The coach, seeing the exchange, immediately pulled Praise from the game.
"Good job out there," the coach said, but Praise could see the disappointment
in his eyes. He knew that the coach wasn't happy with his performance, with his
lack of focus, and with his childish response to Kion's taunts.
From the sidelines, the head coach, a man with a stern face and an even
sterner reputation, turned to his assistant. "He's got the talent," the
assistant said, "That last pass was brilliant. We should give him a chance."
The coach shook his head. "He's too young, too inexperienced. This is the
COSAFA Cup, not a schoolyard game. We need players who can handle the pressure,
players who won't lose their cool because of a little trash talk. We want to
win this tournament, and he's not ready."
When the list of selected players was posted, his name was not on it.
Praise found his father waiting for him outside, a grim look on his face. The
disappointment was a heavy weight in his stomach. He wasn't a boy with a chance
anymore; he was just a boy who had failed..
Tears welled in his eyes, blurring the lines of the dusty field, and a sob
escaped his throat. Patrick wrapped him in a tight hug, his own silent grief
palpable. They walked in silence, the weight of the moment a heavy cloak around
them. They found a quiet bench under a large acacia tree, its thorny branches
offering little comfort.
"I'm sorry, Papa," Praise choked out, his voice raw.
"For what, son?" Patrick asked, his voice soft.
"I failed. I just... wasn't good enough."
"That's not true, Praise. You showed them what you can do. You
just..."
"I fell for his trap," Praise interrupted, the words tumbling out
in a rush of shame. "He called me a little man, and I acted like a child.
I got angry and I lost focus. I made a good pass at the end, but it was too
late. The coach was right." He took a shaky breath, the tears now flowing
freely. "I'm quitting, Papa. The dream... it's just not for me."
Patrick pulled him closer, his arm a strong anchor. "Your mother used
to say that a dream isn't a race to the finish line, son. It's a journey.
You'll stumble, you'll fall, but the important thing is that you get back up.
This isn't the end. It's just a stumble. Your dream is still here, inside you.
You just have to decide if you're going to let go of it, or if you're going to
fight for it."
Praise said nothing, the only sound the rustle of the wind through the
leaves and the quiet rhythm of his sobs. The world felt silent and gray, his
dream a shattered mosaic at his feet.A deep, gut-wrenching sadness settled over
the household that night. Praise cried himself to sleep, his father, Patrick,
listening from the hallway, his heart heavy with his son's pain. It was a
silence louder than any argument, a grief more profound than any defeat on the
field.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Praise went into the
backyard. He held his worn football boots, the same ones that had carried his
dream for years. He stared at them for a long moment, then, with a choked sob,
he hurled them into the trash bin. "I don't want to play anymore," he whispered
to no one. He then turned and trudged off to school, the familiar path now
feeling like a long, empty road.
Patrick, who had been watching from the window, saw it all. After Praise
left, he went outside, retrieved the boots from the bin, and hid them under
Praise's bed. He knew his son was hurting, and he couldn't bring himself to let
go of the dream for him.
At school, Bistos found Praise sitting alone under a large tree, a rare
sight for the usually energetic boy.
"Hey, man," Bistos said, "You okay? You look like you've been on a funeral
procession."
Praise shrugged, his eyes on the ground. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Don't give me that," Bistos insisted, sitting down next to him. "I've
known you my whole life. You're not fine. Is it about the trial?"
Praise flinched. "No, it's nothing."
Bistos leaned in, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Did your crush
reject you or something? You finally asked her out, didn't you? It's okay, man,
we've all been there."
Praise playfully swatted at his friend. "I don't have a crush, and I don't
plan on having one until I make my dream happen." The words hung in the air, a
cruel echo. He had no dream anymore. The realization hit him like a punch to
the gut, and his face fell.
Seeing Praise's sudden change in mood, Bistos thought his joke had hit the
mark. "See? I knew it!" he said, trying to cheer him up. "Don't worry, man,
there's plenty of fish in the sea." He paused, a mischievous grin spreading
across his face. "Besides, why did the fish get a divorce? Because they were
tired of each other's 'plaice'!"
Praise didn't laugh. He just stared at the ground, a single tear tracing a
path down his cheek. He had lost his dream, and for the first time, he felt
truly alone. A Dream, a Promise, and a Misunderstanding
Praise's mind drifted back to a day that felt like a lifetime ago. He was
sitting with his mother, Theetsano, telling her about his dream to play in the
EPL.
"Mom, I'm going to be a footballer," he had said, his small chest puffed
out with pride. "I'm going to play for Chelsea"
Theetsano smiled, a soft, worried look in her eyes. "Oh, my son. That's a
beautiful dream, but maybe you can just play for a good local team? It's a very
hard thing, going to the EPL. A lot of disappointment, you know." Her love was
a soft, protective blanket, trying to shield him from a heartbreak she knew was
possible.
Just then, the front door burst open. Patrick, home from work, saw his
son's enthusiastic face. "What's this? What's my boy dreaming about?" he asked,
his voice booming with cheer.
"Praise is going to be a footballer," Theetsano said, a playful roll of her
eyes.
Patrick's face lit up. "A footballer! That's my boy! You'll be a great
player. A star! Just you wait." He grabbed his car keys. "Come on, son. We
can't have a star without the right gear. We're going to get you a proper kit,
some boots, and a new ball."
Theetsano just shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. "Patrick, don't
fill his head with these fantasies. Be realistic!"
Patrick just winked at her. "He needs to dream big, my love. Besides, I
can't wait to watch him on TV, scoring goals for Chelsea. I'll be there, in the
stadium, holding a big sign that says, 'That's my son!'"
Praise, giddy with excitement, promised, "I'll do it, Papa. I'll definitely
do it. In fact, I'm going to make you watch a real EPL game live. I'll buy the
tickets, you'll be my guest!"
Patrick laughed, wrapping an arm around his son's shoulders. "Live? Oh, no,
that's not good enough, my boy. You'll have to pay for a private box, a whole
suite, and you'll have to get me a big, comfortable chair with my name on it."
Praise giggled, his heart soaring. "I'll do it, Papa! I promise!"
Patrick's face turned serious for a moment, a mischievous twinkle in his
eye. "You better. Because if you don't, I'll tell everyone that you're an
imposter and that you only have your mother's genes."
A sudden, sharp pain shot through Patrick's ear. He yelped and turned to
see Theetsano with a stern face, her hand firmly clamped on his lobe. "What did
you say?" she asked, her voice a low growl that held no humor. "He only has my
genes? Are you implying that the boy is not yours?"
Patrick's eyes went wide. "No, no, my love! Of course, he's mine! It was
just a joke!"
Theetsano let go of his ear. "A joke? Patrick, if the boy is an imposter,
what does that make you?"
"A proud father of a Chelsea star!" Patrick declared, throwing his hands up
in defeat.
Theetsano couldn't help but laugh, a rich, full sound that filled the room.
Praise joined in, the three of them dissolving into a fit of giggles. The
dream, once a heavy burden, now felt like a joyful promise.
In that moment of shared laughter, a new vow was born in Praise's heart. He
didn't just want to succeed for himself. He wanted to succeed for them. He
would get his parents a ticket to England, to London, where his team Chelsea
played, or even to Madrid, where his hero, Zidane, had played. He would get
them a house and make sure they never had to worry about anything again. His
dream was no longer just about playing; it was about honoring the love and
laughter of his family.