"One more lap to go… let's go, boys—double up!" Coach Labi's voice rose from the dugout after we had already rounded the field four times.
We were merely kids—boys and girls of about fourteen to fifteen years old—and exhaustion had begun to take its toll on all of us. As we struggled to keep moving, we glanced toward the middle-aged man stretching lazily in the dugout, silently wondering whether he intended to wear us out completely before the actual training even began. My legs trembled like jelly as the intensity of the February sun drained the last ounce of strength from my body, and I knew I was not alone in this condition. Observing my own miserable state, I could only imagine how the girls were coping as well.
Our coach trained us together without discrimination; boys and girls were subjected to the same drills and expectations. As we approached the stopping line, some players collapsed onto the ground, while a few of the girls crouched over, clutching their stomachs in pain.
"Let's go, guys… walk around. No sitting down. I said up!" he commanded, smiling as the boys and some struggling girls forced themselves back to their feet.
"Akanni! Don't forget the drills today!" Coach Labi called out again, his voice sharp and commanding, yet softened by a trace of affection. He was a man of medium height—muscular but not intimidating—with eyes that seemed to have witnessed generations of Nigerian players rise and fall on fields like this.
"Walk around and do your exercises," he instructed.
"Yes, Coach!" we responded in unison as we formed a large circle to begin our warm-up exercises. Afterward, we spent about thirty minutes practicing throwing and catching. Subsequently, we ran the bases and waited for further instructions.
"Alright, guys, head to the dugout for a water break. After that, we'll take turns at bat," he said, joining our other coach, Coach Lanson, on the field for stretching and throwing drills.
As I sat down, I watched the two men—one about thirty-eight years old and the other forty-three. They threw with remarkable accuracy and agility, their catches flawless. We had been training under them since my classmates and I joined the school, along with some senior students.
"Time's up—last person!" Coach Labi shouted from the field. Immediately, we dropped our water containers and sprinted back. No one wanted to be the last, as that meant running an extra lap. Unfortunately, a plump girl lagged behind and met that fate.
"A big lap, Romo," Coach Lanson instructed. She pouted and put on a pleading expression, but still completed the lap.
"Get numbers… get numbers, let's go," Coach Labi said. One of the seniors began the count.
"One…"
"Two…"
The counting continued until it reached me.
"Twelve," I called out.
Eventually, the final count reached forty-two.
"Why are the numbers reduced today?" Coach Lanson asked.
"The SS3 students won't be coming for now," our team captain, Raman, replied. "They've started extra lessons in preparation for the WAEC."
Raman was a tall, well-built nineteen-year-old from Ibadan. He had played baseball in his former school and, due to his experience and skill, was assigned captain by our coach. Although his Yoruba accent sounded amusingly different from ours, no one dared to joke about it. He was highly respected and admired, especially by some of the junior girls who had crushes on him—much to the irritation of other boys. My close friends and I, however, paid no attention to such matters.
We were a group of five boys who had made a pact to avoid romantic relationships until the completion of our secondary education. Anyone who broke this rule would face punishment decided collectively by the group. We formed our bond when we joined Community High School three years ago, arriving together and growing inseparable. Although we never intended to be mistaken for a cult, many students perceived us as such.
We did everything together: maintaining neat uniforms, ironing them in the same pattern, wearing white socks and brown sandals. Despite coming from poor families, we were always well-presented and possessed all our recommended textbooks. To achieve this, we secretly contributed our lunch money—an act against school rules, though our Class Teacher was informed. Since the school provided free lunch, our teacher saved the money in a bank and updated us weekly. Whenever any member needed assistance, the group fund covered the expense.
Academically, we excelled. Our grades ranged from 89% to 100%. When the new session began, our performance attracted attention, and the principal questioned us, suspecting we were a cult group. However, our Class Teacher explained our purpose, and the issue was resolved. Although other students attempted to join us, we declined, having already established our identity as the "Five Boys."
One of our rules required that no member score below 85%. Any violation resulted in punishment determined by the others and approved by our Class Teacher. Fear of punishment motivated us, increasing our competitive drive. The highest scorer each term received a prize funded by the group. I won twice, with scores of 97% and 99%, while another member won three times, scoring 99%, 92%, and 100%. He served as the class captain, while I was his assistant.
Our class was divided into sectors from Class A to Class E. Members of our group captained three sectors, with two of us serving as assistants. We had no representative in Class E, as the captain there consistently scored poorly. We decided against recruiting him, believing a class captain should demonstrate academic excellence.
Three of us joined the school baseball team, while the remaining two played basketball. We excelled both academically and in sports, earning admiration and envy from students, including seniors, some of whom formed similar groups.
"Alright, and tell them to message me," Coach Labi said.
"Yes, sir," Raman replied.
"Pitchers and catchers to the left," Coach Lanson instructed, and we separated accordingly.
"Most of you are still struggling with your hitting," Coach Labi said. "Once you measure your stance, keep your legs parallel and slightly bend your knees." He demonstrated as he spoke. "Coach Lanson will toss the ball while I take five hits as examples."
Two of his hits cleared the marked home-run zone, while the rest landed across the field.
"Each of you will have three balls," he continued. "Your hits should surpass mine. Hit with power—do not pity the ball. If it breaks, we have replacements."
He assigned pitchers and reserves, and we responded in chorus, "Yes, sir!"
When it was finally my turn to pitch, my focus was entirely on perfecting the curveball Coach Labi had insisted I master.
After my turn, it was Tunde's. "Watch out for the curve!" Tunde called, throwing the ball toward me at a speed of 55 mph, while I, in turn, launched the ball across the field, landing nearly ten feet from the fence.
After the batting drills, we all went for another round of water break.
The drills were rigorous. Coach Labi was a stickler for precision; he believed in hard work and confidently assured us of winning against whatever team we faced, which had been reflected in the results. We were little leaguers, defeating teams across the state and even at the national level. The tournament we were preparing for would be our thirteenth championship. Even though we had not yet played, victory was almost assured. We all trained as usual, not with tension or pressure, but with confidence.
Coach Labi clapped his hands. "Alright! Today, we're working on your mental game. I want you all to visualize a full stadium. The crowd is loud, the lights are blinding. As a pitcher, you're tired, your arm aches—but you have one shot, one chance to make history. Show me what you've got," he said, picking up a ball and walking to the pitching mound. "The first batter should get into the batter's box," he said, while our captain put on his helmet and picked up a bat, confidently striding into the batter's box.
"Play ball!" Coach Lanson called out, while Coach Labi, with intensity in his eyes, threw the ball. From the movement of the ball, I could sense it was a curveball.
"Pom!" The ball went straight into the catcher's glove as our captain swung and missed. "Woah!" we all cheered.
"Yeah, so all the pitchers get one round with all batters. Now let's get down to business," Coach Labi said as he jogged out onto the field. We all took turns demonstrating what Coach Labi had instructed us to do.
After practice, as the sun began its descent behind the hills, I sat on the wooden steps outside the school field with a bottle of water in my hand, reflecting, my mind drifting to my family—my mother, who always smelled faintly of spices and sweetness, who cooked the most comforting pounded yam, who believed that discipline could build character—and my father, a man of quiet strength who carried the weight of generations on his shoulders. I also thought of Busayo and Charles; they were too young to understand the promise I carried, but destined to follow in my shadow.
Somewhere in my reflective moment, I felt the stirrings of a dream larger than Ekiti. I even imagined myself traveling beyond Nigeria, representing my country, becoming more than just a boy from a small town—becoming a symbol of excellence, of duality: raw talent balanced by discipline, humility married to ambition.