By late morning, the buzz around Amani's debut had grown from a local whisper into a nationwide conversation, and it was even echoing far beyond Dutch borders. As Amani pulled on a sweatshirt and made a quick breakfast in the kitchenette, his phone continued to light up on the counter with updates.
He sipped his tea and scrolled cautiously through social media, both excited and a little overwhelmed by what he saw. The #Hamadi hashtag was still trending in the Netherlands, flooded with fans and pundits dissecting his 20-minute cameo that produced a goal and an assist. Every refresh brought new posts.
He paused on a few tweets, cheeks warming at the praise:
"Remember the name: Amani Hamadi. 15 years old (!!) and already bossing midfields for @FCUtrecht." one read, the incredulity obvious in the tone.
"Hamadi โ de tovenaar van Galgenwaard! (The wizard of Galgenwaard!) What a debut, what vision on that assist," cheered another, accompanied by a short clip of his through-ball to Duplan. In the video, Amani saw himself split the defense with that pass once more, and he felt his heart skip all over again.
"A goal and assist on debut at 15? This kid's come out of nowhere (Kenya, actually) to light up the Eredivisie. Unreal," said a popular Dutch football forum post, already stacked with comments debating how good he could become.
Amani shook his head in wonder, hardly tasting the buttered toast in his hand. Strangers were arguing about him on the internet! Some were proclaiming him the next big thing, others advising caution, saying he was just a kid who had one good game.
And there it was, the inevitable question he hadn't even considered: his nationality. A few commenters were marveling that he was Kenyan, a country not exactly famed for its football exports.
One particularly enthusiastic tweet from a user in Nairobi read, "A Kenyan just scored in the Dutch top flight and not enough people are talking about this!!! ๐ฐ๐ช๐ฅ". Amani felt a swell of pride at that, realizing that back in his birthplace, people were celebrating him as one of their own.
He switched to a Dutch sports news site and nearly dropped his phone when he saw his own face beaming back at him from a headline. Voetbal International had wasted no time โ they'd published an online column about the match.
The title made his breath catch: "Hamadi's Light Over Galgenwaard". It was written by Kristen Stein. Kristen was there? Amani recalled, with a start, glimpsing her in the VIP box last night โ an old family friend, practically. He swallowed and clicked the link, eyes racing over the article.
Kristen's opening lines read like literature: "On a cool spring evening in Utrecht, a 15-year-old debutant stepped onto the pitch and illuminated the Galgenwaard like a rising star. Amani Hamadi played not with the nervousness one would expect of a teenager, but with a joyous freedom that spread to teammates and fans alike."
Amani's face went hot as he skimmed further. "Hamadi's light," she wrote, "was the pure love of the game. In a team that had been tense and grinding out a result, his entrance released the pressure. His first touch was a simple one, but you could see the smile in it."
Kristen went on to describe the through-ball assist in glowing detail, even comparing the vision behind it to a young Xavi or Iniesta, names that made Amani practically choke on his tea.
She concluded with a personal touch that made Amani's eyes sting: "I first saw Amani two years ago in Mombasa, a skinny kid with outsized dreams. Last night, I saw those dreams begin to unfurl under the floodlights. The boy from Kenya reminded us all why we love this game."
Amani set the phone down for a moment and exhaled. The world blurred slightly as he realized his eyes had watered. He wiped them quickly, not wanting Malik (who was finally emerging from the bedroom, hair mussed and eyes groggy) to catch him getting emotional over a news article.
But Kristen's words hit deep. She had seen something in him even back then, and now she was sharing that with everyone. It was both humbling and heartening.
"What'd I miss?" Malik yawned, shuffling to Amani's side. He peered at the phone screen and let out a low whistle. "Man, Voetbal International already? They're fast." He nudged Amani with an elbow. "And they got your good side in that photo."
Amani managed a bashful laugh and handed the phone over so Malik could read. While his friend scrolled, Amani flipped on the small TV atop the fridge, curious if any channels were mentioning the game. The volume came on mid-sentence, "โฆone of the most exciting debuts in recent Eredivisie memory," a polished news anchor was saying in Dutch.
