**September 27, 2003**
**Jamshedpur, TFA Stadium**
The late September sun sank low over Jamshedpur, its amber light spilling across the Tata Football Academy's stadium, a sturdy sprawl of 5,000 seats, today dotted with 300-400 spectators—local vendors hawking chai, kids clutching peanuts, scouts scribbling notes on crumpled pads. Jatin had rolled into town yesterday, September 26th, with Ricardo Silva and their 15 Agni FC players, the jeep's dust still settling from the long haul from Gurgaon. Now, he sat in a special spectator box, a chipped mug of chai steaming in his hand, the wooden bench creaking under him as he leaned forward, flanked by TFA's brass—men in crisp white shirts, their voices a steady buzz of anticipation.
Below, Ricardo paced the sidelines, his whistle glinting in the fading light, his Portuguese bark slicing through the warm air—"Move, focus, together!" The 11 Agni players stepped onto the pitch, orange jerseys blazing like embers, the swastika and "Agni" stark on their chests, their captain, Arjun Tomar, leading them out, his broad shoulders set, his B-level grit a quiet fire. TFA's squad followed, green and white stripes sharp, their strides confident, hands clasping Agni's in a brisk handshake, the crowd's murmur swelling into a low roar as the referee's whistle loomed.
Jatin's S+ mind hummed, his A+ senses piercing the scene—Arjun's nervous glance, Vikram's twitching foot, the faint tremble in Nitin's gloves. This was Agni FC's first match, a friendly against TFA's honed steel, and the boys' faces flickered with excitement and dread, boots scuffing the turf as they took positions. The whistle shrilled, the first half igniting—45 minutes to forge their name in sweat and dirt.
---
The game erupted fast—TFA snatched the ball from kickoff, their midfielder, a wiry 18-year-old named Ravi, darting past Rahul Yadav, Agni's playmaker, who lunged too late, his B-level passing muddled by nerves, the ball skittering free. TFA pressed, their winger weaving right—Deepak Sharma, Agni's speedster, chased, his B-level legs pumping, but a sloppy tackle sent the ball out, a groan rippling through the sparse stands.
In the 12th minute, TFA drew first blood. Amit Rana, Agni's striker, battled for a high ball, his B-level shot power primed, but TFA's center-back muscled him off, flicking it to their captain. Arjun Tomar, Agni's captain, charged to intercept, his B-level strength coiling, but misjudged the angle—too wide, too slow—the winger broke free, crossing low. Nitin Jain, Agni's keeper, dove, his B-level reflexes stretched, but the TFA striker tapped it under his flailing arm—1-0, the crowd erupting, kids leaping, vendors clapping.
Agni rallied—Karan Mehra, the dribbling wizard, scooped a loose ball in the 15th, his B-level flair sparking as he juked past two, the turf tearing under his boots. He fed Vikram Singh, the clinical striker, who spun, B-level poise steady, but his shot—low, hard—clipped a TFA defender's shin, rolling wide, the net untouched. Jatin sipped his chai, eyes narrowing—potential there, but green.
TFA countered in the 20th—Suresh Patel, Agni's tireless midfielder, harried their playmaker, his B-level stamina churning, but a feint left him flat-footed, the ball slipping to TFA's winger. Ravi Gill, Agni's tricky winger, sprinted to cover, B-level agility flashing, but a heavy touch lost it, the crowd gasping as TFA surged. Pankaj Bisht, a calm defender, stepped up, his B-level positioning sharp, but the pass sailed over—Manoj Kumar leapt, B-level headers primed, yet mistimed, the ball arcing past. TFA's striker volleyed, Nitin sprawled—2-0, 28th minute, silence from Agni's bench, cheers raining down.
---
In the spectator box, Jatin turned to TFA's director, Sanjay Bose, a lean man with graying hair, his shirt starched, a clipboard balanced on his knee. "Your boys are sharp," Jatin said, voice steady, chai mug warm. "Oiled machine—ours are still finding their feet."
Sanjay smirked, adjusting his glasses. "Years of work, Jatin—your Agni's new, raw. That captain—Tomar?—he's got heart, but he's chasing shadows." He tapped his clipboard, ink smudged. "Two-nil already—our striker's a menace."
Jatin grinned, raw and thin. "Arjun's learning—give it time. My boys'll wake up; they're built for more." His S+ math ticked—angles, momentum—his A+ senses catching Ricardo's shouts below, the game's pulse alive in his bones.
Sanjay chuckled, sipping water. "Friendly or not, we don't ease up. Your coach—Silva?—he's got fire, but these kids need polish." He nodded at the pitch, TFA's green swarm relentless. "Good test, though—let's see your second half."
---
Back on the field, Agni faltered—Rahul Yadav scooped a clearance in the 32nd, his B-level vision flickering, but a TFA midfielder nicked it, Sumit Hooda too slow to close, his B-level work rate stretched thin. Rakesh Dalal, the explosive winger, dashed left in the 37th, B-level hustle blazing, crossing high—Vikram leapt, but TFA's keeper punched it clear, the crowd buzzing, Agni's spark snuffed.
The 40th minute saw chaos—Arjun Tomar roared orders, "Hold it, press!"—his captain's grit rallying them, but a sloppy pass from Sanjay Rawat, the fierce defender, rolled short, B-level marking shaky. TFA pounced, their winger threading past Pankaj, Nitin diving—a near miss, the post rattling, Agni's breath held. The half limped to 45, the whistle shrieking—2-0 down, Agni's orange jerseys slumped, trudging to the lobby, nerves raw, 15 minutes to regroup.
