Our Coach – Chapter 4 – Nigerian Story, Football, Coach James, Sports Story, Read Free Stories Online, Free Web Novel, Fabling, Pam
The afternoon sun slanted through the small windows of the Oladapo household, casting long shadows across the sparsely furnished living room. In the corner, Mrs. Oladapo sat hunched over her sewing machine, its rhythmic hum punctuated by her occasional sharp sighs. The tension in the air was palpable, the kind that clings to small spaces and grows thicker with every unspoken disappointment.
Dapo stood in the center of the room, his chest puffed out proudly as he turned to show off his brand-new jersey. The bright green letters GREEN STARS glared boldly from the front, while the number “10” and his name, DAPO, stretched across the back in pristine white lettering.
“So, what do you think?” he asked, grinning as he spun around.
Mrs. Oladapo didn’t bother to look up from her sewing. Her hands moved with the precision of years of practice, the needle darting in and out of the fabric. “How much are they paying you?” she asked flatly, her tone dripping with skepticism.
Dapo’s smile faltered. “There’s a competition coming up,” he explained, trying to inject enthusiasm into his voice. “If we win, we could get endorsements. I could get scouted. It’ll pay.”
Mrs. Oladapo snorted, a sound of utter disdain. “All the men in this house are always working on probabilities. If it does this, if it does that.” She shook her head, her lips curling into a sneer. “And then what? You’ll end up like your useless brother, spending it all on igbo?”
In the corner of the room, Gabriel—Dapo’s older brother—sighed heavily. He was slouched on a battered chair, his eyes half-closed as he listened to yet another tirade. “One day, I’ll leave this house for you,” he muttered, not looking up.
“And go where?” Mrs. Oladapo shot back, “mumu. Ode oshi. The day you leave my house, I’ll do thanksgiving!”
Gabriel hissed in frustration and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The sound reverberated through the small space, but Mrs. Oladapo barely flinched. Instead, she turned her attention back to Dapo, her sharp eyes narrowing. “And you, before you finish dreaming, go and turn on the coal stove for me.”
Outside, the air was thick with the scent of smoke and heat. Dapo crouched by the coal stove, carefully lighting it with practiced hands. As the coals began to catch, he glanced over at Gabriel, who was leaning lazily against the wall, a thick roll of risler in his hand.
Gabriel noticed his younger brother’s gaze and smirked, holding out the roll. “You go just stain that fine uniform now,” he teased in a low and raspy voice.
“God forbid,” Dapo retorted, brushing off the offer with a laugh.
Gabriel grinned, unbothered, and began rolling another one. “I’m proud of you, though,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “You know say na only you for this house dey do wetin him want with him life.”
Dapo chuckled. “Mummy nko?”
Gabriel snorted. “That woman? The same one that married our useless father? I’m sure that man is suffering with that ashewo he ran off with.”
At that, Dapo laughed, but the laughter faded quickly, and his expression grew serious. “I feel bad for Mummy,” he admitted. “I wish I could do something to make her happy.”
Gabriel took a long drag from his roll, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around him. “I don try,” he said with a shrug. “Give the woman small kush, she no gree smoke. I put am for her food, she try kill me. Nothing you fit do go make am smile.”
Dapo burst into laughter again, the image of his mother chasing Gabriel with a broom vivid in his mind. But their moment was cut short by the sudden sound of the front door creaking open.
Mrs. Oladapo emerged. Her eyes darted between her sons, narrowing as she took in the sight of Gabriel’s relaxed posture and Dapo’s lingering smile.
“Get me the coal iron!” she barked, slicing through the air with her voice. “No, you sit here smoking with your useless brother!”
Dapo and Gabriel exchanged a glance. The fleeting moment of levity was gone, replaced by the ever-present weight of their mother’s disappointment.
The football field stretched wide and green under the relentless afternoon sun. It wasn’t the best-maintained pitch, with patches of grass struggling to cover the earth, but to Dapo, it was sacred ground. He cradled the football in his hands, marveling at its texture and weight. It was his first time being alone with a real football, and the feeling was intoxicating. For a moment, it felt as though the ball held all the answers to his dreams.