On the screen, highlights of last night's match played in sequence โ goals flying in, ecstatic fans. There he was, coming on as a sub. The program cut to a clip of two pundits in a studio discussion. Amani instantly recognized the mustachioed face of Johan Derksen and the amused grin of Renรฉ van der Gijp; they were fixtures of Dutch football talk shows. To his surprise โ and slight embarrassment โ they were talking about him.
Derksen's tone was characteristically gruff. "Laat iedereen nou niet doorslaan," he was saying, waving a hand dismissively. "Everyone mustn't get carried away. One good assist and a goal, and people act like we've discovered a world star." He shook his head, a skeptical frown creasing his forehead. "He's 15. We've seen talents flame out before. Let's see if the boy can do it consistently."
Renรฉ van der Gijp chuckled and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, come on, Johan," he interjected with a broad smile. "Have a little fun for once! Did you see the kid play? It was entertaining! At fifteen, I was just trying not to trip over the ball, haha. This lad came on like he was having a kick-about in the park."
Van der Gijp's eyes sparkled merrily as he spoke. "I'm not saying he's the next Messi, but give credit where it's due. That assistโฆ" he kissed his fingertips in an exaggerated Italian gesture, "magnifique! You don't see that every day from a Dutch veteran, let alone an African kid who just arrived."
Derksen sniffed, unconvinced. "It was a good pass, sure. But VVV's defense was in shambles by then. Let's not act like he dribbled past five men. And as for his goal, " he shrugged, " nice finish, but the keeper had basically given up."
Renรฉ rolled his eyes playfully. "You always have to throw cold water, don't you? Listen, I'm not saying build the statue outside Galgenwaard yet. I am saying it's a damn good story. A kid from Kenya comes on and brings some joy to the game. And joy, my friend, is something our football could use more of."
The anchor cut back in, noting, "That was Johan Derksen and Renรฉ van der Gijp with their take on the Hamadi debut," before moving on to other highlights. Amani realized he'd been standing there frozen, toaster waffle halfway to his mouth, listening intently. Malik slapped the back of his shoulder. "Ha! Van der Gijp likes you. And Derksen, well, at least he knows your name."
"At least," Amani echoed with a half-smile. It was surreal hearing seasoned pundits debate him as if he were a hot topic on a normal Sunday. He appreciated Renรฉ's enthusiasm and even found himself thankful for Derksen's skepticism; it reminded him that he still had everything to prove. Not everyone would be swept up in the hype, and that was probably a good thing.
Malik started flipping through his own phone, checking the fan forums and Reddit threads. "Yo, they're going crazy on /r/eredivisie," he reported, eyes dancing. "Someone made a compilation of all your touches already. And there's this thread: 'Teenage sensation โ how good is Hamadi?' It's like 200 comments long." He glanced over the top of his phone at Amani. "Half of them are arguing whether you'll choose to play for Kenya or if the Dutch federation's gonna try to steal you."
Amani let out a startled laugh. "They're talking about national teams already? I've only played twenty minutes of professional football." The thought hadn't even entered his mind โ he was just focused on earning his place at Utrecht.
The idea of a tug-of-war over his international allegiance felt premature and absurd, but it was flattering in a way. Kenya was his homeland, but the Netherlands was fast becoming home too. A bridge to cross much later, he thought.
He continued clearing the plates from breakfast as Malik kept up a running commentary of the online reactions. It was equal parts amusing and motivating. There were memes already โ one did a mock-up of him on a FIFA video game card with outrageously high stats; another overlaid his face on the famous Lion King "remember who you are" scene, which made him snort orange juice through his nose.
There were also heartwarming messages: young players tweeting that he was an inspiration, Kenyan fans organizing watch parties for Utrecht's next game.
A notification from the FC Utrecht official app caught Amani's eye next. The club's match report had been published. He opened it to see a photo of him celebrating, mouth open in a joyous shout. The headline by team reporter Abigail de Graaf read: "Dream Debut as Utrecht Thrash VVV 6-2."
Abigail's recap detailed the game quarter by quarter, saving special mention for the final fifteen minutes. "โฆsubstitute Amani Hamadi stole the show with a goal and assist on his Eredivisie debut, injecting pace and creativity into the attackโฆ" she wrote. She described his assist as a "defence-splitting pass that brought the crowd to its feet," and noted how the stadium was buzzing at full-time, fans already singing the teenager's name.
