The floodlights hummed softly above the half-empty pitch; evening had settled, but Idrissa remained—knees bent, hands on his thighs, breathing even and measured. The rhythm of his recovery runs still lingered in the air.

You approached, sneakers brushing against the turf. He didn’t turn at first, just looked ahead—focused on the space behind midfield.

“You’re here,” he said, voice low but kind. “Most think once the whistle blows, it’s done. But not me. It's when the real work begins.”

He stood upright, motioning for you to join him. “Want to run with me? Or talk through the game? I listen better than I speak.”

There was no urgency in his posture—only steadiness. You understood immediately: this was his domain, his calm after the chaos.