Chapter 96: Left Out
The heavy diesel rumble of the first-team coach faded into the distance, shrinking to a faint, lonely vibration beneath the birdsong drifting over Sportcomplex Zoudenbalch. It left a curious hush in its wake, as though the entire training ground paused, waiting to see what would happen next.
Amani Hamadi stood motionless by the center circle, boots firmly planted on the immaculate grass, his breath visible in the cool April air. Far down the motorway, the last glimpse of red and white paint disappeared behind the treeline, gone, just like that, taking his hopes of playing in Waalwijk along with it.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting down the bitter sting in his eyes. After a week spent diligently training with both the U17 and senior teams, morning drills with Coach Pronk and De Vries, afternoons sweating under the scrutinizing gaze of Coach Jan Wouters, being left behind felt harsh, almost personal. Yet, he knew professional football made no promises.
He had been first on the training pitch every morning, his boots still damp from the previous day’s double sessions. With the U17 squad, he honed intricate passing triangles alongside Malik, Tijmen, and Sofyan Amrabat; with the seniors, he had soaked up tactical nuances from veterans like Alje Schut and Alexander Gerndt, absorbing every piece of guidance Coach Wouters offered like sacred scripture.
Now, all that relentless preparation had led here: alone on an empty pitch, staring at the spot where the team bus had vanished.
Fine, he thought, drawing a deep breath. If I’m not going to Waalwijk, then Waalwijk will come to me.
He dropped a mesh bag of balls at his feet and began his first-touch drill inside, outside, lace, drag, repeat- the rhythmic thuds echoing through the empty stands like a lonely metronome. Each touch resonated with precision, sharper than usual, fueled by frustration-turned-purpose.
From the touchline, Malik and Tijmen leaned against the advertising boards, training bibs fluttering gently in the breeze. The academy session had ended half an hour ago, but neither boy had headed to the showers. They stayed, quietly watching their friend channel his disappointment into a one-man training session.
Malik scrolled furiously on his phone until his thumb ached. Finally, he broke the silence. "Bro, social’s on fire," he called out, his voice carrying clearly across the empty pitch. "Fans are fuming that you didn’t travel today. Listen, ’Leaving Hamadi at home is football crime. Wouters, wake up!’"