Our Coach – Chapter 3 – Nigerian Story, Football, Dapo, Sports Story, Read Free Stories Online, Free Web Novel, Fabling, Pam
The morning sun cast a pale light over Matilda’s neighborhood, painting her small, modest house in subdued hues. Dapo stood outside the gate, his heart heavy, his mind clouded from a sleepless night filled with thoughts of failure and cigarettes. He needed to see her, to feel the grounding presence she always offered. But what greeted him was something entirely unexpected.
She was there, just a few feet away, seated in the passenger seat of a sleek, black car that didn’t belong anywhere near this part of town. The driver, a well-dressed man with an air of wealth, leaned toward her. Dapo froze as he saw Matilda lean back, her lips brushing against the man’s in a kiss that felt like a knife through his chest.
Then came the exchange of money—an envelope thick with cash handed to her with an easy smile. Matilda didn’t hesitate. She took it, her demeanor casual, her laugh light as she slipped out of the car. And then the man noticed Dapo, standing there like a ghost, watching.
For a brief moment, their eyes locked. Dapo’s mind raced with questions, anger, and the crushing realization that whatever he thought they had was a lie. But instead of confronting her—or the man—he turned on his heel and ran.
The ghetto streets were alive as usual, bustling with kids playing, vendors shouting, and the occasional roar of motorcycles. But Dapo noticed none of it. He found a worn-out ball discarded by the roadside and dribbled it, weaving through imaginary defenders in the alleyway.
His movements were sharp, fast, angry. He poured every ounce of frustration, every ounce of betrayal, into the game that had always been his escape. And when his legs finally gave out, he collapsed onto the hard ground, his chest heaving, sweat streaming down his face.
Lying there, he stared up at the sky, letting his mind drift to the life he wished he had. His eyes wandered to his side, where a lone can of Coke lay, discarded like his hopes.
Coach James gripped the steering wheel tightly as his car crawled through the narrow streets of the ghetto. His mind was as cluttered as his desk back home, filled with financial worries and the crushing weight of expectations. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but something had drawn him here.
And then he saw it.
Dapo stood a few paces away from an open dustbin, lining up several empty cans. With precision born of hours of practice—and the weight of his emotions—he kicked the first can. It arced perfectly into the bin. Then the second. And the third. Each one landed exactly where he wanted it to, as if he were carving a small piece of order out of the chaos around him.
When he reached the final can, something inside him snapped. The image of Matilda, the man, the money—it all came flooding back. He stomped on the can mercilessly, flattening it beneath his feet with a fury that seemed endless.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound pulled Dapo from his trance. He turned toward the source of the applause and froze. At first, he didn’t recognize the man standing a few feet away. But then it hit him like a lightning bolt.
“Ja-james?” he stammered, mixed with disbelief and awe.
The man smiled, a familiar face from posters and TV broadcasts. “Coach James now,” he corrected with a casual shrug.
“James,” Dapo repeated, his words tumbling out. “You’re like the greatest footballer Nigeria ever had!”
“And I’m still alive, you know,” Coach James said with a smirk, his sharp eyes scanning Dapo from head to toe.
Dapo straightened up, trying to look less like the scruffy street kid he was. James gestured toward the cans. “That thing you did? Haven’t seen skills like that in a long while.”
“Oh, that?” Dapo said, feigning nonchalance. “I practice a lot. It’s nothing.”
Coach James chuckled, pulling a card from his pocket. “Really? My team could use someone with your goal-scoring skills. Come to the stadium tomorrow, 6 a.m. sharp. Watch us play.”
Dapo took the card, his hands trembling. “I’ll be there.”
Coach James glanced at the dustbins, a small smile playing on his lips as if recalling a memory from another time. Without another word, he turned back to his car, his demeanor lighter, he’d found the solution he had been seeking.
Dapo stood there long after the car disappeared, clutching the card in his hand. The weight of the day didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
The sun bore down mercilessly on the football field, its dry, cracked surface a testament to years of use and neglect. The air carried the faint scent of dust and sweat as two teams battled for dominance, both aiming to score into the same weathered goalpost. One team wore jerseys with GREEN STARS emblazoned boldly across the chest, while the other sported traffic jackets thrown over their jerseys, a makeshift solution for differentiating the sides. Despite their limited numbers—five players per team—they moved with a synergy that spoke of discipline.
