"Do you think because you're the best player here, you can do anyhow? See the time you're coming for a pre-match training, a final, a whole final!"
"Where's your discipline? You don't have priorities in life?"
"Do you want to disgrace me?!"
Coach John-Bosko's voice boomed across the dusty pitch, thick with frustration and a heavy Igbo accent.
The coach was clearly incensed and it made Ken feel even more guilty.
"I'm sorry, sir… I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again," Ken stammered, guilt and fear written all over his face.
"It's okay, John-Bosco, that's enough. He's just a child. How can you even raise your hands at an 18-year-old boy? It's not proper," said Mr. Ibrahim Solape, the assistant coach, his Yoruba cadence calm but firm.
"Child?" John-Bosko snapped, his expression a volatile mix of pride and frustration as he sharply turned to look at his assistant coach. "You call this a child?"
"You tell me Ibrahim, how old is Lamine Yamal? 17… 17 Ibrahim! And he's already won the Euros. You think he comes late to pre-match training? For a final?"
"Don't compare Ken to Lamine Yamal. Ken is far better. If not for the country we're in and its many limitations, he should be playing for a top club in Europe," Ibrahim countered, his loyalty to the boy unshaken.
As their voices clashed, Ken glanced at the stands. Precious was there, watching with a quiet, worried expression on her face. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, fully of pity.
Ken winced in shame at the sight. But then, his thoughts were interrupted by the sharp voice of his coach.
"Go and run ten laps around the pitch," Ibrahim finally said, trying to de-escalate the situation before it boiled over. "That's your punishment for coming late".
Ken hurriedly thanked the assistant coach, turned and jogged off, shame and resolve battling in his chest. Each step of those laps felt heavier than the last. He knew he had let them down; his coaches, his team, and most of all, himself.
By 3:30pm, the air was electric. Spectators from every corner of Ikorodu Local Government had filled the sidelines for the showdown. Both teams were kitting up, the tension palpable.
Today was the final and the stakes of the tournament were highest.
"I've got our lineup ready," Coach John-Bosco announced, waving a sheet of paper in the air. "We'll play a standard 4-3-3. SK in goal, Cancelo and Stanley at full back, Michael and Ahmed at center back, Chidera, Modric, and Kaka in midfield".
"Ozil and Waheed will be out wide, Emeka leading the line".
The players nodded, but confusion rippled through the squad when they realized Ken's name wasn't on the starting list.
"Ken will be on the bench due to poor performance in training and warm-up," John-Bosco added though everyone knew the truth. His absence from the starting XI was a disciplinary punishment.
"It's time," called the referee, gesturing for the players to line up and enter the pitch.
From the moment the whistle blew, disaster followed. In the 5th minute, Itamaga Lions drew first blood. Their striker outran the Tornadoes' defense and slotted the ball past SK with terrifying ease.
In the 20th minute, a bullet header off a corner doubled the score.
Then came a careless mix-up at the back in the 35th minute, making it 3-0. And just before the halftime whistle, a screamer from 30 yards buried the Tornadoes under a 4-0 mountain.
Ken watched it all from the bench, his hands clenched into fists, itching for a fight. Shame burned, but so did hunger. His team needed him.
"It's your fault, John-Bosco!" Ibrahim exploded as the players trudged into the locker room. "Why bench our best player?"
"Twenty plus goal contributions in five games, and you left him out because of your ego?"
"My fault?" John-Bosko shot back at his assistant. "Oh, you want me to reward a boy who thinks he's bigger than the coach?"
"I don't care what you think. We're losing because of you," Ibrahim said coldly. "Swallow your pride before this becomes worse than a disgrace".
That only seemed to anger the coach even more.
"If the heavens want to fall, let them fall! And I'll still not play Ken!" John-Bosco shouted. "Nobody challenges my decisions!"
The room went quiet. Five minutes left before the second half began; no new tactics, no adjustments. Just tension and regret.
"We stick to the formation," John-Bosco said at last. "We press better. Don't dribble unnecessarily, and take your chances".
The second half began with Itamaga Lions slowing the tempo, content to waste time and guard their lead.
In the 55th minute, a lifeline appeared. Ozil whipped in a cross that met Chidera's foot perfectly, but the midfielder shot straight at the goalkeeper. Groans echoed through the crowd.
Then came another chance in the 62nd minute. Modrid played a sublime through ball to Emeka, who broke free one on one with the goalkeeper. But he hesitated, just for a second and the goalkeeper got a foot to it.
Another wasted chance.
Hope returned in the 65th. A panicked Lion's defender clipped Ozil in the box.
FWEEE!
Penalty! The crowd erupted.
Waheed, the captain stepped up. He steadied himself, ran up, shot, and blasted it high over the bar.
The stadium fell silent.
Coach John-Bosko, red with fury slammed his Android phone to the ground, shattering it in a fit of rage. Then, his eyes slowly shifted to the bench where they met with Ken's.
"Wear your boots!" He barked. "Now, now, now! No need to warm up. You're coming in, left wing".
Ken didn't wait. He pulled on his worn-out boots, heart pounding.
Waheed walked off the pitch, defeated. He handed Ken the captain's armband.
"I believe in you," he whispered. "Go change the game".
As Ken crossed the touchline, he felt like a demigod carrying on the full weight of the world. The weight of the entire team rested on his shoulders.
The clock showed 75 minutes.
He had just 15 minutes to work with.
This was his moment.