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Chapter 8: The First Match
It's been two months since the trials, and Kweku is now fully part of the team. Training had been more intense due to the upcoming interschool football competition but St. Augustine's boys were ready.
The sun was brutal, hanging above the field like a copper coin. The school's old bleachers groaned under the weight of students, parents, and traders who'd wandered over to watch. Drums thudded, whistles blew, and the smell of roasted groundnuts drifted through the air.
Kweku stood on the sideline, boots heavy with nerves. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his jersey — the school's green and white, slightly faded, but proud. Across the field, Ghana National College warmed up in formation, their passes sharp, almost arrogant. They were known to crush smaller schools.
"Relax your shoulders," Yaw said quietly beside him, eyes still on the field. "Tension wastes energy."
Kweku nodded, inhaling deep. The red earth smelled of heat and grass. He'd waited for this day since his first barefoot kick in the neighbourhood dust.
When the referee's whistle shrieked, the world snapped awake.
National came out blazing. Their midfielders swarmed like hornets, moving the ball with crisp precision, using only short one-touch passes. Within minutes, a long pass split St. Augustine's defence open, and their striker blasted the ball past the keeper.
1–0.
The crowd erupted — half cheers, half groans.
On the bench, Kweku clenched his fists. He watched Yaw shouting commands, pulling the team back into shape. The captain's calm was steadying, but the pressure grew heavier by the minute.
By halftime, the score hadn't changed. The locker shed was silent except for the sound of cleats scraping the floor. Coach Ofori paced like a lion.
"We're not thinking!" he barked. "No composure, no patience. We're giving the ball away for free!"
He stopped mid-step, eyes falling on Kweku. "Mensah," he said, voice softer. "You're up."
Kweku froze. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Replace Adjei on the left. I need someone who can hold the ball."
He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
Outside, the roar of the crowd hit him like a wind. The sunlight was blinding, but he jogged onto the pitch with his head high.
Yaw jogged over. "Don't try to impress anyone," he said firmly. "Just play right. The rest will come."
Kweku nodded again, heart thudding like a drum in his chest.
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The whistle blew for the second half.
The first few touches were rough. His legs felt heavy; every sound seemed too loud — the referee's whistle, the crowd, the pounding of his pulse. He misjudged his first pass, nearly losing the ball.
"Relax and think!" Yaw shouted across the field.
He closed his eyes for half a second, inhaled dust and air, and something inside him clicked back into rhythm.
The next time the ball came, he killed it with a soft touch, lifted his head, and spotted the striker cutting through the defenders. He kept the ball and moved slowly a National defender moved out of position to recover possession, just enough to create a space to exploit. One pass — clean, fast, threaded perfectly through.
The striker didn't hesitate. A single touch, then a low shot.
Goal.
The stands exploded — flags waving, drums pounding. Kweku's teammates swarmed him, shouting his name.
But he barely heard them. He was too busy trying not to grin too wide, his heart light and fierce.
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Momentum shifted. National started panicking. Kweku's vision sharpened; every blade of grass seemed alive. He moved like he'd been born for this — dribbling, feinting, thinking two steps ahead.
At the 70th minute, he intercepted a loose pass, danced past one defender, then another. A tackle came in, rough and late — he stumbled but stayed upright. The crowd roared, the referee shouted for play to continue but all this seemed so distant to Kweku.
Yaw caught up behind him, shouting, "Switch it right!"
Kweku obeyed, chipping the ball wide. The winger ran onto it and crossed. Header. Goal.
2–1, St. Augustine's.
The boys from National looked shaken now. The once-arrogant captain yelled at his defenders.
But champions don't die quietly. In the 85th minute, they equalised with a stunning strike from a couple of yards outside the box; a defensive lapse was all it took. The net rippled, the goalkeeper was lying face flat and the stadium gasped.
2–2.
The air thickened. Every minute mattered.
Kweku could feel the ache in his calves, the burning in his lungs, but he refused to slow. When the clock ticked into stoppage time, Yaw won the ball deep in midfield.
"Go, Kweku!" he shouted.
The boy sprinted forward, dirt kicking under his boots. Yaw's long pass arced high through the sunlight — perfect, spinning, alive. Kweku met it with his chest, the ball dropping just right.
One defender lunged, Kweku sidestepped, another slid in, Kweku exchanged a quick one-two with the striker, getting the ball right outside the box, the ball glued to his feet. Then, from twenty yards out, he struck.
The shot flew — clean, curling, unstoppable.
The net bulged. The crowd exploded.
3–2.
He stood there, breathless, hands on his knees, the noise washing over him like thunder. His teammates lifted him onto their shoulders as the final whistle blew.
From the edge of the pitch, Yaw smiled — rare and genuine. "Now that," he said, meeting Kweku's eyes, "is how you earn your name."
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That night, sitting by his window, he wrote in his notebook;
Goal: Score in my first match. He smiled and checked it complete
Then, after a long pause, he wrote:
Goal: Help my team reach nationals.
He stared at the words until they blurred, the sounds of drums still echoing faintly in his memory.