A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, a bad habit he had yet to outgrow. After one last puff, he flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his foot, and stepped onto the field. The energy in his body surged as he began to move. Ball lifts. Knees up. A quick succession of kicks. Headers. Even the rare shoulder flicks he’d only seen in televised matches. His movements were clumsy yet determined, brimming with the raw passion of someone who had everything to prove.
“Impressive,” came a voice, breaking through the rhythm of his practice. “But you’ll give yourself a headache if you keep heading the ball with your forehead like that.”
Startled, Dapo turned. Coach James stood a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest and a knowing smirk on his face. Dapo dropped the ball, and as it rolled away, he scrambled after it, scooping it up and clutching it protectively to his chest like it was a fragile treasure.
“There’s a reason the middle of the head is used for headers,” Coach James continued, stepping closer. “It’s the strongest part of the skull. Trust me, I’ve learned the hard way.”
Dapo nodded, his grip on the ball tightening.
“And as for raising the ball with your knees like that,” Coach James added, “you could twist your ankle in the long run. Let me show you.”
Dapo hesitated. He hugged the ball tighter, unsure if he wanted to hand it over.
Coach James chuckled. “Come on, I won’t steal it.”
Reluctantly, Dapo released the ball, passing it to the coach. What followed was a masterclass in precision and flair. If Dapo’s moves had been a promising display of raw talent, Coach James’ were the polished techniques of someone who had lived and breathed football. Each flick, kick, and movement flowed seamlessly, as though the ball were an extension of his body.
By the time Coach James passed the ball back, Dapo’s admiration had grown tenfold. He caught it with both hands, eager to try out what he’d just learned. The coach watched him practice for a moment, nodding in approval.
“You’re early for practice,” Coach James said at last, turning to leave. “I’ll be going now. The captain’s in charge.”
The doctor’s office was a stark contrast to the dusty field. Polished wood furniture gleamed under the soft glow of overhead lights, and the faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. A photo of a young girl in a pink dress sat on the corner of the desk, her smile frozen in time.
Coach James sat on the examination table, his shirt unbuttoned as Doctor Sam leaned in, the cold metal of a stethoscope pressed against his chest. The rhythmic sound of James’ heartbeat filled the room, steady but tinged with a faint wheeze.
Doctor Sam straightened, looping the stethoscope around his neck with practiced ease. “Well, James,” he said, his tone calm but firm, “like I told you before, your lungs and kidneys are the players tackling your life.”
James smirked. “My heart’s still on defense?”
The doctor allowed himself a small smile. “Still very strong. But you’ll need that surgery. You can’t keep relying on dialysis.”
James let out a low chuckle, though it quickly turned into a cough. “I’m bankrupt, Sam. Surgery isn’t exactly in my budget.”
Doctor Sam didn’t flinch. He’d heard this line before, too many times to count. “After the artificial kidney transplant, everything will be better. Your lungs have come a long way—they should recover after the surgery.”
“And how much will this miracle cost?”
The doctor hesitated. “It could be done here or at our branch in India.”
“How much?” James pressed.
“We’re talking over a million,” Sam admitted, “and that’s not including your flight if you choose India.”
James’ laughter filled the room, loud and bitter. It trailed off into silence, replaced by the low hum of the air conditioning. “Just give me a prescription to keep me alive a little longer.”
Doctor Sam sighed and scribbled something on a piece of paper. He handed it to James, his eyes shadowed with concern. “I’ll keep the spot open for you. We could do it here if you trust us enough.”
“How much for here?”
“A lot less,” Sam replied, “but still high.”
James nodded and stood, tucking the paper into his pocket. “Thanks for the prescription, Sam. I pray I don’t see you too soon. Send my greetings to Ruby.”
“I will,” Sam said, his tone softening. “And don’t forget to visit our branch for dialysis. Twice a week at least.”
James waved him off and left the office, his shoulders slumped. As the door clicked shut, Doctor Sam sat back in his chair, flipping through the health file again. His brow furrowed. After a moment, he picked up his phone and dialed.
“Hello? Yes, how long will it take for it to get here? Okay, I see.”