Tuesday, 17 April 2012 - Zoudenbalch Training Complex
A thin ribbon of mist hovered above the grass when Amani arrived for the morning U‑17 session. Zoudenbalch looked almost theatrical in the new sun: a gauze of dew over emerald blades, breath‑puffs curling from every mouth, boots clicking briskly on the concrete walkway. Sparrows hopped along the stand roof, chirping like over‑excited commentators.
On pitch 3, Coach Pronk had the group boxed into a forty‑by‑thirty‑meter grid, six‑a‑side rondo with two floaters. Amani wore the yellow bib and, as usual, the black‑banded strobe lenses that flickered his vision on and off at half‑second intervals. Darkness, light, and darkness again. Half the session he played by sonar: footfalls, shirt‑rustle, the zip‑sigh of a pass through damp air.
"Quicker, Malik!" he called, voice slicing through the thuds and huffs. The ball came skidding to his right boot. In blackout, he felt Malik's sprint studs hammering a lumpy triplet rhythm, so he rolled a no‑look reverse pass into that sound. The momentary flash returned just in time for him to see Malik cushion it sweetly and pop a first‑time lay‑off toward Tijmen.
Laughter followed. Tijmen milked the moment, goose‑stepping like a toy robot. "Beep‑boop, goggles boy doing witchcraft again!"
Amani grinned, spinning away before the next blackout swallowed the pitch.
They were twenty minutes deep into the rondo, pulses drumming in sync with the slap‑slap of the ball, when a single word delivered in that measured, almost courtly baritone sliced the rhythm in two.
"Hamadi!"
The drill hiccupped. Malik's pass bobbled to a standstill, Tijmen's boot froze in mid‑swing, and even the birds perched on the floodlight gantry seemed to hush. At the far touchline stood Mr. Carlos Stein, Senior‑Squad Coordinator and Official scout of the team, immaculate coat buttoned to the collar, silver hair unmoved by the breeze. Beside him loomed Assistant Coach Mark de Vries, hands clasped behind his back like a sergeant inspecting troops. Their shadows stretched long and dark across the dew‑striped grass, pointing straight at Amani.
Amani thumbed the strobe glasses up onto his forehead, the cool April air kissing the sweat at his temples. "Yes, Mr. Stein?" His voice came out steadier than he felt.
Stein's eyes crinkled just enough warmth to thaw the usual formality. "Pack your gear. The first team needs an extra midfielder this morning."
It landed like thunder wrapped in velvet. Malik exploded first, "Whaaat!" He launched a celebratory karate kick that nearly took out a cone. Tijmen smacked Amani's shoulder so hard it stung through two layers. Amrabat, normally stoic as an iron post, allowed the ghost of a smile.
"Don't forget those alien goggles," Tijmen called, waggling imaginary antennas. "You'll give the grandpas vertigo!"
Amani chuckled, but inside his ribcage, a hummingbird flapped. He collected his jacket and zipped the strobe case with trembling fingers. As he jogged toward the tunnel, the crisp grass hissed under his studs like static.
De Vries fell into step, his broad stride effortless. "Different tempo up there," he said, low enough that only Amani heard. "They won't slow down for you. Scan early, move earlier." Then, an unexpected glimmer in the coach's flinty eyes, "You've earned the look. Now earn their respect."
They reached the concrete corridor leading to the senior pitch. Echoes of laughter drifted from the far end, grown men's voices, deeper, heavier. Amani inhaled, tasting metal and cut grass, tasting possibility.
Behind him, the U‑17 squad erupted into a ragged chant: "Ha‑MA‑di! Ha‑MA‑di!" Malik's tenor riding above the rest like a one‑man brass band.
Amani couldn't stop the grin that split his face. He raised a hand without turning, half thank‑you, half promise, and disappeared into the tunnel, heart pounding at a brand‑new cadence: the rhythm of a boy crossing a threshold he'd once only dreamed about.
The senior‑squad pitch sat in a quiet hollow behind the academy blocks, yet everything about it hinted at another world entirely. The grass looked richer in color, a deeper, Premier League green, and even sounded different underfoot, a crisp shh‑thwip instead of the lighter hiss he knew from the U‑17 fields.
From the far corner, the little practice stand leaned forward, rows of faded red seats tilting like eager spectators. And beyond the ash trees, Stadion Galgenwaard's ribbed façade glinted in the sun, a hulking cathedral of concrete where men's dreams were either crowned or crushed.
Up close, the first‑teamers moved with an easy, proprietary swagger Amani had only seen on television. Jacob Mulenga, broad‑shouldered, tape wrapped thick around his knee, strolled by swinging his arms loose as if the air itself parted for him. Anouar Kali, sleeves rolled and socks already scrunched at the ankles, pinged cross‑field diagonals that landed with surgical thuds.
