The match resumed as soon as Coach Mande's whistle pierced the air, cutting through the tension like a knife.
Amani and his red-clad teammates pressed aggressively, immediately marking the green team's forwards with newfound determination.
Wagaluka and Ochieng, the two midfielders in green bibs, found themselves with no option but to pass the ball back to their defenders, trapped in their own half by the relentless pressure.
The red team was relentless, pinning their opponents within their half, and at the center of it all was Amani who was orchestrating every play like a conductor leading a symphony.
Dark clouds loomed overhead, casting shifting shadows across the pitch, and soon, the first droplets of rain began to fall, pattering against the dusty ground.
Most of the scouts retreated to the stands for shelter, but a few remained by the pitch, their eyes fixed on the unfolding drama, unwilling to miss a moment of the spectacle before them.
On the sidelines, Coach Juma stood beside Mr. Christophe, the head scout for Olympique Lyon's Youth Academy.
The Frenchman's decision would determine the fate of the young players battling for a place in European football.
The other French and English officials in his delegation were merely along for the ride, more interested in their travel allowances and sightseeing than scouting talent.
But Christophe was different; his sharp gaze never wavered from the field, assessing every movement with clinical precision.
"That Nondi boy is impressive," Christophe said, nodding slightly, his accent thick but his assessment clear. "As you mentioned, his dribbling and finishing are impeccable."
On cue, Stephen Nondi dribbled past Bonde, the red team's right-back, slicing through the defense like a hot knife through butter.
His footwork was mesmerizing, each touch perfectly weighted as he stormed into the box and unleashed a low shot, only for Baraka, the keeper, to make a crucial save that sent the ball spinning away from danger.
Baraka was the only one keeping the red team alive, his reflexes defying his young age.
Coach Juma furrowed his brow, his eyes tracking a different player. "And what about Amani?" He pointed toward the tall figure in the red number-eight jersey who moved with surprising grace for his size. "He's got presence, vision, an excellent ball distributor."
Christophe's lips curled slightly as he glanced at Amani, a dismissive gesture that spoke volumes. "He's good, but we already have plenty of players like him at the academy. His physique gives him an edge now, but what happens when the others grow stronger? His uniqueness will fade."
"I choose Nondi," he stated firmly, his decision seemingly made before the match had even concluded. "Musyoka, the Green team's winger, is another possibility."
Juma's jaw tightened, a muscle working in his cheek as he controlled his frustration. "We've been tracking Amani since he was twelve. He's not just another midfielder; his intelligence on the pitch sets him apart. With his physicality and awareness, he could be shaped into a world-class center-back or even a deep-lying playmaker."
Juma wanted to see young African talent thrive in European academies. It was the only way Kenya could produce competitive international players, the only path to elevating the nation's football standing on the world stage.
Christophe exhaled sharply, a smirk creeping onto his lips. "Do you doubt my judgment? Do you think we'd be here if it weren't for AFTA's sponsorship?" His tone dripped with condescension, the words cutting through the humid air. "We promised to pick four players, and we will. Be satisfied with that."
Juma bit back his frustration, eyes shifting back to the match where the real story was unfolding. "Mr. Christophe, aren't you watching?"
On the pitch, Amani had just delivered a precision through ball to Emanuel Obuya, who took a shot that sailed over the crossbar, missing by inches. The green team would take a goal kick, a brief respite in the relentless pressure.
Christophe barely looked, his attention seemingly elsewhere. "We know about the injury."
Juma stiffened, confusion crossing his face. "What?"
"The accident that damaged his left foot," Christophe continued, shaking his head with feigned regret. "We did our background research. The boy has a history of ankle problems. We won't risk investing in a player prone to injuries."
Juma's chest tightened with indignation. "That's absurd! Players get injured all the time and recover. Give him a chance to take a medical."
Christophe scoffed, his dismissal cutting. "We checked his records at Afya Centre Community Hospital. The X-rays were clear; his left foot will never be the same. Do you think top European clubs gamble on damaged goods?"
Juma clenched his fists as the scout continued, his words laced with disdain. "African coaches never do their due diligence. You see one promising game and rush to sign a player. Do you check their medical history? Their family background? Their injury records? No. You waste resources on players who will never make it."
Juma refused to back down, his passion for his players evident in every word. "We've seen players recover from serious injuries, even at the international level."
Christophe chuckled darkly, the sound devoid of humor. "One in a million. And those one-in-a-million players have elite medical care. What did Amani get? A bed in a local hospital, waiting for his body to heal itself. What did you expect would happen?"
He spread his arms, his smirk widening. "Tell me, Coach Juma."
A grin was plastered all over his face, wide and open, showing his over-whitened teeth. At that moment, his motives were laid bare; he was a mocker, one who enjoyed tormenting others. That was Juma's conclusion, and it filled him with disgust.
Juma turned away, unable to stomach the conversation any longer. He had to find another way to help Amani, a path that didn't involve this man, whose arrogance blinded him to true talent.
Amani, oblivious to the heated discussion that could determine his future, was focused on one thing: winning.
With two minutes left, the score was still tied at 2-2. The green team's midfielders, Ochieng and Wagaluka, had been suffocating him, cutting off his passing lanes with dogged determination. His forwards, Obuya and Beni, had squandered several golden chances that should have been converted.
