FOOTBALL! LEGENDARY PLAYER
Chapter 238: The City Dreams

Chapter 238: The City Dreams

The city of Utrecht had transformed into something magical in the days leading up to the cup final. Red and white flags hung from every window, banners stretched across streets, and the anticipation was so thick you could almost taste it in the air. After nine years of waiting, after decades of disappointment, their team was 48 hours away from potentially lifting the KNVB Cup.

Amani pedaled his bicycle through the cobblestone streets on the morning of April 5th, taking his usual route from his apartment to the training ground. But today was different. Today, every street corner seemed to hold a group of supporters who recognized him, every café window displayed his picture alongside the rest of the team, and every conversation he overheard was about Sunday’s final.

"Amani! Amani!" called out a group of children playing football in Wilhelminapark. They abandoned their makeshift match and ran toward the fence as he cycled past, their faces beaming with excitement.

He stopped his bike and walked over to them, his internal system processing their genuine joy and excitement. These weren’t just fans - they were dreamers, believers, young souls who saw in him the possibility that anything was achievable.

"Are you going to score on Sunday?" asked a boy who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, his Utrecht scarf wrapped around his neck despite the mild spring weather.

"I’m going to do everything I can to help the team win," Amani replied, crouching down to their level. "But you know what? The most important thing is that we all believe together. Your support gives us strength."

The children’s eyes lit up as if he had shared the secret to the universe. One of them, a girl with pigtails and a Utrecht shirt that was clearly too big for her, stepped forward shyly.

"My grandfather says you’re the best player he’s ever seen," she whispered. "He’s been supporting Utrecht for sixty years, and he says you’re going to make us champions."

The weight of that statement settled on Amani’s shoulders like a comfortable blanket. Sixty years of supporting, of hoping, of believing - and now that faith was partially resting on his sixteen-year-old shoulders.

As he continued his journey through the city, the encounters multiplied. At the traffic lights on Vredenburg, a taxi driver rolled down his window.

"Amani! My friend, you are going to destroy PSV on Sunday, yes?" The driver’s accent suggested he was originally from Morocco, but his passion for Utrecht was unmistakable.

"We’re going to give everything we have," Amani replied with a smile.

"My whole family will be watching. My children, they wear your shirt to school every day. You make them believe in dreams."

At the local bakery where he sometimes stopped for breakfast, the owner, Mrs. van der Berg, had prepared something special. The window display featured a cake shaped like the KNVB Cup, with "UTRECHT 2013 CHAMPIONS" written in red and white icing.

"It’s ready for Sunday evening," she said with a wink as Amani admired the creation. "I’ve been planning this for weeks. Win or lose, you boys have already given us something special. But..." she leaned in conspiratorially, "I have a feeling we’re going to be celebrating."

The training ground was buzzing with media activity when Amani arrived. Journalists from across Europe had descended on Utrecht to cover the final, and many of them were specifically interested in the story of the sixteen-year-old who had dragged his team to their first cup final in nine years.

"Amani! Can we get a quick interview?" called out a reporter from Sky Sports. "The whole of England is talking about your performances this season."

But it was the Dutch media that truly understood the magnitude of what was happening. Voetbal International had dedicated their entire cover to the final, with Amani’s image prominently featured alongside the headline: "THE BOY WHO BROUGHT MAGIC BACK TO UTRECHT."

The training session itself was light and focused, designed more to maintain sharpness than to introduce new concepts. Coach Wouters had spent weeks preparing tactically for PSV, and now it was about mental preparation and maintaining confidence.

"Gentlemen," Wouters addressed the squad as they gathered in the center circle, "in 48 hours, we have the opportunity to make history. Not just for ourselves, but for every Utrecht supporter who has waited nine years for this moment."

He paused, looking around at the faces of his players - some young, some experienced, all united in their determination to achieve something special.

"PSV are a good team. They have quality players, European experience, and a winning mentality. But they don’t have what we have. They don’t have the hunger of a team that has waited nine years. They don’t have the support of a city that believes in miracles. And they don’t have..."

His eyes found Amani in the group.

"They don’t have magic."

The word hung in the air like a promise. Magic. It had become synonymous with Amani’s name, but it represented something larger - the belief that football could transcend logic, that dreams could become reality, that a sixteen-year-old from Mombasa could lead a Dutch team to glory.

After training, Amani decided to take a longer route home, cycling through different neighborhoods to see how the city was preparing for Sunday. What he discovered was a community united in hope.

