A crackle of static, a flash of green grass, and the world was forever changed. Praise, at eight years old, was perched on the edge of the worn sofa, his small frame leaning into the glow of the television. On the screen, a ballet of red and white clashed with the vivid blue of Brazil. It was the 2006 World Cup, and for Praise, it was his first. His father, Patrick, sat beside him, a quiet smile on his face as he watched not just the game, but his son's wide-eyed wonder.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the air. "Patrick, it's late. You two should be in bed or you'll both be grounded." The voice belonged to Theetsano, Praise's mother, who stood at the doorway with a no-nonsense look on her face.
Patrick, with a theatrical sigh, turned to Praise and whispered, "Act like you didn't hear that." He winked, and Praise giggled, burying his face in his hands. Theetsano, however, was not amused. She walked over, unplugged the television with a decisive click, and pointed to their beds. "Grounded. Both of you. Now."
With his grand plan foiled, Patrick had to resort to a new strategy. He ushered Praise to his room, using the excuse of tucking him in, but instead, he pulled out his phone. "We'll watch it quietly," he whispered, holding the small screen up for Praise to see. They huddled under the blankets, the sound turned to its lowest setting, the glow of the phone illuminating their conspiratorial faces.
It wasn't long before Theetsano's footsteps creaked down the hall. They froze, a sudden, panicked silence falling over the room. The door creaked open, and Theetsano stood there, a soft smile on her face. She shook her head, a silent acknowledgment of their silly rebellion, and closed the door without a word. They were in the clear.
The game itself was a blur of sprinting legs and thundering shots, but one man moved differently. A bald figure in the French kit, number 10, danced across the pitch with a grace that seemed to defy the chaos around him. Zinedine Zidane. This wasn't a game of brute force; it was a match of elegance. While Brazil's star-studded lineup—featuring legends like Ronaldo and Ronaldinho—struggled to find their rhythm, Zidane was the conductor of an orchestra. He wasn't the fastest, but his passes were like whispers, his turns like ballet. He made the opposition look like they were skating on ice, leaving defenders tangled up with simple yet breathtaking shifts of his body. With every touch, he commanded the ball, his movements fluid and precise.
For the first 35 seconds of the game, Zidane put on a show, escaping three challenges with breathtaking skill. He used 360-degree turns and ankle-breaking step-overs to leave Brazilian defenders flat-footed. After one hip-shaking slalom left two of Brazil's defenders on their backsides, the France No. 10 sent Patrick Vieira galloping into the penalty area. The Brazilian defender Juan had to take Vieira down, and he was fortunate to only receive a yellow card. The game's only goal came in the 57th minute, after Brazil committed a foul. Zidane stepped up to take the free kick, not in a position to shoot, but to serve. He curled a beautiful pass to the back post, where Thierry Henry was unmarked. Henry volleyed it into the back of the net, and Praise watched, mesmerized, as Zidane threaded a pass through a wall of Brazilian defenders to set up the game's only goal. The pass was a whisper, a work of art, and in that moment, Praise knew exactly what he wanted to be.
"Did you see that, Papa?" he whispered, his eyes still glued to the screen.
Patrick simply nodded, a hand resting gently on his son's shoulder. "That, my boy, is a master."
The following day, however, was a different story. Patrick was on kitchen duty—a consequence Theetsano reserved for his most egregious offenses. As he scrubbed a particularly stubborn pot, he grumbled to Praise, "It's not fair. She saw us! Why was I the only one grounded? You should be scrubbing these pots with me."
His whining was so persistent, so dramatic, that Theetsano eventually relented. "Oh, go on," she said with a sigh. "I can't listen to a grown man whine like a spoiled brat." She turned to Praise with a serious look. "And you, don't you be as mischievous as your father."
Praise, with a sly grin, held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I only have my mother's genes. He's an imposter." Theetsano let out a burst of laughter, and Patrick just shook his head, a playful smile on his face as he grabbed Praise's ball and headed out the door.
Even though Theetsano often had to be the voice of reason, she was fully supportive of Praise's dream. She just didn't want him to feel the immense pressure and disappointment that came with chasing a goal that was so difficult to achieve. She would often tell him, "Remember, it's a game. Enjoy it. That's what's important." Her love was a soft cushion, protecting him from the harsh edges of reality.