Chapter 2: The Ghost of Surulere
The dirt pitch at the National Stadium's outer borders was a graveyard for dreams. To a scout from Europe, it looked like a wasteland of orange dust and uneven topography. To Mide Adeyemi, it was a chessboard where he finally knew all the moves.
As the ball dropped from his rainbow flick, he didn't just wait for it to hit the ground. His seventeen-year-old body felt like a coiled spring, humming with a frequency he hadn't felt in decades.
[System: "Oho! A rainbow flick? In front of a Manchester scout? You have the liver of a lion, or the brain of a goat. Let's see which one it is. Move, boy!"]
The ball kissed the top of his worn-out boot. It didn't bounce away; it stuck. That was the Level 1 Velvet Touch hidden in his base stats. Mide didn't even look at the ball. His eyes were scanning the field, seeing the "Oracle" lines beginning to glow faintly on the dust.
Two defenders, Segun and a massive lad nicknamed 'Truck,' closed in. In his past life, Mide would have panicked. He would have tried to shield the ball, lost it to Truck's superior strength, and been shoved into the dirt.
But now, he saw the red flashing bars over their heads.
Truck is leaning too far to his left. He thinks I'm going to cut inside because I'm right-footed, Mide analyzed.
He didn't cut. He didn't even accelerate yet. He performed a 'La Croqueta'—a move that wouldn't become world-famous for another year or two—shuffling the ball from his right foot to his left in a blur of motion.
Truck lunged. His heavy boot slammed into the spot where the ball had been a millisecond before. The sound of the impact—thud—echoed against the concrete stands. Mide was already gone. He slipped between the two defenders like a ghost, the dust swirling in his wake.
"Jesus! Did you see that?" a voice shouted from the sidelines.
Mide could hear the murmurs. He could feel the shift in the atmosphere. The "boredom" that usually hung over these trials was evaporating.
[System: "Not bad. You didn't fall down like a bag of garri. 10 SP for the dribble. But remember the mission, Oga. The clock is ticking. 12 minutes left."]
Mide ignored the sarcasm. He was twenty yards from the goal. The goalkeeper, a boy named Ikechukwu who was notorious for his reflexes, was crouched low, his eyes wide.
Mide had a clear shot. The crowd was screaming, "Shoot! Mide, shoot!"
But Mide's "Future Knowledge" kicked in. He remembered this day. He remembered that Ikechukwu always cheated to his right on long shots. But more importantly, he remembered the boy sprinting down the left wing.
Tunde. Tunde was a fast, skinny kid from the slums of Bariga. In the original timeline, Tunde had given up football after this trial and become a bus conductor. He had been talented, but nobody ever passed him the ball.
Mide saw Tunde's green stamina bar. The kid was sprinting, his eyes desperate, screaming for a chance.
If I score, I get the glory, Mide thought. But if I assist Tunde, I prove I am a General. I prove I can lead a team. Sir Alex doesn't just want scorers; he wants architects.
Mide faked a powerful shot. He wound up his right leg, drawing the goalkeeper and the last defender toward the near post. Even Coach Samuel leaned forward, expecting a thunderous strike.
At the last micro-second, Mide locked his ankle. Instead of a shot, he delivered a disguised, outside-of-the-foot "no-look" pass. The ball sliced through the grass, curving away from the defender's reach and landing perfectly in the stride of the screaming Tunde.
The stadium went silent for a heartbeat. It was a pass that didn't belong in a Nigerian youth trial. It was a pass that belonged in the San Siro or the Allianz Arena.
Tunde didn't miss. He tapped the ball into the empty net and stood there, frozen, as if he couldn't believe someone had actually given him the ball.
[System Mission Update: Assist Recorded!]
[Progress: 1/1 Assists]
[System: "Eh? You passed? To Tunde? Look at you playing like a philanthropist. I suppose even a broken clock is right twice a day. 30 SP awarded."]
Mide didn't celebrate wildly. He walked over to Tunde, who was almost in tears, and slapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't just stand there," Mide said, his voice calm and authoritative. "We have ten minutes left. I'm going to get you another one, and then I'm taking mine."
Tunde looked at Mide as if he were seeing a god. "Mide... how did you see me?"
"I see everything," Mide replied.
On the sidelines, the man in the white shirt, Mr. Bernard, stopped writing. He slowly closed his notebook. He didn't need to write any more notes on "Number 10." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Nokia 3310, dialing a number with a UK country code.
"Boss?" Bernard whispered into the phone. "I found him. No, he's not just good. He's... he's the one we talked about. He's playing a different game than everyone else. Yes, Manchester needs to see this kid before Chelsea finds out."
Mide felt a tingle in the back of his neck.
[System: "The scout is on the phone. The 'Oracle' senses a shift in your destiny. But don't get arrogant, Mide. In England, the grass is slippery and the defenders eat boys like you for breakfast. You still need that goal."]
Mide wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sun was setting over Surulere, casting long, orange shadows across the pitch. He looked at the scoreboard in his mind.
One assist down. One goal to go. One ticket to Manchester.
"Oya!" Mide barked at his teammates, clapping his hands. "Press them! Don't let them breathe! We are not finished!"
The other boys, usually tired by this point, felt a sudden surge of energy. It was the Leader's Roar—an unspent spark of Mide's charisma. They began to run harder. They began to believe.
Mide Adeyemi wasn't just a player anymore. He was the sun, and everyone else was starting to orbit around him.
[Current Status]
Goal Mission: 0/1
Assist Mission: 1/1 (Complete)
Current SP: 40
Stamina: 42%