In Lombok, the multicultural district where many immigrant families lived, he found a group of Moroccan teenagers playing football in a small court. They were wearing Utrecht shirts and practicing free kicks, trying to replicate the technique that had brought Amani so much success.

"Teach us the secret," one of them called out in Dutch mixed with Arabic. "How do you make the ball dance like that?"

Amani spent twenty minutes with them, showing them the basics of his dipping shot technique, explaining the importance of the follow-through and the angle of approach. But more than technique, he shared with them the mindset.

"The secret isn’t in your foot," he told them. "It’s in your belief. When you strike the ball, you have to believe it’s going exactly where you want it to go."

In Zuilen, a working-class area where many Utrecht supporters lived, he found entire streets decorated for the final. Banners hung between houses, reading "BRING IT HOME BOYS" and "AMANI - OUR HERO." Children had drawn pictures of him in chalk on the sidewalks, and elderly supporters sat on their doorsteps wearing scarves and discussing tactics.

"Young man," called out an elderly gentleman from his garden chair, "come here for a moment."

Amani stopped his bike and approached the man, who appeared to be in his seventies.

"I’ve been supporting Utrecht since 1954," the man said, his voice carrying the weight of decades of memories. "I’ve seen good times and bad times, but I’ve never seen anything like what you’ve brought to this club."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old photograph - a black and white image of Utrecht’s team from the 1950s.

"This was my father’s favorite team. He died in 1987, never seeing Utrecht win a major trophy. On Sunday, you have the chance to honor not just the supporters who are alive today, but all those who came before us."

The emotional weight of the conversation stayed with Amani as he continued his journey home. This wasn’t just about football - it was about generations of hope, about families who had passed down their love for Utrecht from father to son, mother to daughter.

As evening approached, he found himself in the city center, where the atmosphere was reaching fever pitch. The main square was filled with supporters, many of whom had been drinking since the afternoon, all of them singing Utrecht songs and discussing their predictions for Sunday.

"AMANI! AMANI! AMANI!" The chant started from one corner of the square and spread like wildfire until hundreds of voices were calling his name in unison.

He tried to cycle through quietly, but it was impossible. Within minutes, he was surrounded by supporters who wanted to shake his hand, take pictures, and share their hopes for the final.

"You’re going to score, aren’t you?" asked a middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes. "My husband died last year, and he always said he wanted to see Utrecht win a trophy before he went. I’m going to the final for both of us."

"We’re going to give everything we have," Amani replied, the same answer he had given dozens of times that day, but meaning it just as much each time.

A young father lifted his son onto his shoulders so the boy could see Amani better. "This is the man who’s going to make us champions," he told his child. "Remember this moment."

The crowd began to sing, their voices echoing off the medieval buildings that surrounded the square:

"We are Utrecht, we are proud,

We will sing it clear and loud,

Amani is our shining star,

He will take us very far!"

The impromptu song brought tears to Amani’s eyes. These people had created a chant about him, had made him part of their folklore, had embraced him as one of their own despite his origins thousands of miles away.

As he finally managed to extract himself from the crowd and continue toward home, Amani reflected on the day’s experiences. His internal system had been processing not just the tactical aspects of the upcoming final, but the emotional and psychological dimensions of what Sunday represented.

This wasn’t just about winning a trophy - it was about fulfilling the dreams of an entire community, about honoring the memory of supporters who had died waiting for this moment, about proving that belief and determination could overcome any obstacle.

The phone call from his mother that evening provided the perfect perspective on the magnitude of what lay ahead.

"The whole of Kenya is talking about Sunday," she told him, her voice filled with pride. "They’re showing the match live on television here. You’re not just representing Utrecht - you’re representing all of us who dare to dream impossible dreams."

"I’m nervous, Mama," he admitted. "So many people are counting on me."

"Do you remember what I told you when you first started playing football?"

"What?"

"That the size of your dreams should scare you a little. If they don’t scare you, they’re not big enough."

As he prepared for bed, Amani looked out his apartment window at the city below. Utrecht was glowing with anticipation, every light seeming to pulse with the rhythm of collective hope. In 36 hours, he would walk onto the pitch at De Kuip for the biggest match of his life.

The boy from Malindi had become the symbol of a city’s dreams, and on Sunday, those dreams would either soar to unimaginable heights or crash back to earth. But one thing was certain - he would give everything he had to ensure that the people who had embraced him as their own would have their moment of glory.

The final was calling, and Utrecht was ready to answer.