Sunday, January 19th, 2010
Jos, Plateau State – Morning After the Loss
The sun rose late over Jos. It didn't sneak up—it dragged its light across the rooftops like someone hesitating to start the day. The early January breeze was thin and dry. Dust hovered low, and the hum of motorcycles had not yet filled the air. Jos was slow this morning, as if it, too, had watched Plateau United's loss and was still nursing the hangover.
Inside his flat, Adam Black sat by the window. He wore a grey hoodie and sweatpants. His bare feet rested on the cold tiled floor. A cup of tea sat untouched beside him, lukewarm. On the small coffee table was a laptop showing paused footage of the game. On another tab, tactical reports from Niger Tornadoes' last ten games. Yet he hadn't touched the keyboard in thirty minutes.
He stared at nothing.
Not blank. Processing.
From the outside, it would seem like defeat. Internally, it was blueprint-making.
A knock.
He stood, stretched silently, and walked to the door.
It was Efe.
"Morning, Coach," Efe said. He looked unusually tidy. Black jeans. A yellow hoodie with 'GAMETIME' printed on it. But behind the smile was uncertainty.
Adam nodded. "Come in."
Efe stepped in and closed the door. He saw the screen. "Watching the match again already?"
Adam said nothing. Just returned to his seat and hit the spacebar.
On the screen, Plateau conceded the equalizer again. Bello's (Tornadoes) clever ball. Azeez's (Tornadoes) run. The silence of the stadium.
Efe sighed. "We were flat. After the first half… I thought we'd hold it."
Adam replied, voice calm, "We lost midfield control. Tornadoes overloaded us centrally. And we didn't adapt quickly enough."
Efe nodded. "Some of the boys looked a little spooked after the goal."
Adam didn't reply. He just rewound the video, slowed the clip, and pointed. "Here. Obinna follows Bello (Tornadoes), but Bashiru doesn't close the space behind. Too vertical. Too late."
Efe scratched his chin. "You thinking of changing shape?"
Adam didn't answer immediately. He stood, walked to the whiteboard on the wall beside the TV, and wiped it clean. Slowly, methodically, he began drawing a new shape. Not a simple 4-2-3-1 this time. A hybrid.
Efe tilted his head. "That's not… that's not a regular 3-4-3."
Adam's pen froze. Then he muttered, "Nothing about this will be regular."
He capped the marker and turned. "We'll train today. Full squad. 4 p.m."
"Sunday?" Efe blinked. "Won't they be tired?"
"They need to feel this," Adam said, grabbing his hoodie. "We all do."
Rwang Pam Stadium – Sunday Training, 4:17 p.m.
The sun was softer now, the orange glow making long shadows stretch across the grass. The players jogged quietly at first. No loud banter. No music from the speakers.
Samson Mba, the assistant manager, blew a whistle. "Come on! Full laps! You think this is a holiday?"
The players moved in rhythm. Sweat already darkening their kits. Bashiru looked the most annoyed, muttering something under his breath. Behind him, Kelvin jogged steady and calm, headphones in one ear.
The four youth players Adam had promoted—Emmanuel 'Emmy' Nwankwo, Samaila Garba, Taye Mustapha, and Kingsley Okoro—were pushing each other silently. Emmy had already pulled ahead.
Danladi approached Adam. "You sure about today?"
Adam nodded. "We don't just train the legs, Dan. We train the mind. Let them sweat through it. Let them remember the sting."
Danladi handed him a clipboard. "Here's the session schedule. Also, Mr. Dogo—General Manager—he called. Said the chairman wants a word tomorrow. Early."
Adam nodded without emotion. "Let him wait till I'm done."
Danladi paused. "Chairman's not the patient type."
Adam smiled, but there was no joy in it. "Neither am I."
The whistle blew again. "Circle up!" Samson shouted.
Adam stepped into the center of the players. Sweat dripped. Chests heaved.
He spoke plainly.
"You think yesterday was pain? That was just a reminder. This season won't give us anything. We take it, or we go home."
Silence.
He looked at each of them.
"We work. We bleed. And then we win."
And then he smiled. "Now get your balls. Tactical drills. Let's play some real football."
Sunday Night – Adam's Apartment
The day hadn't ended. The body was tired. The mind was not.
Adam sat again by the window, but this time with a notebook in hand. Handwritten pages. Diagrams. Systems. Angles. Arrows. He wasn't just reviewing tactics. He was crafting them.
He flipped to a fresh page.
Variant: 3-1-4-2 in transition. Drops into 4-2-3-1 when defending. Passing triangles between inverted fullbacks and roaming 8s. Fast counter becomes delayed overload. Never the same twice.
He circled three words.
Identity. Structure. Disruption.
His pen paused.
Then he wrote in all caps:
CREATE. DON'T COPY.
Monday, January 20th, 2010
Plateau United Club Office – 9:04 a.m.
Adam wore a black shirt tucked into grey trousers. No tie. Clean but direct.
He stepped into the club's administrative building. The reception desk was unmanned. A clock on the wall ticked louder than it needed to.
As he approached the boardroom, he heard voices inside.
"…we gave him the job, now the fans are already calling for changes."
"…he's young. London-trained. But is that enough?"
"…and the press is circling. That banner in the crowd? That's not going away."
Adam knocked.
The door opened. Mr. Dogo, the General Manager, stepped out. A tall man with a combed moustache and eyes that never looked tired.
"Coach Adam," he said. "Chairman is inside."
He gestured him in.
The room was cold. A humming AC fought against the harmattan heat. At the table sat three men. But only one mattered.
Chairman Terwase. Heavyset, dark-skinned, and always dressed in a white kaftan with a gold wristwatch.
He didn't rise when Adam entered.
He just looked at him and said, "You lost."
Adam met his gaze. "Yes."
"You shouldn't have."
"No."
A long pause.
Then Terwase leaned back. "But I heard you trained yesterday."
"We did."
"Good."
He finally smiled. "This is Nigeria. We like people who sweat when things go wrong. You're sweating. I like that. But you lose again like that, and I'll stop liking it. Understood?"
Adam nodded. "Understood."
Terwase stood. "You'll win something this season, or we'll have to reconsider our direction. And one more thing."
He walked to the window and stared at the pitch below.
"Make them dream. That's your real job. Winning is not enough. We've had that before. What we need now is belief."
Adam's voice was steady. "Then belief is what I'll bring."
The room stayed silent.
Then Terwase turned. "Dismissed."
Monday Night – Rwang Pam Stadium, Closed-Door Training
The floodlights buzzed. No fans. Just shadows and movement.
Adam blew the whistle.
"Again! Rotate! Emmy, don't drift too early! Taye, use the width before you cut! We create the rhythm before we strike!"
The players moved in sync. Kingsley Okoro, raw but quick-footed, darted into space. Emmy controlled and sprayed. Taye overlapped. Samaila intercepted.
Youth glowing in the dark.
Adam watched.
Not just a coach. A craftsman.
Samson approached. "The board wants points. Not poetry."
Adam looked at him. "Poetry becomes points. Eventually."
He blew the whistle again.
And under those stadium lights, something stirred.
Something beginning.
Something real.