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Chapter 7: Drills
The sky was setting when Kweku stepped onto the school field. The world seemed to rush towards nighttime—all students were getting ready for evening prep.
He rubbed his arms in anticipation. It was barely four. Maybe he won't come, he thought, glancing around. Then he saw a tall figure jogging up the path, ball tucked under one arm.
Yaw Boateng. Right on time.
"Good," Yaw said, dropping the ball. "You're early."
Kweku smiled weakly. "Couldn't keep you waiting."
Yaw chuckled. "That's good, you should respect others' time."
The captain started the drills without another word. Short sprints, cone runs, balance exercises, passes with both feet. There was no music, no joking — just the steady rhythm of effort.
After fifteen minutes, Kweku's lungs burned. Sweat stung his eyes. Yaw moved like a machine — controlled, smooth, never wasting energy.
"Why so serious every time?" Kweku managed to ask between gasps.
Yaw paused, resting his hands on his knees. "Because this is what separates dreamers from doers." He looked Kweku in the eye. "Everyone dreams of being the best. Few are willing to suffer for it."
Kweku nodded, the words sinking deep.
Yaw tossed him the ball. "Your turn. Show me your control."
Kweku started juggling — left foot, right foot, thigh, head — the ball rising and falling in rhythm. He reached thirty touches, then fifty. But when he tried to add a trick flick, the ball skidded away.
Yaw didn't scold. He walked over, picked up the ball, and said quietly, "Don't rush the beauty. Let it come to you." Then he demonstrated, juggling effortlessly, his movements light, almost graceful.
They practised until the first bell rang for assembly. Kweku's legs trembled, but his heart felt strong.
"Tomorrow, same time," Yaw said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Bring water next time. You'll need it."
Kweku grinned. "Coach doesn't even make us train this hard."
"That's because I'm not your coach," Yaw replied. "I'm preparing you for something bigger."
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Later, in class, Kweku could barely keep his eyes open. Kojo nudged him.
"Bro, you look half-dead."
Kweku laughed quietly. "Maybe. But I'm half-ready too."
That evening, when he got to the dorm, Collins noticed the mud on his shoes. "You've started solo training, eh?"
He nodded. "I'm training with Yaw."
He smiled faintly, stirring his bowl of gari. "Then train well, kid. The coaches made him captain for a reason— serious men understand serious boys."
Kweku felt his throat tighten. That night, he opened his notebook and wrote:
Goal: Outwork everyone.
Then he set his wristwatch's alarm for 5:15.
Tomorrow would come fast. But he'd be ready.