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 towards 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 towards the direction of the source, and there, barely visible among the endless sea of the jubilating crowd, he spotted a young boy in the lower stands.
With a warm smile, Jesse peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it towards 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 smiled faltered. Something was off...
The whole stadium had grown dead silent now, except from 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 went flying straight towards the head of the sleeping Jesse, striking him square on the head, and jolting him straight 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 him, adjusting his slipping glasses frame back up the bridge of his wide nose with a furious expression.
Jesse had obviously been sleeping in class and had no clue at all what the teacher was teaching.
He stood from his wooden chair, fumbling for what to say. "Uhm... Uhm... I—"
"Uhm uhm, you what? Shut up your mouth and remain standing!" the teacher said, causing the classroom to burst into another fit of laughter.
The teacher shook his head with outright annoyance. "You are lucky the school has adopted a no flog policy, if not, I would have dealt with you personally!"
Jesse wasn't even paying attention anymore, his fleeting attention span had already taken his mind to the window beside his desk, and his gaze trailed the senior students outside from the SS1 to SS3 classes, 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 came flying towards 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 back to the fuming teacher.
If the man was boiling with anger before, now, he was on the brink of eruption.
His eyes were like burning coals. All that was left was for two horns to sprout from his head and a pitchfork to appear in his hand, and the image would be perfectly complete.
His cheek shook 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..."
"Oya, come out here and knee down! You think this is America where you can behave however you like in class?!"
"No sir, I—"
"Come out here and knee 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 — ADHD boy in question here's name was Jesse. He was a fourteen year old teenager who lived in the slums of Mushin within Lagos, Nigeria.
Apparently, his father's last name was Jackson — his mother always said that his dad was a huuuuuuuuge comic book nerd, and gave him that alliterative name because it sounded like a superhero's alter ego.
Well... Jesse 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 the word "Shazam," and had more magic than Zatanna.
There, with the ball at his feet, all his worries and problems were swept away from his mind, and replaced by the pure, unfiltered joy of the game.
...There, he felt like he really was super.
Unfortunately, he never got to meet his father and knew virtually nothing about him except from 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 all on her own.
Well... getting out of murky waters, as for why the teacher called him "Jersey", it was for the simple reason that not everyone here in the slums of Mushin could pronounce his name correctly, so many mistakenly called him "Jersey."
Of course, some could pronounce it correctly, but still called him "Jersey", either because of his love of football, or sometimes, just for the fun of annoying him.
Those who had trouble pronouncing it though, would of course have a much easier time calling him by his Yoruba name — Sola. In fact, Jesse preferred being called Sola. But being mixed race, most people he met refused to call him by that. He was only called Sola at home and by some of his close friends.
Most of the time, it was usually a roll of the die between "Jersey," "Oyinbo Pepper," and "Americana," even though he wasn't even American.
It wasn't like he hadn't tried to get that through their thick skulls, everytime he tried, they would just laugh at him 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.