As Dumisa ran onto the field he saw the coach talking to Mandla. This Dumisa expected, but why had the scout wanted to speak to him too?

“As you know,” the scout said. “We are looking for fresh talent to train with us at our Academy. It’s been a very tough decision.” The breath caught in Dumisa’s throat. He had played hard all season to get here. He couldn’t lose it now – it was so close!  He had given up all his spare time. When his friends were out shooting the breeze or chatting up girls, he was training.  Every night he was in bed early and up at the crack of dawn. Every morning he ran through the streets of Khayelitsha, his breath visible in the cold air. He hadn’t touched fast food for months. His friends had tempted him with KFC and slap chips. It had taken all his strength to resist. But it had paid off. His body was lean and toned. But now, here was this boy next to him, and he just looked fitter, stronger, more powerful. And with it he had an ease. Dumisa felt the jealousy rise up inside him. Focus, he told himself. Don’t compare yourself. Play your own game. But it wasn’t working. What he felt was fear. One place – two players! Nobody wanted that.  He was so worked up he didn’t hear the scout. The next thing his coach was putting his arm around him. “Did you hear that Dumisa?”

“What?” Dumisa was in a daze.

“They’ve made an exception this year. They are going to give you a couple of weeks in the Academy to watch you further before they make the decision.”

“Just postponing the torture,” thought Dumisa as they went back into the changing rooms.

“Congratulations!” Mandla said and shook his hand. Dumisa smiled but he didn’t feel good. When he had changed Dumisa went out to find his team mates. They all caught the same taxi home together.  They laughed and chatted about the game. He felt supported again and not tested like he had in front of the Scout.  Dumisa saw Mandla, but he was standing away from their group, on his own.

“Too good for us” said one of Dumisa’s friends. “Where does he come from anyway? I’ve never seen him before.”

“I bet it’s somewhere rich,” said another. “Look at the kit he’s wearing.  Not from the kasi. But don’t let Mister high and mighty think that it makes him better than us.”

“No…talent comes from within,” said Shorty, Dumisa’s next door neighbour, and one who always had ‘words of advice’. They called him Umfundisi because he sounded like a preacher from a church. They all rolled their eyes whenever he gave them those ‘words of advice.’  Dumisa looked across at Mandla, he felt torn inside. Part of him wanted to go over and talk to his fellow player, it was the decent thing to do, even if they were competing. But it was a two way street.  Mandla could come over to them if he wanted to. Why stand there by himself? Maybe Shorty was right.  Dumi was scared to move away from his friends across that strip of tar that separated him from Mandla.  He knew if he did that the guys wouldn’t understand. They would take it as a rejection. And they would exclude him quickly for choosing sides.

When the taxi arrived Mandla didn’t get in. “I told you,” said Shorty. “He’s from another part of town where the grass is greener.” As the taxi pulled away Dumi looked back and saw Mandla getting into a big black Beamer. Maybe Shorty was right about him.