Yoshiaki Takagi, smallest on the roster but quick as a cat, kept juggling a ball shoulder‑height, letting it tap off neck, chest, then laces without ever dropping. Even Jan Wuytens, the bearded centre‑back, carried an iron‑forged calm that made the space around him feel off‑limits.
This side sat 11th in the Eredivisie table, closer to relegation chatter than European spots, but to a boy fresh from U17 sessions, they radiated the aura of Champions League giants. The difference wasn't height alone, though most of them loomed a head above him; it was density in the legs thickened by seasons of two‑footed tackles, torsos hardened under winter weights, gazes sharpened by stadium pressure.
He crossed the touch‑line and the smell hit him: a sweeter, almost honeyed cut‑grass scent that seemed to hum with money and care. He tugged the strobe lenses down and the world winked out; black, flash, black - turning every auditory cue razor‑bright: the whump of Mulenga's instep volley smashing the advertising board, the barked Dutch cadence of trainer René Hake, the ragged chuckle as keepers raced each other to the cross‑bar.
"Edgar Davids Junior, over here!" Rob van Dijk called, gloves clapping once like a starting pistol. His joke earned a ripple of laughter from the ring of vets forming near the D‑zone.
Alexander Gerndt ambled over first, tattooed arm goose‑pimpling in the chill. He ruffled Amani's hair. "Easy day, rookie. We only bully lads we rate." The Swedish striker's accent rolled like gravel.
Captain Nana Asare clasped Amani's forearm, grounding him with a leader's grip. "Play your rhythm; we'll sync," he said. The words steadied Amani's pulse.
Takagi flicked the juggling ball onto Amani's thigh and winked. "Japan says konnichiwa," he teased, scampering back to the circle.
Then Alje Schut, club legend, jaw like quarried stone, thumped Amani's back. "Welcome to the grown‑up playground."
Friendliness ended when Jan Wouters strode in, stocky, hawk‑eyed. His whistle shrilled; conversation sheared mid‑laugh. Boots shuffled, bodies dipped. The rondo snapped to life ball fired from Kali to Wuytens, ice‑slick along perfect turf.
Darkness swallowed Amani on the first strobe cycle. In that hush, he counted micro‑rhythms: Wuytens' heel chirp, Takagi's quicker patter, Mulenga's heavier crunch. Flash: Gerndt's hips angled left, so Amani glided right into space he hadn't seen, only heard.
The ball came on cue, Takagi's outside‑foot nudge, and kissed his instep. In the same heartbeat, he released a blind one‑touch to Asare, trusting the skeletal map weeks of scanning drills had wired into his muscles.
The tempo leapt, heartbeat to hummingbird. Ball fizzed, studs scraped, and a tiny gasp escaped someone's throat when Amani, still half‑blind because of the strobe glasses, zipped a reverse to Kali that curved precisely around Mulenga's calf. Vision returned in a flash just in time to catch Kali's approving half‑smile.
Jan Wouters watched from the far touch‑line as the team moved into their positions, arms folded across his Utrecht jacket, one eyebrow ticking upward with every crisp connection. He remembered the first time he'd seen the Kenyan boy: a grainy clip Stein had e‑mailed eighteen months ago, sandlot pitch, no crowd, sun like molten brass, yet the kid shifted space around him the way a chess master moves queens.
We have to bring this one in, Wouters had told the academy board then, staking a slice of personal credit on the recommendation. Now the same raw prodigy leaner, taller, no longer blinking at Dutch winter, was carving seams between seasoned pros as though they were cones.
He'd expected a polite cameo, a youth‑team tourist moment. Instead, Amani was throwing flares into the rondo, passes that jolted veterans into combat focus. Wouters jabbed two fingers skyward, a signal to double tempo, and the circle's hum became a whirring saw blade.
Still, the rhythm held. Strobe glasses flashed black, flash, black; Amani rode the darkness like a surfer catching invisible waves. He tracked Gerndt's scuff, Takagi's sharp inhale, and Kali's studs biting harder on the direction change. Every cue translated into a one‑touch redirect before the next flicker of light.
Wouters felt a thrum of vindication. That's why I signed him. Not just technique, dozens of kids had sweet touches, but the ice‑calm brain behind the feet, the willingness to trust geometry over eyesight.
The real measuring stick was coming: full‑field eleven‑v‑eleven, where lungs burn and decisions ricochet. But the opening notes rang truer than he'd dared hope. He glanced toward Stein on the opposite sideline; the scout's small nod mirrored his own.
Different grass, heavier bodies, higher stakes, yet the geometry stayed constant. Hear. Predict. Deliver. And with each laser‑weighted pass, Amani etched his name deeper into the senior turf, repaying the coach who had once bet on a blurry video from the Kenyan coast.
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