Jan Wouters sat in the dimly lit press room of Stadion Galgenwaard, running a hand over his face as he rewatched clips of FC Utrecht's recent humiliation. Just days ago, his team had been thrashed 3-0 by lowly De Graafschap.
The loss left morale in tatters – players trudged off in Doetinchem to a chorus of jeers from traveling fans. Injuries had ravaged the squad's spine: star striker Jacob Mulenga was out, having torn his ACL back in November and sidelined for eight months good thing is he is still recovering at a good pace, but still not match fit, and other veterans nursed pulled hamstrings and sprained ankles. The club's form had nose-dived with those absences; a relegation fight loomed if nothing changed.
That Saturday, Stadion Galgenwaard buzzed with an uneasy energy. The sun dipped low over Utrecht, painting the April evening in hues of orange and gold. Despite the team's poor run, nearly 19,000 loyal fans poured into the stands, hoping for a spark to revive their season.
On the gantry above the pitch, commentator Leo Driessen adjusted his headset as he scanned the teamsheet. His seasoned eyes widened. "This is extraordinary," Driessen murmured to his co-commentator. "Jan Wouters has a 15-year-old on the bench tonight – Amani Hamadi. Just 15 years and 2 months old!"
In the commentary box, Driessen's excitement crackled. "If he comes on, he'd be the youngest player in Eredivisie history, even younger than Wim Kras was in 1959!" He reminded listeners that Wim Kras debuted at 15 years and 290 days, a record standing for over half a century.
Amani was a good seven months younger than that milestone. His co-commentator, an ex-player, whistled in disbelief: "Fifteen? I was in junior high at that age. What a moment this could be for the kid… if he plays."
High in the main stand, Kristen Stein clutched her match programme with nervous pride. Beside her, her grandfather Carlos Stein shifted forward in his seat, peering at the Utrecht bench through binoculars.
They found Amani immediately – he was hard to miss, bouncing on his toes, eyes wide as he took in the cauldron of the stadium for the first time. "There he is," said, voice tinged with the emotion of a scout seeing a discovery on the cusp of history. Kristen smiled, heart fluttering.
She remembered a hot afternoon on a dusty Malindi beach almost two years ago, when she first saw the boy's skills in the AFTA Mombasa trials. The Steins had traveled all the way to Kenya on a hunch, trying to find gold but they stumbled and found a diamond in the beachy Mombasa, and Amani's talent had leapt out at them like a revelation. He's come so far, Kristen thought, swallowing a lump in her throat.
From barefoot kickabouts under palm trees to the brink of an Eredivisie debut – this was the stuff of dreams. Around them, fans discussed the surprise inclusion. Some were puzzled – "Hamadi? Wie is dat? (Who is that?)" – while others, especially younger fans, were intrigued.
A few die-hards grumbled about desperation and questioned if Wouters had lost his mind. But there was also a ripple of excitement at the unknown. Football loves a prodigy, and word had spread from the training ground about the Kenyan kid with silky touches; the people who watched the Future Cup had seen what he could do.
Evening settled on Galgenwaard in velvet layers of violet and gold, the floodlights flickering on as if roused from a doze. Amani sat bundled in a substitute's jacket near the halfway line, nerves jangling despite the warmth seeping from the heated bench. The stadium hummed with a hopeful murmur, Utrecht supporters desperate to scrub the memory of last week's humiliation at De Graafschap.
Kick‑off. Utrecht surged forward with frantic intent. Verhoek rasped an early shot over the bar, Kali bit into tackles like a man possessed, yet every pass carried a tremor of uncertainty. From his seat, Amani tracked the pattern: centre‑backs squeezed perilously high, full‑backs overlapping in stereo. Risky, he thought.
Risk became punishment in the ninth minute. VVV countered through the right channel Wildschut burst past a flat‑footed Bulthuis and slipped a clever reverse ball at the top of the box. Barry Maguire arrived ghost‑silent, opened his body, and threaded a low drive inside Vorm's right post. An audible shudder rippled across the stands: 0‑1. Amani's stomach pinched.
Utrecht's shape wobbled, and ten minutes later it snapped. A mis‑hit clearance ballooned straight up; Kali tried to cushion but poked an awkward header into no-man's land. Michael Uchebo pounced, nudging the ball past the on‑rushing Vorm and lifting a casual dink into the empty net. 0‑2 in nineteen minutes. A rust‑red tide of groans spilled from the terraces.
"Not again," the elderly man two rows behind Amani muttered, despair thick in his voice. On the broadcast gantry, Leo Driessen's tone turned sepulchral: "The ghosts of Doetinchem hover like storm clouds over Galgenwaard."
On the bench, Amani pressed gloved fists together, whispering the cadence of his breathing drill in four, hold, out four, trying to calm the pitch of dread rising in his chest.
