Three days later, the phone rang. It was the U17 coach. Patrick answered, and a wave of
elation washed over his face. He was so happy he couldn't contain it. He rushed
out the door, went straight to Praise's school, and pulled him out before classes were even over.
"We're going to the restaurant," Patrick announced, a mischievous glint in his eye. It
had been a long time since Praise had seen his father so genuinely happy, and it was infectious. As they sat down, Patrick, unable to contain his joy, started a game with a mischievous grin. "Guess what, Praise?"
Praise, Still a bit down from the trial, wasn't in the mood, but seeing his father's excitement, he decided to play along. He guessed five times—a new video game, a trip to see his friend—all of them wrong. Finally, he gave up. "Are you losing your mind?" he joked, a smile finally creeping onto his face.
Patrick's grin widened. "They called. The coach called. There was an injury to our main
central midfielder. You're a late replacement."
The words carried a quiet weight. The sting of rejection from the trial was still there, but now it was overshadowed by a fragile hope. He wasn't the first choice, but he was in.
He called Bistos immediately, the phone call filled with a mix of breathless excitement
and disbelief. Bistos, to his friend's surprise, had also been called up, his name on the list of goalkeepers. They were going to be on the same team, representing their country. The dinner with his father had been a whirlwind of
emotion—the initial surprise, the shared laughter, and the overwhelming sense of a second chance that was the night Praise truly felt happy ever since his mother's death.
As they arrived at their neighborhood Patrick, unable to contain his pride, spread the news. He told the neighbors, the shopkeepers, anyone who would listen. "My boy, Praise, he's been called up for the U17s!" The neighbors, who had seen Praise's tireless work ethic on that very same dusty patch of ground, smiled. They knew he wasn't a top player, not yet, but his passing was already something special for his age he was a promising prospect. It was a beautiful thing to watch, and they were happy for the young boy.
That night, as Praise packed his clothes as he was eager to go to the U17 camp. His father came into the room and found him holding his faded jersey he cherished, Patrick sat beside him. "Your mother would be so proud, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "This is just the beginning."
Praise looked at his father, the man who had been his rock, his coach, and his biggest fan. He knew this wasn't just his dream anymore. It was theirs. As he put his neatly folded Zidane's french jersey that his mother got for him for his birthday, he could feel the weight of his mother's memory, his father's unwavering belief, and the spirit of a bald Frenchman who had, in one beautiful moment, shown him a path to a world he was only just beginning to imagine. He was no longer just a boy who loved football; he was a boy with a second chance. Like a sunrise, his dream arrived brightly after it had faded like a sunset.
The phone call had been a lifeline, and Praise was going to use it. The moment dinner was
over, he was out the door. The moon hung fat and yellow in the sky, a single spotlight on the dusty patch of ground behind their house in Selebi Phikwe. While other boys were inside, playing, Praise was there, the rhythmic thump of the ball against the wall a familiar melody. He practiced his turns, his passes, his footwork, the ghost of Zidane's elegant movements his only guide thoughit was hard to do so with normal shoes as he threw away his soccer boots.
That night, as Praise lay in bed that night, the elation slowly faded, replaced by a cold dread. He remembered the anger, the pain, and the finality of his actions. He had thrown away his boots. The very boots that his father had bought for him, the boots that held the promise of his dream. The next morning, the weight of his regret was a heavy cloak. He found his father in the kitchen, making tea, a bright, cheerful tune on his lips. Praise cleared his throat. "Papa?"
Patrick turned, his smile wide. "Yes, son? Ready for training? We can't let you go to the camp all sluggish and rusty!"
"I have to tell you something," Praise said, his voice small. "I... I threw my boots away yesterday."
Patrick stopped stirring his tea, a theatrical look of shock on his face. "You threw them away? My boy, you can't throw away a pair of perfectly good boots! Do you know how much a new pair costs? We are not made of money, you know!"