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Chapter 19: Departure and Reality Check
The sun had barely risen over the dormitory grounds when Kweku's bag thumped against the wooden floor. Today wasn't just another training day — it was the day he left for the Under-18 national youth camp. Mr Davis didn't need more convincing after the last training session; Kweku did so well that he surprised himself.
Yaw appeared at his door, holding two small bottles of water. "Packed?" he asked.
"Yeah," Kweku said, though his stomach was twisting with nerves.
Yaw gave him a long look. "Remember, Starboy… this isn't a holiday. You'll see players who've been training since they could walk. Some will be bigger, faster, and stronger than you. Don't let it scare you; if anything, it should push you to do better."
Kweku nodded. He tried to imagine the camp, the players, the scouts watching every pass, every shot, every move. The excitement battled with his anxiety, and for a moment, he wondered if he was really ready.
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The bus ride was long, the dusty roads giving way to smoother highways, passing towns and villages with names even he couldn't pronounce. Kweku sat alone by the window, watching villages blur past, clutching Ama's letter and his notebook. "You belong on that field," her words repeated in his mind. He tried to forget her, but the advice from her just hit different.
Hours later, they arrived at the camp—a sprawling complex with multiple pitches, dormitories, and coaches shouting instructions that carried across the open fields. The noise was overwhelming: players calling, balls thudding, whistles shrieking.
"Wow…" Kweku muttered. Everything he'd imagined about the national youth program paled in comparison to the reality.
The scout, Mr Mensah, greeted him with a firm handshake. "Welcome, Kweku. Take it all in. Watch, learn, and remember — this is where the real work begins."
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The first session was a warm-up. Kweku jogged alongside the others but immediately noticed the difference.
The players were taller, leaner, faster. Their touch on the ball was precise, almost effortless. Every pass, every dribble seemed calculated and controlled. Some of them were already playing for club teams; a few had competed in regional tournaments beyond what Kweku had ever seen.
One boy intercepted a pass Kweku had carefully lined up and sprinted downfield as if the ball were glued to his feet. Another performed a feint so quick it left his partner off-balance.
Kweku felt the sharp edge of reality. I'm just one player from a small boarding school, he thought. These guys… they're in another league.
Yaw's words from the dorm returned to him: "Some will be bigger, faster, stronger. Don't let it scare you, let it push you."
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The first drill was passing under pressure. Kweku moved frantically, sweat dripping, lungs burning, as he tried to match the others. Some passes were perfect; some were intercepted immediately. One boy, taller and broad-shouldered, blocked him twice in a row.
After the drill, Kweku leaned on his knees, breathing hard. A coach approached, clipboard in hand.
"Mensah," he said, using Kweku's last name formally, "you have talent. Good vision, solid technique, but you need to adapt faster. The pace here is relentless. Don't worry — most of these kids can run circles around you right now. That's normal. Keep learning and you'll see the improvement soon enough."
Kweku nodded, cheeks flushed. It stung, but the sting was good — like cold water awakening every sense.
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Later, during a small-sided scrimmage, Kweku finally found a rhythm. He intercepted a pass, dribbled past two defenders, and sent a perfect through-ball to a teammate who scored. His pulse soared, and for a moment, he felt alive, in control, just like in the regional final. He'd never expected an assist in a training session could mean so much.
After practice, he sat on the sideline, wiping sweat from his brow. The field was littered with balls, cones, and exhausted players. Kweku looked around at the others — strong, skilled, confident. He realised just how far he had to go.
But he also felt something new: motivation. Being at the top of his school had made him complacent, and that ended now.
He pulled out Ama's letter once more. "You belong on that field."
Yes. He did. But belonging didn't mean being the best yet. It meant working harder, learning faster, and facing reality with courage.
He scribbled in his notebook:
Goal: Match their pace. Beat my limits.
Goal: Learn from everyone here.
Yaw's voice rang in his mind: "Don't let it scare you off anything, it should push you."
Kweku stood up, brushing the dust from his shorts. Tomorrow, he would try again. And the day after, and the day after that.
The journey wasn't going to be easy — far from it. But for the first time, he felt ready to meet the challenge.
The sun hung high over the sprawling camp, casting long shadows across the multiple pitches. Kweku tightened his boots and adjusted his jersey, heart thumping with a mixture of excitement and nerves. Today was the first full scrimmage — a real test of his abilities against the other youth players.
Yaw's words echoed in his mind: "Some will be bigger, faster, stronger. Don't let it scare you, it should push you."
The whistle blew. Immediately, the pace was relentless. The other boys moved like lightning, cutting into spaces Kweku hadn't even noticed. Every pass he made seemed scrutinised, every dribble challenged.
In the first five minutes, Kweku lost the ball twice, his chest heaving from sprinting. A tall midfielder intercepted one of his passes and sprinted past him, linking up with the opposition and scoring easily. Frustration burned inside him. He wanted to storm off, curse himself, quit. But he remembered Ama's letter: "You belong on that field."
He forced himself to breathe, reset, and focus.
Then it happened. A loose ball bounced his way near midfield. He trapped it, keeping his touch close. He noticed a small gap between defenders, just enough to slip the ball through, and he did, an incisive pass. His teammate ran onto it and shot. The net bulged— goal.
It wasn't a perfect play, but it counted. The small victory made him feel alive, proving to himself that he could compete here, even if only in small ways.
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The scrimmage continued, brutal and exhausting. Kweku chased every ball, intercepted passes, and tried to keep up with players bigger and faster than he'd ever faced. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he failed, but every mistake taught him something.
During a short break, Mr Mensah walked over. "Kweku, you're doing well," he said, clipboard in hand. "You have vision and agility, but you need consistency. That goal was excellent — see it as a reminder of what you can do. Now focus on doing it repeatedly, under pressure, that's what separates the boys from the men."
Kweku nodded, swallowing the lump of doubt in his throat.
Ephraim, a burly defender, jogged over beside him, hands on his hips, sweat dripping. "You're getting there, man," he said. "It's not about scoring every time. It's about keeping up, learning, and staying in the game mentally. Watch them, learn their tricks, then try yours."
Kweku listened, feeling the weight of both challenge and possibility.
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In the second half, Kweku managed a moment of brilliance. A defender underestimated his speed, leaving a sliver of space. Kweku dribbled through, feeling the ball respond perfectly under his feet. He passed to a teammate who scored again. Small cheers went up from the sidelines, and Kweku felt a quiet satisfaction.
It wasn't glory. It wasn't the spotlight from the regional final but it was progress. Real, honest progress against players who had been training longer, harder, and better than him.
After the whistle, the team gathered around the coach. Kweku's legs burned, his lungs felt on fire, and his jersey stuck to his back. But he smiled.
Ephraim slapped him on the shoulder. "See that, bro? You made it happen. Not every play, not every minute, but the moments you seize — those count. Keep doing that, and you'll grow faster than you think."
Kweku pulled out his notebook, scribbling furiously:
Goal: Improve consistency in scrimmages.
Goal: Learn from players better than me.
He leaned back on the grass, sweaty and exhausted, feeling both humbled and motivated.
The national camp wasn't just a test of skill — it was a reality check. But for the first time, Kweku understood: facing stronger players didn't mean failure. It meant growth.
And growth was exactly what he was here for.