but it came up empty.
“Here,” Tayo said, stepping forward, a spark flickering between his fingers.
Tayo looked annoyingly fresh compared to Dapo, his T-shirt and three-quarter shorts barely damp with sweat. He leaned in, igniting the cigarette with a practiced flick.
“Thanks,” Dapo muttered, taking a long drag. Smoke curled lazily from his lips as he exhaled. “Mehn, I’m thirsty.”
“You should be,” Tayo said, smirking. “It felt like you were playing against Olabisi’s entire team alone. Nobody on our side even smelt the ball.”
“But we won.”
“No, you won,” Tayo corrected, shaking his head.
Dapo grinned, his chest puffing slightly. “Yes, I won. Why should I pass the ball when the post is in clear sight?”
“I pray I get to watch you when you become a professional footballer,” Tayo said, his tone carrying a mix of admiration and amusement.
“Mehn, I’ll dribble past Messi! Ronaldo will just be eating my dust!”
Tayo burst into laughter, his amusement spilling out like water from a cracked pot.
“What?” Dapo asked, his grin faltering.
“Nothing.”
Tayo’s face softened. “You’re still coming to the bar, right? John just got a new Bible, and we’re blowing it.”
“For sure now!” Dapo said, flicking the ash from his cigarette.
——–
On the open field, the rhythm of a more organized game unfolded. The players moved in sync, a stark contrast to the chaos of the street match. They called out to each other, practicing their passes, throws, and penalties with a seriousness that hinted at something greater than a neighborhood game.
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
“Alright, time to round up!” barked Captain, a man with the kind of presence that demanded respect. His voice was as firm as his stance, and his eyes swept over the players with the precision of a hawk. “We don’t want anyone getting injured before the competition!”
As the players began to wind down, Captain’s gaze shifted to a figure approaching from the edge of the field. His face lit up.
“Coach James!”
Coach James nodded in greeting, his trademark whistle hanging around his neck. His presence was calm yet commanding, like the steady rhythm of a drumbeat in the chaos of war.
“Evening,” Coach said. “How did practice go?”
“Great,” Captain replied. “I put them on the programs you suggested. Lanre and Mike are tackling each other, Ifeanyi, Max, and Josh are on penalties, and Tony and Eric are working on throws and headers. Tami’s doing resistance training. Nothing too heavy; they’re still recovering from the regionals.”
Coach James nodded approvingly. “Good. We can’t afford injuries before the competition. Focus on building everyone’s strengths.”
Captain hesitated before adding, “We’re still one player short, though. At least one more would balance things.”
“I’m aware,” Coach said simply, glancing at his watch.
Without another word, he brought the whistle to his lips and blew. The sound carried across the field like a call to arms, pulling the team together. They jogged toward him, their faces a mix of exhaustion and determination.
“Well done,” Coach said.
Max, ever the joker, nudged Ifeanyi. “Except for these two buffoons. They can’t even score a simple penalty.”
If Ifeanyi was bothered, he didn’t show it. He smacked Max on the back of the head with a grin. “Mumu, like you scored any better.”
Lanre laughed. “At this rate, we’re sure to win!”
“Don’t get cocky,” Captain warned. “The other teams are practicing just as hard.”
Ifeanyi groaned theatrically. “Can’t you let us dream for just a second? Always throwing reality in our faces.”
Max puffed his chest. “No goal is getting past Swift!”
Coach James chuckled. “I believe in you all,” he said. “Today, I got a call from the NFA president. They want me to coach the Super Eagles.”
The team erupted in cheers, clapping him on the back and shouting congratulations—except for one.
“What will happen to us?” Ifeanyi asked, worried.
Coach James’s expression softened. “I’m not taking the job,” he said quietly.
The group fell silent.
“Why not?” Captain asked, his brow furrowed.
Coach James’s gaze swept over them, lingering on each face. “Because I’ve started something with all of you. And I plan to see it through.”
The players’ eyes glistened with emotion, though none of them dared speak.
“Alright, enough of this,” Coach said, waving them off. “Go home and rest before you drown me in sappy emotions.”
They laughed, their spirits lighter, as they began to pack up.
As Coach James turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Tomorrow. Six a.m. sharp.”
The field echoed with their groans, but he could hear the excitement buried beneath.