FINALS Vol 2:
By: Emeka Obinna Charles
Tags: Coaching, Storytelling, Prose, Autobiography, Football

FINALS Vol 2:

They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. But on a sultry day in July 2015, with the searing Nsukka sun as an oven, we served it hot. Approximately a year had passed since my class, now in third year, lost the PANS Football final. Our conquerors, fourth years at that time but currently in final year, were our opponents this afternoon.

As a scrawny kid with little to no footballing ability in Secondary School, coaching was at first, the unremarkable consolation for the real prize. After the disaster that was my performance in a football tournament organized after Junior WAEC, I turned to coaching as solace. And comfort me, it did. It became an outlet for my obsession with the game and before my time in Secondary School was up, I had fallen completely in love with it.

“I’ll be the first Nigerian Manchester United coach,” I told Emeka Nwoke with gusto on one of the Playstation 3-inspired visits to his house in SS3.

Yet in all my time coaching, I had not prepared for a match like I did for the one we had this afternoon. Champions for three years running, our opponents were not to be underestimated. The day before our encounter, I came to watch their group-stage game against fourth-years, pen and paper in hand. They won easily - expectedly -and by the time the referee blew the final whistle, my game-plan was set: stifle them. I was not going to try to outplay them like I did last year. It seemed to play into their hands.

So, on that hot day in July, with the players already on the pitch and the referee seconds away from kicking the game off, I went frantically from one player to another, reiterating my instructions. Each player had specific instructions. Vinto’s was: “drop off their left attacker, DON’T press.” He was my right-back.

The result was a dour game. Uneventful and tight, just like I planned it. That was until their goalkeeper spilled a shot from distance and IG followed through. IG, short for “Iron Gate”, was a new addition to our team. Stocky and full of running, his proficiency in the right-back and striker positions had come in handy during the tournament. For this match, I brought him on to strike, and strike he did.



After scoring from the rebound, he wheeled away in celebration towards the touchline crashing into the hubbub of supporters. It was a late goal and would prove to be the winner. One-nil. Just like last year, only this time, THEY had the nil. Who would have thought, like meat left to simmer, heat brought out the flavour of revenge.

So, the champions had been pegged, not in a final but in our penultimate group stage game. In two days, we’d play them again in the final but this victory had shown that they could bleed.

******* ********** ***** ***** *****

Hope. While I gave final instructions to the substitute; a lanky, black player with a ‘fro-cum-punk, hope was what I felt. All I had left. The occasion was the PANS football final and our class was looking to rain on the parade of the defending champions, the final year class. Trailing one goal to nil with the first half gone, we were not doing a good job.

In a final, a strong case can be made as to why either side deserves to win. Each team’s reason as strong as their opponent’s. There’s always a record to be made or a jinx to be broken. In this case, the final year class were on their way to an unprecedented fourth title. For us, it was the allure of a first title. Needless to say, the stakes were high.

There was something destiny-like about the humid air that morning when Ekere and the class director of games, Obertan, drove to the girl’s hostel. Their mission: convince ANY number of our class girls to show up for the final later in the day.



The day before, after Pharmacology class, as seven guys from the class team struggled to fit in front of our dingy class, Obertan’s sonorous voice led the rallying cry.

“Give us two hours of your time. We’re begging you,” he said. His voice, half-mocking, half-amused.

“You won’t be bored,” Ama added.



“We play beautiful football.”

Lost in the crowd of players trying to fit into the two meters space between the whiteboard and the front seat, I couldn’t see Ama’s face but I knew how it was now: stern, unforgiving. Such was his intensity that little mistakes from his teammates in training or even friendlies earned them a tirade. The only time he had something close to a smile on was when he was playing with Ekere on the pitch. The two men matched each other for talent and were almost, always on the same wavelength.

We knew that Ama’s granite-like face and Obertan’s deep voice were not going to do the trick. It was ladies we were appealing to after all. Ladies that had never come to watch us play before. So as Ekere spoke to them on the morning of the final, he threw in one condition: he’d drive them to Franco pitch, the venue of the final. It did the trick.

Franco pitch was where most football matches in UNN were played. However, once in a while, some games were held in the stadium that was a stone-throw away from Franco.

We should have used the stadium for this final. But the government, the University administration, or whoever in charge, had stopped construction right after the athletic track and one-half of the spectator’s stand was built. It made the stadium take on the appearance of a bad haircut. The kind of haircut a mom gives her son when NEPA disappoints midway.

Franco, a combination of three pitches: two full-sized and one medium-sized was not a bad substitute. Our final would be played on the medium-sized pitch: Hockey pitch. It was so named because it was used to play hockey games in the past. Despite it being the smallest pitch of the lot, it was the only pitch in Franco that had a spectator’s stand: an elevated slab of concrete that had become brown over the years.

This stand was where the girls were seated when a handful of them showed up in the evening for the final. Among them, propped on a white plastic chair, her tiny, round glasses finely balanced on her round face and bearing an expectant smile was Chinasa. Top-of-our-class Chinasa.



“Fucking hell,” I thought, swallowing. “Chinasa left her books for this.”

Our class girls had been the first to arrive. But over the next fifteen minutes, the place slowly filled up with girls and guys from various classes. Amidst the racket, I spotted the faculty’s director of Games bringing in a microphone and speakers with the help of some guys. There was going to be commentary. There was going to be commentary. I swallowed for the umpteenth time today.