---
Ricardo met them at the tunnel, his face stern, whistle dangling. "Heads up—fight's not over!" he barked, his accent thick, clapping Arjun's back as the captain nodded, sweat streaking his brow, the swastika damp on his chest. Jatin watched from above, chai cooling, his grin steady—TFA's steel had cut, but Agni's fire smoldered still, step by blazing step.
Jatin had watched the first half from his spectator box, a chipped mug of chai cooling in his hand, TFA's 2-0 lead a sting he'd borne beside Sanjay Bose, the TFA director, whose smug jabs still echoed. Now, halftime's whistle lingered, and Jatin stood, his boots thudding on the wooden floor, resolve hardening in his S+ mind.
He left the box, weaving past TFA officials—men in starched shirts, their chatter a drone—and descended the stairs, the air thick with dust and tension. The players' rest area loomed, a concrete bunker beneath the stands, its door ajar, the hum of Ricardo's voice spilling out. Jatin pushed in, his shadow falling long, and saw his 11—orange jerseys damp, heads bowed, the swastika on their chests dimmed by defeat.
Ricardo paced, his whistle swinging, his Portuguese growl firm but fraying—"Heads up, fight's not done! You're better than this!" Yet the words bounced off, Arjun Tomar, the captain, staring at his boots, B-level grit buried, Amit Rana's shoulders slumped, Nitin Jain's gloves limp. Jatin's chest tightened—his System-boosted boys, C to B, faltering, their fire snuffed by TFA's steel.
He stepped forward, boots scuffing, voice cutting sharp. "Why're you here with your heads down? You're not here to win—you're here to learn, to feel the pitch, to grow!" Eyes flicked up, startled—Vikram's, Rahul's, Deepak's. "Your opponent's got years, a machine—Sanjay, TFA director up there says you're nothing, fit for fields and construction, that Haryanavis only fight and smoke, not play football."
The room bristled—Arjun's jaw clenched, Karan's fists balled. Jatin pressed on, his A+ presence a storm. "He laughed—said you're no match. But I stood for you—told him you're players, you'll carry India, Haryana, Agni Academy on your backs. You're not here to sulk—you're here to burn like fire! Go out there, play free—show them your blood's alive!"
He clapped his hands, a crack like thunder—chicken blood, raw and wild, surged in their veins. Arjun stood, eyes blazing, the swastika bold again; Amit cracked his neck, B-level shot power itching; Nitin punched his gloves, B-level reflexes snapping awake. Ricardo grinned, clapping Jatin's shoulder—"That's it, boss!"—as the fire spread, 11 heads high, nerves molten into will.
Three minutes later, the whistle blew, the second half igniting. Jatin climbed back to the box, chai cold, his grin raw. Sanjay Bose glanced over, smirking, "Where'd you go? Rallying your troops?" Jatin settled in, voice calm, "Just told 'em to play free—clear their minds." Sanjay chuckled, "Good luck with that—my boys don't let up."
---
The pitch flared—Agni's orange swarm woke, alive, ferocious. The 47th minute ticked—Rahul Yadav scooped a loose ball, his B-level vision piercing TFA's press, threading it to Deepak Sharma. The winger blazed right, B-level speed a blur, crossing low—Amit Rana lunged, TFA's defender slipped, but the keeper palmed it wide, the crowd gasping, Agni's pulse quickening.
TFA countered in the 52nd—their winger darted, Sanjay Rawat marking tight, B-level grit unyielding, but a feint sent the ball past. Manoj Kumar leapt, B-level headers sharp, nodding it to Arjun Tomar—the captain roared, "Push!"—and booted it clear, the stands buzzing, Agni's steel hardening.
The 60th minute burned—Amit Rana battled TFA's center-back, B-level power coiling, nicking the ball to Karan Mehra. The dribbler danced, B-level flair twisting past two, feeding Vikram Singh—the striker spun, B-level poise cold, and rifled it low, TFA's keeper diving late—1-2, the net rippling, 300 voices roaring, Jatin's fist clenched, chai forgotten.
---
In the box, Sanjay shifted, his smirk fading. "Lucky strike," he muttered, scribbling on his pad. Jatin grinned, "Fire's lit—watch." Below, Ricardo bellowed—"Press, now!"—orange jerseys swarming, TFA rattled, the game tilting.
---
The 65th saw Rakesh Dalal sprint left, B-level hustle relentless, crossing high—Sumit Hooda leapt, B-level work rate tireless, but TFA's defender headed it out, the crowd on edge. Agni pressed—Pankaj Bisht intercepted in the 70th, B-level positioning a wall, lofting it to Rahul, who darted, lost it, regained it—B-level vision flickering—Suresh Patel charging, B-level stamina endless, shot wide, groans rising.
TFA struck back in the 78th—their striker broke, Arjun lunged, B-level strength crashing, but a deft touch slipped past—Nitin dove, B-level reflexes electric, tipping it over the bar, the post trembling, Agni breathing, the crowd alive.
The 89th minute loomed—time bleeding out, Agni relentless. Deepak Sharma scooped a clearance, B-level speed a storm, threading to Karan—two defenders lunged, he juked, B-level flair a spark—lobbing to Arjun Tomar. The captain chested it, roared, "Now!"—and volleyed, TFA's keeper flailing—2-2, the net sang, the stadium erupted, kids screaming, vendors clapping, Agni's fire blazing.
---
The whistle shrilled at 90+2—2-2, a draw carved from ash. Sanjay stared, clipboard still, "They woke up," he rasped, stunned. Jatin grinned, raw and wide—"Told you—my boys burn." Below, Ricardo hugged Arjun, orange jerseys gleaming, sweat-soaked, alive—Agni FC's dawn, step by blazing step.