Our Coach – Chapter 5

Our Coach – Chapter 5 – Nigerian Story, Football, Dapo, Sports Story, Read Free Stories Online, Free Web Novel, Fabling, Pam

The football field was bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, its glow casting long shadows over the worn grass. Dapo remained on the field, his breath labored and sweat pouring down his face. The exhaustion was evident in every movement as he weakly kicked the ball into the goalpost, then collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving. He shut his eyes, letting the cool evening breeze whisper against his skin.

A voice, soft yet clear, broke through the haze of fatigue.

“Here, you need it.”

Dapo opened his eyes to see a young woman standing over him, silhouetted against the fading light. She was dark-complexioned, her beauty striking and understated. Her outstretched handheld a bottle of water. For a moment, he just stared at her, his mind still foggy from exertion. Then, with a groan, he pushed himself up to a sitting position and accepted the bottle.

“You’ve been practicing alone for over an hour,” she remarked, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Dapo unscrewed the cap and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He still didn’t have the energy to respond, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“You must really like football, huh?” she continued. “I’m learning volleyball here. But it’s just a hobby for me. Are you a professional football player?”

The words started to register as he caught his breath. She watched him intently, waiting for an answer.

“Are you on any team?” she pressed.

“Green Stars,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse but steady.

Her expression lit up. “Green Stars? Oh, you’re the new player all the girls have been talking about.”

Dapo blinked, surprised. “Girls have been talking about me?”

She laughed. Before he could say more, the sound of giggles interrupted them. Two girls, heading home, had spotted them from a distance.

“She actually went to talk to him,” one of the girls said, amused.

The other giggled louder. “Hey, Daniella!” she called out, waving enthusiastically.

The young woman beside him, apparently named Daniella, turned and waved back. “You going home?” she shouted.

“Yes! We’ll be waiting for you by your car,” the girl replied.

“Okay! I’m coming,” Daniella called back before turning to Dapo with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. My friends and I can be really loud. They play volleyball too.”

Dapo smirked. “So, volleyball girls have been talking about me.”

She rolled her eyes and playfully punched his arm. He laughed and her smile widened.

“So, what did you say your name is?” he asked, his voice lighter now.

“It’s Daniella.”

“Daniella,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “I’m Dapo.”

“Dapo,” she echoed, nodding. “Nice to meet you. Do you have a phone number?”

“No, I don’t.”

She tilted her head, surprised but undeterred. “Then I’ll see you after practice. You’ve got talent, you know.”

“I know,” he replied with a grin.

She laughed again and stood, brushing the dirt off her shorts. “I have to go now. You’re practicing for the competition, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

Her smile softened. “I’m rooting for you.”

With that, she waved and turned, her figure retreating toward the parking lot where her friends waited. Dapo watched her leave, the weight of his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. A small, satisfied smile played on his lips as he picked up the ball, determination reigniting in his eyes.





The golden light of dusk streamed through the window of Coach Jame’s study, casting a warm glow on the rows of trophies lining the shelves. Each one was a testament to years of dedication, triumph, and sacrifice. He stood before them, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of a plaque, his mind far away in the memories they held. A smile played on his lips, bittersweet and fleeting.

Behind him, the door opened with a soft creak.

“Sweetheart,” came the familiar voice of Mrs. Jame, her tone gentle but carrying an air of authority. “Malcolm is here to see you.”

Coach Jame turned, his face brightening. “Mr. President!”

The man behind Mrs. James chuckled, stepping into the room. Malcolm was tall and charismatic, carrying the kind of presence that made people listen when he spoke. “Someone might hear you and think I’m the president of Nigeria.”

“To me, it’s almost the same thing,” Coach James replied with a grin.

Malcolm shook his head, amused. “You still haven’t stopped sweet-talking, have you?”

Mrs. James laughed, setting a hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder. “Football might be his skill, but sweet-talking? That’s his talent.”

The room filled with laughter, easy and familiar.

“It’s the reason you chose me,” Coach James teased, his eyes twinkling as he looked at his wife.

“Yes,” she admitted, playfully dramatic. “But there was also your eyes, your height, your heart… The list could go on forever.”

Malcolm groaned in mock protest. “Please, the two of you will make me jealous.”

Mrs. James smiled, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

As she left, Coach James gestured for Malcolm to take a seat. They settled across from each other, the friendship between them evident despite the formality of Malcolm’s suit and polished demeanor.

“So,” Malcolm began, his tone softening, “how’s your health?”

Coach James leaned back with a sigh. “Need a new kidney.”

“You know,” Malcolm said, his voice deliberate, “if you accept the job, you’ll be able to afford that kidney.”

He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a slim file, placing it on the desk between them. The room grew quiet as Coach James stared at it, the weight of the offer palpable.

“The job is yours,” Malcolm said, sliding the file closer. “Just sign on the dotted line.”

