Early Morning – Jos Club Office
The rising sun cast an orange glow over Jos, the kind that promised a hot day ahead. Adam unlocked the office door just past 6:30 AM, the cool breeze of dawn brushing against his skin.
The inside of his new office was cramped and dusty. The desk was old. The fan squeaked when it spun. There were two crooked chairs, a tactics board leaning against the wall, and a single faded photograph of a 2003 promotion-winning squad.
He dropped his backpack and sat heavily, the chair groaning under his weight.
For a while, he didn't move.
Then, he took out his journal, the same one he scribbled in since university, and wrote:
"Day One. Teach control, not chaos. Earn trust, not demand it. No passengers."
He opened the bottom drawer and found a whiteboard marker. On the dusty tactics board, he drew shapes—triangles, diamonds, hexagons—each movement flowing into another, mimicking the balance of a chessboard, the elegance of physics, the calculations of chemistry. He imagined passing sequences like equations—input, reaction, outcome.
His kind of football wasn't chaos. It was crafted. Measured.
He capped the marker, grabbed his whistle, and walked out the door.
7:48 AM – Training Ground
The pitch shimmered gently with morning dew. The sun climbed slowly, warming the day. It would be a scorcher by noon.
Adam walked toward the field. The full squad was arriving in groups: some in old kits, some laughing, some rubbing sleep from their eyes. The younger academy boys stood a bit apart from the seasoned pros, unsure where to stand.
Twenty-three players.
His players.
Samson Mba stood by a cone with his arms folded, chewing gum like it owed him money. His brows furrowed the moment he saw Adam.
Adam gave him a nod.
Samson nodded back, lips tight.
Adam stepped into the center circle, blew his whistle once—sharp and clear—and called out:
"Everyone in. Now."
The group shuffled in. Cleats tapping against the turf, voices dying down.
"Welcome," Adam began. "I know I'm new. You don't know me. That's fine."
He paused. Looked each man in the eyes.
"But I'll say this: we're not here to play the way they expect us to. We're not going to sit back and hope. We'll play football like it's art. Like it's war. Like it's math."
A few players exchanged looks.
"You'll learn to see angles, options, spaces. Whether you're young or old, you'll move. You'll pass. You'll think. This is not a counter-attack team. We're not quick enough for that. But we'll be sharp. Controlled. Intelligent. Relentless."
One of the academy boys—Seyi, a wiry winger with a mop of curls—raised his brow with a half-smile.
"Training starts now. Warm-up in groups of four. Then passing drills. Full team. No exceptions."
9:15 AM – Passing Drill
They were slow. Especially the academy kids.
"Too static!" Adam barked, hands clapping. "Football doesn't wait for you to think. It punishes hesitation!"
He pointed at two midfielders. "Jude! Damilola! What's the angle of your pass? Predict where your teammate is going—not where he's been!"
The players tried again.
Samson walked past behind him, muttering just loud enough, "You're teaching physics or football?"
Adam turned but said nothing. He caught the smirk on Samson's face.
10:00 AM – Water Break
The players flopped onto the grass. Bottles cracked open. Someone joked about getting a scholarship to study under "Professor Adam."
Adam crouched next to Seyi and two other academy boys—Kenechukwu, Malik, and Farouk.
"Look," he said gently, "you three have something. But stop hesitating. Football is not about playing safe. It's about knowing when to take risks—and when to keep the ball moving."
Seyi nodded. Malik looked down. Farouk gave a small nod, biting his lip.
Behind them, Samson watched. Arms folded. Again.
11:30 AM – Club Office
Back inside the office, the fan spun weakly as Adam sipped from a plastic bottle of water. Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt.
Samson entered without knocking.
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind?"
"You can't turn them into Barcelona in a week," Samson said, tone flat.
"I'm not trying to," Adam replied calmly. "But they'll start thinking like players again."
Samson leaned against the doorframe. "You're idealistic."
"I'm precise," Adam countered. "And I know what I want."
A beat passed between them.
"You know," Samson said, straightening up, "I applied for this job too."
Adam stood. Slowly.
"And now we both have roles. So let's do them."
Samson nodded slowly, then walked out.
Adam exhaled.
12:00 PM – Walk Home
As the sun reached its peak, Adam walked the long route back home. His body ached. But his mind buzzed.
He passed a football game between children, one shouting, "I'm Messi!" Another yelling, "I'm Okocha!"
Adam smiled.
At home, Mama Rakiya handed him a bowl of amala and ewedu before he could say a word. "You look like you fought a lion."
"I did," he muttered, grinning.
He sat on the verandah beside Baba Danladi, who handed him a folded newspaper.
"Still want this job?" Baba asked, eyes twinkling.
Adam stared into the horizon.
"I love it," he said.