The spark arrived in the 29th minute. Utrecht earned a free‑kick wide right; Verhoek shaped to whip it flat but instead lofted an arcing, teasing delivery toward the penalty spot. Frank Demouge, all elbows and intent, bullied between VVV's centre‑backs and met the ball mid‑rise, snapping a crunching header that arrowed into the top corner. Net bulged, drums thundered 1‑2. Hope flared like a match struck in a cave.
Galgenwaard's volume climbed. Five minutes later, the stadium roared itself hoarse. A corner pinballed in the six‑yard box; defenders swung, missed, panicked. The ball spilled toward the penalty arc where teenage defender Davy Bulthuis sprinted in, wound back and detonated a left‑foot drive through a thicket of legs. It clipped a shin, skidded inside the post. 2‑2. Amani shot to his feet with the rest of the bench, arms flung skyward.
Momentum, a beast starved for weeks, suddenly gorged. Utrecht's midfield began to purr; one‑touch triangles pulled VVV hither and yon. In the 44th minute, Kali split two markers with a disguised reverse pass; Toornstra cushioned and immediately sprayed wide to Edouard Duplan streaking down the right.
Duplan chopped inside his full‑back, onto his favored left, and without breaking stride bent a sumptuous curler from the corner of the box. The ball sailed past Mäenpää's despairing glove and nested in the far‑side netting like a swallow finding home. 3‑2.
The explosion of sound rattled Amani's ribs. Seats clattered, scarves whirled, flares spat crimson light behind the goal. Demouge bear‑hugged Duplan until both toppled into the advertising boards; even stoic coach Jan Wouters punched the evening air.
When the referee finally drew the half to a close, Utrecht jogged toward the tunnel to a standing ovation. Amani felt the electric thrum in the concrete under his boots, tasted adrenaline at the back of his throat. Whatever happened after the break, the side he aspired to join had just proved they could bleed, stagger, and still rise swinging.
Steam hung in the air like fog as the players filed into the home dressing room, boots clacking on tile, lungs pumping out frosty plumes. Jerseys were peeled off and slapped onto hooks, the sharp scent of liniment mixing with grass clippings and adrenaline. The digital clock above the tactics board blinked 45:00 in red, a silent reminder that the night was only half‑lived.
Jan Wouters moved through the crush with the gait of a boxer between rounds: stiff shoulders, jaw set, a faint line of satisfaction softening the usual granite. He clapped Duplan once between the shoulder blades. "Quality finish, Ed." Toornstra earned a curt nod for his metronome passing, Bulthuis a growled "Good strike, lad," which lit the teenager's freckled face.
Then Wouters' gaze found Amani, who stood near the kit trolley rolling out his hamstrings with a resistance band. The boy's pupils were still huge from the pitch floodlights, cheeks flushed, a sheen of anticipatory sweat on his brow even though he hadn't played a second.
"Stay loose," Wouters murmured as he drew level, voice pitched so only Amani heard. "If we need a tempo change, you're first in."
The words struck like a bell inside Amani's chest. He nodded, swallowed, and felt the echo in his pulse.
Around him, the senior pros formed a loose semi‑circle, trading quick sips of isotonic and observations about VVV's high line. Anouar Kali, still breathing hard, tape fraying at his socks, hooked an arm around Amani's neck for a moment. "Ogen open, hart rustig," he advised. Eyes open, heart calm. "First touch, then think. It's just football."
Across the benches, Jacob Mulenga, knee in a bulky brace but grin wide enough to split the room. He'd insisted on travelling with the squad, refusing the comfort of the physio's room. "Simba mdogo!" he called in Swahili‑tinged Dutch. Little lion! "Give them trouble. Make the back line wish I was still limping out there instead."
Even Takagi, usually shy off the field, offered a thumbs‑up before digging into an orange slice. "Play what you see," he said in accented English. "Not what you think they expect."
Amani inhaled slowly, counting to four, then exhaled the jitters away. In the corner, kit‑man Henk tossed him a fresh number‑37 jersey, his name pressed crisp across the shoulders. He tugged it on, felt the weight settle like a promise.
"Keep It!"
He pictured the second‑half grass, the angles unfolding, the familiar blackout‑flash‑black sequence of his strobe‑lens training. He wasn't sure if Wouters would actually beckon him, but the possibility shimmered in every heartbeat.
Wouters tapped his whistle against the board for silence. "We're back in this because you believed," he told the squad, voice low but electric. "Now finish the job. Stick to the press trigger on their six, keep runners tight on second balls, and when their legs go heavy at seventy‑five? Kill them."
As the huddle broke, Amani jogged in place, feeling the rubber in his boots warm, the band on his wrist red, green, black, white tighten with sweat. The roar from the concourses seeped through the concrete like distant surf.
He closed his eyes just long enough to see the shapes he might paint on the grass: a disguised through‑ball, a dipping strike, perhaps only a simple recycle pass that kept the fire burning. Whatever the script, he was ready to edit it in real time.
***
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