Coach James let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Your faith always leaves me speechless.”

Malcolm’s gaze drifted to the trophy shelves, his eyes catching on a particular photograph nestled among the shining awards.

“I know you’ll sign it,” he said, nodding toward the picture. “Just like I knew we’d win the World Cup.”

Coach James followed his gaze.

The photograph captured a moment of pure euphoria. The team was hoisting the World Cup trophy, their faces alight with triumph. A younger Coach James stood on one side, his arm slung around Malcolm, who was beaming in his goalkeeper’s uniform. Between them, Mikel Odia held the trophy high.

“You know what?” Coach James said, breaking the silence. “There’s a local competition in Abuja next week. I plan on taking my boys there.”

Malcolm nodded knowingly. “I’m aware.”

“I’ll give you my answer after the competition,” Coach James continued.

Malcolm raised a brow, leaning forward. “On TV. It has to be on TV if I’m waiting that long.”

Coach James grinned. “On TV.”

“Good,” Malcolm said, rising from his seat. “Bring the contract with you to Abuja, then. The team will be looking forward to welcoming their new coach.”

Coach James stood as well, his hand lingering over the file on the desk. The shadows of the room grew longer as Malcolm left, leaving Coach James alone with his trophies, his memories, and a decision to make.





The sound of shoes pounding against the grass, the sharp whistle of Coach James slicing through the air—it was another day of relentless practice under the scorching sun. The team was split into two groups, one with five players and the other with six. The difference was simple: one group wore traffic jackets, and the other didn’t. Dapo’s team wore the jackets, but in truth, he played like he was the only one on the field, moving with such singular focus that it frustrated his teammates to no end.

The ball seemed to belong to him alone. Every pass he made was more of a suggestion than a genuine attempt at teamwork. His movements, though impressive, were isolating. His teammates exchanged looks, their frustration growing with every misstep he made.

Coach James’s whistle pierced the tension, sharp and commanding. He marched onto the field, his eyes narrowing as he observed Dapo, who was still darting around like he was the star of a one-man show.

“Dapo,” Coach James called out. “This is your third practice. You need to learn that you are part of a team.”

Uche, his patience worn thin, shot a glare in Dapo’s direction. “Yeah, man! I wasn’t even on your team, but I felt like breaking your legs just so you’d pass the damn ball!”

Captain, always the voice of reason, nodded his agreement. “If he keeps playing like this, we might have to compete without him.”

Coach James sighed, shaking his head. “Nobody is going to be left behind,” he said as his eyes flicked to Sean Swift, who was still idly cracking his knuckles, seemingly uninterested in the discussion.

Captain, sensing the unease, spoke again, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry, Coach. We’ll find a way to make him work.”

Coach James gave a small nod. “That’s a better attitude. Now, all of you—go home, get some rest. We leave tomorrow at 6 AM.”





That night, Dapo’s home was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed on your chest, making the air feel thick and heavy. The only sound was the occasional murmur from the living room, where his brother, Gabriel, lay sprawled on the couch, lost to the world. The darkness in the house seemed to close in around him as Dapo moved stealthily, the soft glow of a touch light flickering to life as he silently rose from his mat.

He stretched, his muscles tight from the day’s exertion, and began to pack his bag with practiced precision, making no sound as he folded each item. His movements were fluid, calm, as if he had done this countless times before.

The quiet was broken by the soft creak of a door opening, and Dapo’s mother, Mrs. Oladapo, appeared in the hallway. She moved like a shadow, her presence almost ghostly in the dim light.

“You’re getting ready?” she whispered.

Dapo nodded without a word, his eyes flicking toward his brother on the couch.

“Is your useless brother asleep?” Mrs. Oladapo asked, her gaze sharp.

Dapo glanced at Gabriel, then back to his mother. He nodded again, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the air grew thick. Mrs. Oladapo stepped closer, deliberately blocking Gabriel’s view. She leaned in, her face close to his, and her voice dropped even lower.

“What…”

“Shhh…” she hushed him, her hand reaching into the folds of her clothes. From her palm, she withdrew a small bundle of cash, tightly wrapped with a rubber band. She handed it to him, the weight of it more than just money—it was a silent promise, an unspoken favor.

Dapo’s words faltered. He stared at the money in his hand, unsure of how to react.

Mrs. Oladapo, noticing his hesitation, spoke again, her voice harder now. “Your useless brother must not find out, oh.”

Dapo smiled, a brief, tight smile that barely reached his eyes. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt tight. “Thank you,” he whispered instead.

He stepped forward, wanting to embrace her, but Mrs. Oladapo pushed him away with a quiet force.

“If you don’t win and bring home some money, I will cut off your legs,” she threatened, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.

For a moment, Dapo stood frozen, the sharpness of her words sinking in. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled her into a tight hug.

To Be continued

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