Amani's cheeks burned again; he hadn't realized they'd been singing about him. Abigail ended the piece with a line that made him grin: "If ever there was a debut to lift the hearts at Galgenwaard, this was it. Remember the name." She even included a quote from Coach Pronk: "The boy played with joy. That's what you want to see. He has a lot to learn, but this was a special evening."
Malik nudged him, having read the recap over Amani's shoulder. "See that? 'Played with joy.' Coach knows the vibes." Malik flashed a grin, referencing the very mission that Amani had been following. Amani nodded, tapping the phone screen off. It was almost time to head to training, but the news cycle wasn't slowing down. Already, there were hints of international coverage.
"Check this out," Malik said, as they gathered their gear. He turned his phone toward Amani. On it was a short BBC Africa news segment, the headline emblazoned across the top of the video: "Kenyan Teen Shines in Dutch Debut."
Amani watched, mesmerized, as a BBC anchor reported in crisp English: "In the Netherlands, a 15-year-old Kenyan footballer, Amani Hamadi, made headlines with a goal and assist on his debut for FC Utrechtโฆ"
They showed a clip of him scoring the final goal, and Amani felt a bizarre out-of-body sensation as if he were watching some other kid. The segment briefly told his backstory: from Nairobi to Utrecht's academy. It even mentioned in passing that a scout from a French club had once identified him.
The scene cuts to a man on a phone, subtitles identifying him as Christophe Moreau, Scout โ Olympique Lyon. Amani leaned in, eyes widening. Moreau spoke in French, but the translation scrolled at the bottom. "I remember Hamadi from a youth clinic in Kenya. He was a standout, no doubt, but we hesitated because of his age. Seeing his debut nowโฆ"
The scout gave a small, rueful laugh, "I admit I regret not bringing him to Lyon when we had the chance." Amani's heart fluttered. He had no idea word of him had reached France, or that someone there had once considered recruiting him. The realization was both flattering and daunting; people beyond Holland and Kenya are taking note.
Before the BBC clip ended, it cut to footage from a Kenyan sports talk show that had aired that morning. Amani recognized the energetic voice of a popular radio host from Nairobi, even before he saw the man's face beaming with excitement.
"We've got big news for Kenyan football this Sunday!" the host announced in a mix of English and Swahili, the studio background showing the Kenyan flag alongside football imagery. "Amani Hamadi โ remember that name โ a Kenyan teenager just made his debut in the Dutch league for FC Utrecht and scored a goal with an assist!" In the video, the other host let out a cheer.
"Huyo ni mtoto wa Kenya bwana! (That is Kenya's own child!)" They exclaimed, clapping loudly. The radio hosts bantered about how Europe has its next African wonderkid and joked that the national team coach better give Amani a call soon. Amani stood there listening, transfixed, as one of them signed off the segment saying, "Hamadi's star is rising, and it's shining all the way from Utrecht to Nairobi this morning."
Malik paused the video as it ended and looked up at his friend. "How does it feel?" he asked softly. "People back home are literally waking up to your name on the radio."
Amani didn't know what to say. He felt a swell of emotion โ pride, homesickness, joy โ all tangled up. "Itโฆ it doesn't feel real," he murmured. "I'm justโฆ me. But hearing themโฆ" He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. "It's amazing. I just hope I made them proud."
"You did, bro," Malik said, slinging an arm around Amani's shoulders. "You are. And this is only the beginning. Imagine what they'll say if you score again next week."
Amani laughed lightly, nerves fluttering in his stomach at the thought. The expectation that had been building since last night was truly mounting now. He could sense the weight of so many eyes on him; the fans, media, even that Lyon scout. But he inhaled and stood a little straighter.
Expectations were a privilege; they meant people believed in him. And he would not let it get to his head. Coach Pronk's words in the article echoed: a lot to learn. Yes. There was so much more work to do, starting today at training.
He pocketed his phone, threw on his jacket and a beanie, and headed out with Malik into the crisp afternoon, the chatter of the football world still buzzing in his ears. As they hopped onto their bikes for the short ride to Sportcomplex Zoudenbalch, Amani felt equal parts humbled and energized. The world might be talking about him, but now it was time to get back to the one place that truly mattered: the pitch.
***
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