The roar of the crowd was deafening, and the air was electric with pure passion and raw emotion. Fans waved flags high in the air in support, pounded drums, and raised their scarves high above their heads, screaming and cheering only one name in the large stadium:
"Jesse! Jesse! Jesse!"
The blinding floodlights of the stadium shone brightly, cutting through the night like a beacon — like a star...
It was fitting. He was the star here tonight.
Jesse stood there in the middle of the turf, chest heaving, heart still racing from his last-minute winner.
His free kick in the dying moments of the game was nothing but pure perfection — a beautiful and precise curler that kissed the top right-hand corner of the goalpost before landing right into the back of the net.
It was magic.
It was artistry.
It was poetry in motion.
Now, his teammates jostled him forward. "Go on, Jesse," they urged, shoving him gently toward the adoring crowd.
He could barely make out any individual faces among the sea of chanting supporters, but their love and energy were palpable.
Many had risen from their seats, raising their voices in admiration as he approached, whistling and clapping — giving him an ovation that he would remember for a lifetime.
Jesse, abashed, raised his hands in thanks, clapping back at them, thanking them for their admirable support.
"Jersey!" a small, high-pitched voice screamed, piercing through the din.
Jesse turned toward the source, and there, barely visible among the endless sea of the jubilant crowd, he spotted a young boy in the lower stands.
With a warm smile, Jesse peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it toward the boy.
The boy caught it with both hands, clutching it like the most priceless thing in the world.
Then, the boy looked him in the eye, pointed at him, and shouted once again, "Jersey!"
Jesse tilted his head. 'Huh? But I just gave it to him...'
"Jersey! Jersey! Jersey!" the boy screamed again and again.
Jesse's smile faltered. Something was off...
The whole stadium had grown dead silent now, except for the screaming little boy.
And with each scream, his voice grew more twisted — becoming eerily louder, deeper... gruffer.
"Jersey! Jersey!! JERSEY!!!"
A piece of white chalk flew straight toward the head of the sleeping Jesse, striking him square on the forehead and jolting him awake.
The classroom, abuzz with laughter, quickly came into focus as soon as he opened his eyes... and so did the angry teacher glaring at him in front of the blackboard.
"Jersey, what was the last thing I said?" the teacher asked, adjusting his slipping glasses with a furious expression.
Jesse had obviously been sleeping in class and had no clue what the teacher was teaching.
He stood from his wooden chair, fumbling for what to say. "Uhm... Uhm... I—"
"Uhm uhm, you what? Shut your mouth and remain standing!" the teacher snapped, causing the classroom to burst into another fit of laughter.
The teacher shook his head in outright annoyance. "You're lucky the school has adopted a no-flogging policy. If not, I would have dealt with you personally!"
Jesse wasn't even paying attention anymore. His fleeting attention span had already dragged his mind to the window beside his desk, where his gaze trailed the senior students outside — SS1 to SS3 — kicking a football around in the school's sandy field.
'I should be out there with them.'
The teacher's period — the last one for the day — had been over for almost ten minutes now, but the wicked, bald old devil was bent on keeping them prisoner.
'Math teachers are the worst.'
Suddenly, another white projectile flew toward Jesse's head, sending a sharp pain through his skull and bringing him back to reality once again.
Jesse massaged his throbbing forehead and returned his focus to the fuming teacher.
If the man had been boiling with anger before, now, he was on the brink of eruption.
His eyes burned like coals. All that was missing were two horns sprouting from his head and a pitchfork in his hand to complete the image.
His cheek trembled furiously as he spoke, sending his glasses slipping down once more. "Jersey, are you listening to me?!"
"Y-Yes, sir, I am."
"What was the last thing I said, then?"
"Uhm..."
Furious, the teacher took off his glasses to "see properly."
"Oya, come out here and kneel down! You think this is America, where you can behave however you like in class?!"
"No, sir, I—"
"Come out here and kneel down fast! I am going to make a scapegoat of you today!"
'Oh God...'
What was the Nigerian saying again? From kettle to frying pan.
***
Well, a quick introduction was clearly due.
Our protagonist — the ADHD boy in question — was named Jesse. He was a fourteen-year-old teenager who lived in the slums of Mushin in Lagos, Nigeria.
Apparently, his father's last name was Jackson. His mother always said that his dad was a huuuuuuge comic book nerd and gave him that alliterative name because it sounded like a superhero's alter ego.
Well... Jesse Jackson wasn't super, and he was no hero.
Except, of course, when he stepped onto the football field.
There, he was faster than you could say "Shazam" and had more magic than Zatanna.
There, with the ball at his feet, all his worries and problems were swept away, replaced by the pure, unfiltered joy of the game.
...There, he felt like he really was super.
Unfortunately, he had never met his father and knew virtually nothing about him except for that little snippet of information.
He didn't know his father's first name, had no clue what he looked like — he wasn't even sure whether he was dead... or alive.
For some reason, his mother always avoided speaking of him. There was always a pained expression on her face whenever he brought the issue up, so he eventually dropped it and stopped asking questions.
...Someday, when she was ready, he was certain she would sit him down and tell him everything on her own.
Well... stepping out of murky waters, as for why the teacher called him "Jersey", it was simply because not everyone in the slums of Mushin could pronounce his name correctly. Many mistakenly called him "Jersey."
Of course, some *could* pronounce it correctly but still called him "Jersey" — either because of his love for football or, sometimes, just to annoy him.
Those who struggled with pronunciation, though, naturally found it easier to call him by his Yoruba name — Sola. In fact, Jesse preferred being called Sola, and that was how he introduced himself to every new acquaintance.
But being mixed-race, most people he met refused to call him that. He was only called Sola at home and by some close friends.
Most of the time, it was a roll of the dice between "Jersey," "Oyinbo Pepper," and "Americana" — even though he was actually British-Nigerian and didn't have a single drop of American blood in him.
It wasn't like he hadn't tried to drill that into their thick skulls. Every time he did, they'd just laugh and say, "Ehen, same thing!"
It wasn't the same! It wasn't bloody the same!
It was about as similar as real football and "American eggball."