My players seemed oblivious to the fanfare going on around them and had furrowed brows as they completed their final warm-up.

The spectator’s stand was nearly full and the referee had just shown up when a face, looking on stoically from the stands brought a smile to my face. He had come. The bastard had come, I thought with a chuckle. Nonso was one of my closest friends. His coming to support me should have been expected, yes, but he was not even in Pharmacy department. This was indeed the final to end all finals.

My heart raced and I could feel my voice faltering as I gave my team talk. When the players responded with a huge roar, I wondered if I had imagined the faltering. My message was clear: we were going to reward this support, play our natural game, and give our girls something to cheer about.

But twenty minutes into the game, it was the girls from final-year that were cheering an opening goal. Just like in last year’s final, it was from a set-piece, and just like last year, it was a goalkeeping error. Lightning does strikes twice in Franco.

In the days leading up to the final, we had practiced defending and attacking set-pieces rigorously because we knew it was a major strength of our burly-sized opponents. I had also dropped Jude for the final after his howler cost us the previous year but his replacement, Kingsley, was now on course to do the same. The goal shocked us and our characteristic attacking game was non-existent despite my shouts of encouragement from the sidelines.



Halftime was a godsend.

More than half their faces were downcast as I went into motivation mode. What they were feeling was a mixture of frustration and disappointment. If the goal had been conceded differently, it would have been an easier pill to swallow, but the fact that it was eerily similar to the goal a year ago made it seem like fate was against them. Against us.

The nerves I felt before the first team talk were a distant memory as I confidently spurred them on.

“We’ve got this.”



“We are the better footballing side.”



“Keep knocking on that door, you’ll get an answer.” I bellowed.

Like IG, Ekere was a new addition to our team. Insanely gifted, he was one of those players you’d call “generational” in professional football. With beautiful dribbling skills, a wicked whip of the ball that brought about the best deliveries, and a knack for the spectacular goal, he was the perfect attacker. Perfect except for one thing – his stamina or lack thereof. He couldn’t last a full game without tiring out. Because of this, I learned to use him sparingly over the tournament: a half every match.

Most times, the half I brought him on was the second half because then, the opponents would be weary and his strengths, best utilized.

So, when I gave my final instructions to him as his large, foam-like punk glistened in the sun, I felt more than hope. Belief. I knew he would make something happen.

And he did. Sumptuous delivery after delivery into the box. Dribble after dribble. In the stands, a pattern was emerging: every time Ekere completed a great dribble-which was almost every five minutes, Basil, the commentator would give the microphone to a girl watching in the stands and she’d shout in a shrill voice:

“EKERE, WE LOVE YOU!!”

The lad was a crowd-pleaser and with Ama on the other side, they were like a pair of skillful thorns at the sides of the enemy, reminiscent of the famous ROBBERY combo of Franck Ribery and Arjen Robben at Bayern.

Final-years after their fortuitous goal in the first half, sat deep in the second half. Inviting us. Taunting us.

And we responded with aplomb, giving wave after wave of attacks. With twenty minutes left, IG, the matchwinner two days ago came on.

I checked to confirm the time on my Nokia torch hoping that that god of coincidence would make IG score.



Minutes later, the god answered. Ekere on one of his devastating rampages forward played IG through on goal. Time seemed to stand still as IG struck the ball. Goal-bound. This was it.

My hands went mid-air in celebration. Then I saw it, legs the size of a thousand yams sliding in and blocking the goal-bound effort. Time might have been standing still but that final year defender wasn’t.

I was getting desperate. The all-too-familiar taste of defeat had slowly begun to rise in my throat like bile in a man that had just been vexed. And with ten minutes to go, I readied my third and final substitution. We would play with four strikers now. So off went Ani David, my central midfielder and on came a striker. To hell with caution, I thought.

Fortune favours the brave. And when an in-swinging corner from Ekere missed the head of every player in the penalty box and landed at IG’s feet, fortune looked like it had smiled on us. The chance needed an instinctive finish, easier to miss than score.

And miss he did, sending the ball to the skies.

The blue Nokia Torch that had been timekeeper throughout the match was suddenly the enemy, the messenger of doom: one minute more, it announced in block-like fonts. Where had all the time gone? I wondered, as I pushed my glasses onto my face.

We used the remaining minute to launch some hopeful punts into the area, all of which were dealt with effectively. The final years on the sidelines were protesting to the referee now. They wanted the final whistle. They had been battered this half and had had enough.

The protests swiftly changed to jubilation when the referee eventually blew the final whistle. As I looked on from the sidelines, their ecstasy was like salt to a freshly sustained wound. The running, the shouting, the hugging. We had experienced all that two days ago, in a game that ultimately didn’t matter, I thought with a wry smile.

Defeat. Nothing dulls the feeling.

Even an identical defeat 365 days earlier. Even a “you played well” and a tap on the shoulder from Nonso. I looked up and the smile was missing on Chinasa’s face. A heavy scowl had taken its place. Christabel’s eyes were red and her face was wet, the result of tiny streams of tears. We should have spared them the heartache and the tears. But we had misread the signs that morning: yes, destiny was in the air but she was not on our side.