Hitting the post, airballing twice, and even missing shots from point-blank range opportunities that could have sealed their victory, slipping away like water through fingers.
'I can't lose now.'
While others played for personal recognition, Amani played for something bigger. Losing meant the system would shut down for a year. He couldn't afford that setback, not when he was finally making progress, finally changing his destiny.
His eyes scanned the field for a weakness, a crack in the green team's defense. The red team's defenders slowly advanced, passing the ball around and probing for an opening. Then, he saw it, an oversight by the green team that left a sliver of space where there should be none.
A grin tugged at his lips. 'Maybe... I can try that.'
He signaled Malik and the strikers, then made his move. Feinting forward, he suddenly reversed direction, shaking off Wagaluka and Ochieng with a move that left them momentarily frozen. The defenders hesitated, confused by his unexpected change of direction.
"Here! Pass here!" Amani shouted to Chrisy, who wasted no time sending the ball his way. Wagaluka lunged in, but Amani spun past him in a fluid motion, breaking free into open space.
"Ochieng, tackle him," Amani thought he heard Nondi yelling from behind him as he continued running with the ball.
However, he ignored everything behind him and focused on the goalkeeper, his mind calculating angles and possibilities.
Amani had noticed that Jackson Lunga tended to stray away from his line whenever the ball was at a distance from him. He intended to exploit that error, a weakness he'd observed throughout the match.
Accelerating, he tore through the midfield, gliding past Ochieng and Wanjala as if they were standing still. A vast, unguarded space lay ahead. The green team's defense braced themselves, marking the forwards outside the box. But Amani had his eyes set elsewhere, seeing an opportunity that others couldn't.
From forty-five yards out, he struck the ball with precision and power, his technique flawless.
The stadium held its breath as the ball soared in a perfect arc; the trajectory was so clean you could draw it with a compass. The green team's keeper, Jackson Lunga, scrambled back, realizing too late his fatal error. The ball dipped over his outstretched hands and nestled into the net with a satisfying rustle.
GOOOAAAL!!!
The goal seemed to have set off a spark in the green team's ranks. Nondi, Wanjala, and Musyoka all attacked like men possessed for the next minute, throwing everything they had into a desperate attempt to equalize. However, Amani's red team held out until the final whistle, with Baraka making two more spectacular saves that defied belief.
3-2.
The Final whistle was blown.
Silence.
The spectators stared, their faces frozen in shock. They were confused as to how children of ages 13, 14, and 15 played with such skill and intensity, a display worthy of professionals twice their age.
"Shit!" Wagaluka swore, his frustration boiling over. "What kind of luck does Hamadi have today?"
And then, a roar erupted. The crowd exploded in cheers, the stadium alive with electrifying energy that seemed to charge the very air.
On the sidelines, as the final minutes ticked away, scouts and spectators alike marveled at Amani's orchestration.
His ability to read the game, anticipate movement, and create opportunities out of thin air spoke volumes about his talent.
At that moment, Amani wasn't just playing; he was conducting a symphony on the pitch, each pass and run perfectly timed to shift the momentum of the match.
Christophe let out a long sigh, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "What a pity. He could have been one of the greats."
The green team launched one last desperate assault, but the red defense held firm. Baraka made two more stunning saves before the final whistle blew, cementing his place as one of the day's standout performers.
Amani's teammates rushed to him, showering him with praise and backslaps. Malik grinned, his face alight with joy. "That was insane. No doubt the scouts will pick you."
Even Chrisy bumped fists with him, a first in their history, a silent acknowledgment of respect earned through performance rather than words.
Amani smiled, a sense of fulfillment washing over him. 'This is what the game was made for. A game of unity, not rivalry.'
Behind him, Nondi approached, his expression a mixture of respect and challenge. "Next time, I won't lose," he said, the words not a threat but a promise between competitors.
Amani grinned back, meeting his gaze with equal intensity. "I'll be waiting."
~~~~
Coach Juma hurried away from the touchline towards the dressing room right after the final whistle. He felt dejection wash over him when Amani scored the third goal, knowing that despite the boy's brilliance, Christophe's mind was made up.
All his efforts at convincing Mr. Christophe to give Amani a chance had proven futile. A talented player was about to be neglected by a conservative scout due to an unverified latent injury, a tragedy of potential unrealized.
He could see Amani becoming a pillar of the Harambee Stars in international competitions a few years in the future, his vision and leadership transforming the national team. But that future seemed to be slipping away with each passing moment.
"Excuse me, Coach Juma. Can we talk for a minute or two?" Juma heard a familiar hoarse but mellow voice from beside him. He turned back only to find an aged Caucasian man in a sunhat and a blonde girl standing behind him, their expressions hopeful.
"Hahaha," Coach Juma laughed after seeing the Dutch scout, relief flooding through him.
"Mr. Carlos Stein, nice meeting you again," he said, extending his hand for a handshake, his spirits lifting. "I was about to come looking for you. I need a favor from you this time."
"Oh, same here," Mr. Stein smiled, shaking Juma's outstretched hand with surprising vigor for his age. "Can we talk in your office?" He said, his eyes twinkling with interest.
As they walked away, the rain began to fall more heavily, washing away the dust and sweat of the day's battles. But for Amani, standing victorious on the pitch, the future had never looked brighter, even as storm clouds gathered overhead.