Sunday, January 19th, 2010
Jos, Plateau State – Rwang Pam Stadium, Post-Match Fallout
The floodlights were off now, and the Rwang Pam Stadium sat in heavy silence, as though mourning. The air hung thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and roasted groundnuts. Outside, the murmurs began to rise.
Adam Black walked slowly down the tunnel, shoulders square, but not stiff. Every step echoed, each one a reminder of what had just unfolded—a 2–1 loss in his debut game.
He passed Samson Mba, the assistant manager, whose folded arms and faint smirk spoke volumes.
"You learn quick in this league," Samson said.
Adam didn't stop. "So will the players."
Inside the dressing room, the players sat with heads low. Kelvin stared blankly at the tiled floor. Chiboy removed his boots slowly, avoiding everyone's eyes. Tony wiped sweat off his brow, over and over.
Adam stood before them.
"I won't speak long," he began. "We led. We believed. Then we cracked. That's the truth. But the truth is where we grow."
He paused.
"We're not here for ease. We're here to build something. So if today hurt—good. Let it sharpen you."
He turned to the youth players, seated silently.
"Ifeanyi. Sadiq. Timi. Osas. Watch everything. This is how men get made."
Plateau United Boardroom – Later That Evening
The atmosphere in the boardroom was colder than the night outside. Fluorescent lights flickered. Chairman Ayuba Maikaba sat at the head of the table, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the polished wood.
Adam sat opposite him, flanked by Coach Danladi and Analyst Efe.
"I'll get straight to the point," Ayuba began. "You were brought here to win. Not immediately, but not to lose either."
"I understand," Adam replied.
"Do you?" Ayuba's voice sharpened. "This is Jos. This is Plateau United. We don't have the luxury of patience from fans or sponsors."
Adam leaned in slightly. "We lost, yes. But we didn't collapse. The foundation is stronger than it looks."
Ayuba's eyes narrowed.
"People don't chant about foundations. They chant about goals."
Efe spoke up. "With respect, Chairman, there were bright moments. The first half showed promise."
Ayuba raised a hand.
"I'm not here for promises. I'm here to keep this club from falling off a cliff."
A long silence followed.
Finally, Adam stood.
"I'll make you one promise. We'll learn faster than anyone expects."
He walked out before anyone could reply.
Monday Morning – Jos Training Ground
Rain had fallen earlier, leaving puddles in corners of the pitch. The squad warmed up under grey skies. The atmosphere was quieter, but not broken. Reflective.
Adam stood beside Danladi, arms folded, watching the drills.
"We need to fix the midfield spacing. Obinna and Bashiru got dragged too wide yesterday."
Danladi nodded. "Ifeanyi's asking for more time with the ball. Wants to play deeper."
Adam smirked. "That boy has ambition. Let him try in training."
Further down the pitch, Sadiq jogged silently, eyes scanning like a chess master. Osas barked instructions in his deep voice, organizing even the warm-up lines. Timi hummed as he stretched, headphones dangling from his neck.
Adam called them all over.
"You're not here to fill cones," he said. "You're here to chase the first team. Every day. Every drill. And when the moment comes, take it. No fear."
Later That Day – Jos City Center
News kiosks buzzed. Vendors waved newspapers with bold headlines:
"Coach Black's Dream Begins With Defeat"
"Plateau Collapse in Second Half"
"Foreign Tactics, Local Problems?"
Fan forums were louder:
"Who is this Adam Black sef?"
"Plateau no be England!"
"Bring back Coach Ishaya!"
Evening came. The streets cooled. But not the noise.
Outside the Plateau United office, a small group had gathered. Some held banners.
"We No Want Black!"
"Na Experiment Be This?"
Security kept them back, but their voices carried.
Adam watched from the upstairs window. Silent.
Danladi entered. "They'll shout today. They'll watch again next weekend."
Adam didn't answer immediately.
Finally, he said, "We won't beg to be believed. We'll earn it."
Late Evening – Adam's Apartment
The rain returned. Light, steady.
Adam sat at his desk, watching clips from the match. Frame by frame. Every misstep. Every hesitation. Every shift in body language.
He paused on a scene—Obinna turning too slow to recover, Bello (Tornadoes) sneaking in. He rewound. Watched again.
Then he opened his notebook. Lines, diagrams, arrows. The system he'd been working on—the hidden formula. The blend of pressing, possession, delay, suddenness.
It wasn't ready.
But it would be.
He scribbled a new note under the page.
"System must evolve. Always. No two matches the same. Formation flexible. Key = understanding roles, not numbers."
He looked at the squad list again. Circled Bashiru. Then drew arrows to Sadiq. Then Ifeanyi.
Young minds. Empty cups. Ready to be filled.
But not today.
Today was for smoke and echoes. For questions. For the sting of failure.
He closed the notebook and leaned back.
Outside, thunder rumbled.
And inside, a fire still burned.