On the sidelines, Coach James stood with arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning every movement. He barked instructions, his voice carrying over the thuds of boots against the ball. To him, each moment on the field was an opportunity for growth, a lesson in resilience.
Dapo arrived in a rush, his heart pounding with excitement. He had dreamt of this moment for days—the chance to witness his idol, the legendary Coach James, and his team of champions. But what he saw fell short of his expectations. This is it? he thought, frowning at the small, ragtag group of players.
James noticed him immediately and waved him over. “Morning,” he said simply.
“Good morning, sir,” Dapo replied, still staring at the field. “So… is this everybody?”
James raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is.”
Dapo hesitated, then asked, “Isn’t the standard team supposed to be eleven? And no backups?”
James smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. “Not everyone has what it takes to be a footballer.”
“What does it take?” Dapo challenged, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice.
“Talent, skills, body, mind, and soul,” James replied evenly.
Dapo glanced at the players again. “And these people have it?” he asked.
James’s smile widened. “Is that contempt I sense?”
“No,” Dapo said quickly, though his expression betrayed him. “It’s just… I expected a bigger team.”
James didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he blew his whistle, the shrill sound cutting through the air. A tall, imposing figure broke away from the game and jogged toward them. The man moved with a confidence that was almost palpable, and as he approached, Dapo felt a twinge of intimidation.
“Captain,” James said, gesturing toward Dapo. “Meet—”
“Dapo,” he interjected, extending a hand. “It’s Dapo.”
The Captain took his hand in a firm grip, one that seemed to crush Dapo’s fingers. His face betrayed nothing, but the hint of a smirk suggested he was testing the newcomer.
“Dapo’s a talented player,” James said. “He wants to challenge the team.”
Dapo’s jaw dropped. He never said that.
The Captain gave Dapo a long, appraising look before nodding and returning to the group. He huddled with them briefly, and soon all eyes were on Dapo.
“Dapo, you’re up,” James announced.
“For what?” Dapo asked, nervous.
“To show my team what you’re made of.”
Before Dapo could protest, James nudged him forward. He jogged toward the players, who greeted him with teasing grins.
“All right,” the Captain said, stepping aside. “Here’s the deal. All you have to do is get past us and score against our keeper. That’s him over there.” He nodded toward a wiry, agile figure standing confidently by the goalpost.
Dapo smirked. “This will be easy,” he muttered under his breath, no longer nervous.
The game began, and Dapo was given the ball. At first, he moved with ease, weaving past defenders and holding possession. But the team quickly adapted, their defense tightening like a noose. Dapo’s confidence faltered as he struggled to maintain control. When he finally found an opening, he fired a shot toward the goal, only to see the keeper—Sean Swift—leap and catch it effortlessly.
Dapo froze, stunned. The laughter of the players broke the silence. “Come on, try again!” one of them called, grinning.
He gritted his teeth and took the ball again, determined to redeem himself. This time, the defenders didn’t hold back. They intercepted his moves, stole the ball, and taunted him. But Dapo refused to give up. He clawed his way back, regaining possession and pushing forward with renewed ferocity. When he saw another chance, he struck with everything he had.
Sean Swift saved it again.
Frustrated, Dapo dropped to his knees and pounded the ground. The team erupted in laughter. “Is he about to cry?” one player teased.
“Swift never makes anyone cry,” another quipped. “But he might be the first!”
“Relax,” a voice called out. “You’re good. I see midfield in your future.”
On the sidelines, James and the Captain observed.
“The boy?” the Captain said finally. “He’s got potential. A solid midfielder. But he’s self-centered, not a team player.”
James nodded thoughtfully. “That can be fixed.”
“By me?” the Captain asked, raising an eyebrow.
James clapped him on the shoulder. “I trust your judgment and your training methods. You’re like my second-in-command here.”
The Captain smirked. “For an old man, you know how to sweet-talk.”
As the team gathered around them, Dapo followed hesitantly, unsure if he had impressed or disappointed his role model.
“Is he our eleventh teammate?” one of the players asked eagerly.
James turned to Dapo. “That depends on him. What do you think, Dapo? Are you in?”
Dapo hesitated, his mind racing. One of the players chimed in, “We’ve got a competition coming up. You could make it to the big leagues.”
Dapo squared his shoulders and met James’s gaze. “I’m in.”