The news hit him like a thunderclap: he had been called up for a trial for the COSAFA Cup. He stood on the pitch, trying to prove himself against boys bigger, faster, and more experienced than he was. The trial was a 5-v-5 game, and Praise's teammates were goalkeeper Boago, defenders Oagile and Maatla, and midfielder Peace with striker Arona. On the other side, Kion's team had goalkeeper Brian, defenders Michael and Zeke, and striker Khem.
Kion was everything Praise was not—tall, strong, and brimming with confidence. He made Praise look like a baby, effortlessly shielding the ball and gliding past him with a swagger that was both infuriating and demoralizing.
Kion had an advantage because of his height, something Praise always wanted. He
had a soft spot for his height, and he really hated it when being called short because he wanted to be taller to be like his idol. Unfortunately, he seemed to take after his mother, who was on the shorter side, but his father always told him he would grow as he got older.
"Come on, little man," Kion taunted, "Is that all you've got? My grandmother runs faster than you."
Praise, his teeth gritted, shot back, "I'm not a little man!"
Kion laughed, a loud, condescending sound. "Oh, is the little baby going to cry now? You're a walking joke, a tiny pebble on a mountain." He easily shielded the ball from Praise, his long legs taking long strides across the pitch. He passed to Khem, who did a quick give-and-go with Kion, leaving Oagile nd Maatla flat-footed. Kion received the ball back, took a touch, and with a swift move, he put the ball past goalkeeper Boago. "Looks like the little man's team can't keep up," Kion sneered, a triumphant grin on his face.
From the sidelines, the head coach, a man with a stern face and an even sterner reputation, turned to his captain, Andy. Just then, Kion's team, sensing a weakness, attacked relentlessly.
Praise seeing the goal kept trying to make flashy plays, but Kion, with his long legs and superior shielding, easily dispossessed him. The ball seemed to be a magnet for Kion, and every time Praise tried to get it, Kion's body was in the way. He lost the ball so many times that his teammates started to get frustrated until his teammates got fed up with him.
"Hey, Peace!" Arona yelled. "Don't pass to him! He'll just lose the ball again."
Peace nodded in agreement, and when he had the ball, he dribbled past the opposing midfielder and kicked it out wide to the other side of the pitch, completely ignoring a wide-open Praise.
"But I'm open!" Praise shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.
Peace just shrugged. "Yeah, but you keep losing the ball."
This was a nightmare. Praise kept trying to get open, but his teammates had decided he was a liability. He ran and ran, but the ball never came to him. He was a ghost on the pitch, a forgotten player in a game he was supposed to be playing. When he called for the ball, they would look at him, then pass to someone else. He was running around the pitch like a headless chicken, his body
moving without purpose, his mind in a fog of anger and frustration.
"Praise!" his father's voice boomed from the sidelines, a lone voice of encouragement among the sea of parents and scouts. "Wake up! Remember your dream!"
The words cut through the noise, a jolt of electricity that shook Praise out of his funk. From the sidelines, the head coach, a man with a stern face and an even sterner reputation, turned to his assistant and the captain.
"What do you think of that kid?" the coach asked, nodding towards Praise.
Andy, the team's captain and a formidable defender, watched for a moment before replying. "He's not bad, but he's easily taunted. Loses focus too easily."
"I want you to pass to him," the coach said, his voice low and firm.
"Understood," Andy affirmed, and he jogged onto the pitch in place of Maatla, the order ringing in his ears.
Just then, Kion's team, won the ball from Peace who once again refused to pass to Praise, and attacked. Andy, however, was a rock. He won possession back with a clean tackle, looked up, and saw Praise perfectly positioned. He threaded a sharp pass, a message as much as a ball, to the young boy.
Praise received the ball, and as his foot connected, a memory flashed in his mind: his first game, the beautiful control of Zidane. He sprang to life, a graceful, albeit amateur, version of his idol. He played a quick one-two with his teammate, Peace, saw the striker Arona make a run, and with a brilliant lob pass, he sent the ball over the defender's heads. The striker met it with a powerful header, and the net bulged.
Praise, giddy with the goal, forgot all about his game plan. He jogged back, a smug grin on his face, and made sure to taunt Kion back. "How's that, Kion?"
he yelled. "
Kion just smirked. "One lucky pass doesn't make a player, little man. It just makes you a one-hit wonder, besides seems like you came to the party a little late little boy"