The buzz from the Cavalier goal lingered for days, a pleasant hum beneath the relentless rhythm of Armani's new life. He was a known quantity now, a player opponents built specific plans to stop. The "Super-Sub" label was both a blessing and a curse—a testament to his impact, but also a box he was determined to break out of.
The grind intensified. His sessions with Donovan Bailey became more specialized, often focusing on the minutiae that separated a good player from a great one. The angle of his first touch when receiving a ball under pressure. The specific body shape needed to shield the ball from a particular type of defender. The subtle feint that could buy him half a yard of space in a congested penalty area. It was no longer about learning the game; it was about mastering it.
It was after one of these grueling, post-academy sessions, the sun dipping behind the MBU stadium, that Coach Bailey called him over. Armani's body was tired, his mind saturated with tactical instructions, but he jogged over, expecting another piece of film or a note on his weak foot.
Bailey wasn't holding a tablet. He was holding a crisp, official-looking envelope. The logo in the corner made Armani's breath catch in his throat. It was the same one from the U-17 invitation, but this was different. This was heavier.
The Jamaica Football Federation.
"This came for you," Bailey said, his voice uncharacteristically neutral. "Addressed to the club." He handed it over. "Don't stand there gawking. Open it."
Armani's fingers, suddenly clumsy, fumbled with the flap. He pulled out a single sheet of high-quality paper. The header was formal, the language precise. He scanned the words, his heart beginning to hammer a frantic, joyful rhythm against his ribs.
It was an invitation. But not for a screening camp.
He was being summoned to a training camp for the Jamaica National U-20 Team. The Reggae Boyz. The camp was in one month, a crucial preparation for the upcoming CONCACAF U-20 Championship qualifiers. The letter listed his name, his club, and stated that his performances in the Jamaican Premier League had been "observed with interest."
He was being called up. To the national team.
The world seemed to slow down. The sounds of the academy players heading to the dressing room, the distant hum of Montego Bay traffic—it all faded into a dull background roar. He was holding a ticket to represent his country. To wear the gold, green, and black.
"Well?" Bailey asked, a rare, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Cat got your tongue?"
"It's… it's the U-20s," Armani stammered, looking up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Coach… they want me."
"I can read, Wilson," Bailey said, the smile widening. "Your hard work is paying off. This is what it's for. This is the next level." His expression turned serious. "But understand something. This isn't a vacation. This is the biggest challenge of your life. You will be in a room with the twenty best young players in this country. The competition for a spot will be fierce. You're not 'Super-Sub' there. You're just another hopeful. You'll have to prove yourself all over again."
The weight of the words settled on him, but it was a welcome weight. This was the pressure he craved, the stage he had dreamed of.
"I'm ready, Coach."
"Good. Now go home. Tell your mother. And for God's sake, don't let this go to your head. We have a game against Harbour View on Saturday. Your job hasn't changed."
The walk home felt like floating. He clutched the letter in his hand, the paper already growing damp with sweat. He burst through the front door, his face alight with a joy so pure it was almost painful.
"Mama! Mama, look!"
His mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She saw his expression, saw the official paper in his hand, and her own face softened with anticipation. "What is it, pickney?"
He handed her the letter. She read it slowly, her lips moving silently over the formal words. When she finished, she looked up, and her eyes were glistening with tears. But she didn't rush to hug him. She placed the letter carefully on the table and looked at him, her gaze intense and proud.
"My son," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "A Reggae Boy." She finally opened her arms, and he stepped into her embrace, feeling the solid, unwavering strength of her pride. "This is for your father. He is watching. He is so proud."
The news spread like wildfire. By the next morning, it was the lead story in the sports section: "Local Boy Wilson Gets U-20 Call-Up." His phone blew up with messages from everyone he'd ever known. Kofi called him, screaming so loudly Armani had to hold the phone away from his ear. "BALLER! YUH SEE! FROM CORNWALL TO THE WORLD!"
The attention was overwhelming, but Coach Bailey's warning echoed in his mind. Don't let it go to your head. He saw the looks from the senior players at MBU—a new respect, but also a subtle challenge. They knew what a national team call-up meant. It put him, the rookie, on a different plane.
The game against Harbour View was a perfect test. Harbour View was a disciplined, well-organized side from Kingston. From the first whistle, they targeted him. The tackles were harder, the trash talk more personal. "Alright, Reggae Boy, let's see what you have." He was kicked, shoved, and frustrated for much of the game.
But instead of reacting with petulance, he channelled the frustration. He remembered the letter waiting for him at home. He remembered the weight of the jersey he hoped to wear. In the 75th minute, with the score 0-0, he received the ball on the wing with two defenders closing him down. Instead of trying to beat them both, he took a touch inside, drawing them in, and then slipped a perfectly weighted, no-look pass into the path of Dwayne Miller, who buried the chance.
1-0. Another assist. Another game won through intelligence, not just explosion.
After the match, Miller put an arm around his shoulders. "That's how you handle it, youth. You let your football do the talking. You're learning."
The following month was a study in heightened focus. Every training session, every gym rep, every meal was viewed through the lens of the upcoming national team camp. He was no longer just preparing for the next MBU game; he was preparing to represent Jamaica.
The day before he was due to leave for the camp in Kingston, Coach Clarke called him into his office.
"Your flight is tomorrow," Clarke stated. "You've earned this. But I want you to understand the environment. The head coach of the U-20s, Theodore Whitmore Jr.—his father was a legend—he doesn't care about your press clippings. He cares about two things: work rate and tactical discipline. You listen, you learn, you work harder than anyone else. You show them the heart of a MoBay United player. Understood?"
"Understood, Coach."
"Good. Now go pack."
That evening, Armani laid out his suitcase. He packed his boots, his training gear, and a single, framed photograph. It was a picture of him as a young boy, maybe six years old, wearing an oversized Manchester United jersey, a scuffed football at his feet, grinning a toothless grin in the dusty yard of his old house. It was a reminder of where it all started, of the pure, uncomplicated love for the game that had brought him here.
He looked at the Jamaica U-20 team crest on his itinerary. It was real. In twenty-four hours, he would be there, in a national team camp, fighting for his place. The journey from the dusty yards of Montego Bay to the threshold of the national team had been longer and harder than he could have ever imagined. It was a path paved with failure, heartbreak, brutal honesty, and relentless work.
But as he zipped up the suitcase, he felt a profound sense of calm. He was ready. Not because he was the most talented, but because he had been forged in the fire. He was Armani Wilson, from Cornwall College, from Montego Bay United. And he was ready to become a Reggae Boy.