Amsterdam, Netherlands.
The first week of training as a left-back felt like a waking nightmare for Femi. Every drill,
every tactical exercise, felt like a test he wasn't ready for. He had spent years perfecting his
game as a winger, and now he was being asked to completely redefine himself. Left-back.
The change was jarring, uncomfortable, and every step felt wrong.
He couldn't remember a time when he had felt more out of place. His usual confidence—the
very thing that had allowed him to fly down the wing, causing defenders to break a sweat—
was gone. Every time he tried to push forward, he was reminded of what was expected of
him: defend first, attack second. It was easier said than done.
The first few days had felt like a blur of confusion. Coach Bakker was patient, but his
instructions were constant. Every time Femi made a run or ventured forward too eagerly,
Bakker was there, calling him back into position.
"Femi, get back. You're too far forward. Your job is to defend first. Get used to it."
Femi could feel his frustration building. Every time he tried to read the game, there was a
moment of hesitation, an instinctive step backward into something he wasn't used to. His
first few defensive drills had been disastrous—poor positioning, missed tackles, and a
constant sense of being caught in two minds.
Day 2:
It was no better on the second day. Femi was constantly out of position. His speed, which
had been his greatest asset as a winger, was now a liability. Every time he sprinted to block
a cross or close down a winger, he found himself too far up the pitch or too far behind to
make an impact.
During a simple defensive drill, he lost track of the ball twice and was burned by the
opposition. His teammates—those who had grown used to his flair on the wing—were
starting to shake their heads. Some were sympathetic, others frustrated. Femi could feel
their eyes on him, the weight of expectations that were now heavier than ever.
Day 3:
The third day brought no relief. His legs were sore, his mind scattered. He found himself
second-guessing every move. When he tracked back to defend, he was always just a step too
late. The ball would slide past him, or the winger would slip through his grasp. It felt as though the harder he tried, the worse things got.
By Day 4, Femi was on the edge. He had made countless mistakes. The defensive drills felt
repetitive and relentless. Bakker's voice, though encouraging, felt like a constant reminder
of his inadequacies.
"You're a winger, Femi. I get it. But now you have to focus on being something more."
He could tell the coach was losing patience. And Femi couldn't blame him. He was failing to
adapt, and it stung. The rest of the squad, while supportive, had begun to distance
themselves, perhaps feeling the pressure of needing to perform in a high-stakes
environment.
Femi's thoughts began to spiral. He missed the freedom of the wing, the way he used to glide
past defenders with ease. Now, he was stuck in a defensive position, constantly under
pressure, never knowing whether he should push up or stay back. It felt like he was always
caught between two worlds, and neither felt right.
Day 5: The Turning Point
The final day of the week arrived, and Femi felt exhausted—physically and emotionally.
This was the day he was meant to prove himself, the day when everything should have
clicked. But it hadn't. As Femi jogged onto the field for the last training session of the week,
a wave of dread washed over him.
Coach Bakker was overseeing the session from the sidelines, and as Femi lined up with the
other defenders, he noticed something different: there was an unfamiliar face in the stands.
It was a man with short gray hair, wearing a tracksuit that bore the Ajax logo, but with a
more distinguished presence. The man was watching the session intently, his eyes trained
on Femi. He was older, with the look of someone who had been through the grind of
professional football. There was something about his presence that commanded respect.
After the session, as Femi stood by the sideline, dripping with sweat and feeling defeated,
the man approached him. His expression was hard to read, but his gaze was steady.
"You've got potential," the man said, his voice calm and low, but with a sense of authority.
"But you're not playing with confidence. You're thinking too much. The game's not about
thinking, it's about reacting. If you can do that, you'll make it."
Femi stared at the man, unsure of what to say. His words struck a chord with him, though.
He hadn't expected encouragement, especially not after the week he'd had. The man smiled
slightly, reading Femi's expression.
"I know the struggle," he continued. "I've been where you are—trapped in a role you didn't
ask for. But you're a good player. I know what you can do. Let me help you."
It was then that Femi realized who the man was. His heart skipped a beat. This wasn't just
any former player.
"You're… you're Lars de Groot," Femi said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Lars de Groot. The legendary left-back who had once played for Ajax and the Dutch national
team and was now an assistant manager with the first team. His name was synonymous
with precise defending, tactical brilliance, and an unwavering commitment to the game. A
retired player now, but his legacy in Dutch football was unmatched.
Lars nodded, his face breaking into a faint smile. "That's right. I've been watching you, Femi.
You've got what it takes. I'm here to help you find that part of your game that's missing."
Femi stood there, unsure whether to feel relief or more pressure. He had just spent a week
struggling to adapt, failing to meet the high standards he had set for himself. And now, here
was Lars de Groot, offering him guidance, as if the very thing he had been lacking—belief—
was finally within reach.
The weight of the week lifted slightly, and for the first time since the training began, Femi
felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe this wouldn't be so impossible after all. Maybe, just maybe, he
could figure out this new role with a little help.
To be continued...