Praise's shoulders slumped. "I know, Papa, I'm sorry. I was just so angry and sad. I thought it was over."
Patrick's expression softened, but the mischief in his eyes remained. "Angry and sad, huh? So, what? Did you just expect them to grow a pair of wings and fly to the bin? My boy, you're a mess. But fine, I will go buy you a new pair, but you have to promise me you will wear them with pride and not throw them away again, or else you'll be grounded. And not for a night but for a whole year."
Praise's heart sank even further. "A year? Papa, please, I'll never do it again, I promise."
"Good. Now, go put your gear on. I'm going to finish my tea and take you to training. And don't worry about the boots. I've already bought you a new pair," Patrick said, with a wink.
Praise stared at his father, his eyes wide."You did? When?"
"This morning," Patrick replied, a proud grin on his face. "After I saw a certain someone throw a certain something away yesterday. They are under your bed just try not to throw away the new ones too or i might end up having to sell a kidney to get you new ones next time"
Praise rushed to his room, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and disbelief. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under his bed. There, hidden from view, were his boots. The same ones, a little dusty, but whole.
He pulled them out, holding them close. They weren't just boots anymore. They were a symbol of his father's unwavering belief, a second chance, and the promise of a dream that was not yet lost. He laced them up, a new kind of fire burning in his heart. It was time to get to training.
For the next few days, Praise's life became a cycle of school, training, and football analysis. He spent hours on his father's phone, watching old clips of Zidane's highlights. But his real passion was the EPL. He was a die-hard Chelsea fan, a legacy passed down from his mother, and her love for the club had been woven into the fabric of his childhood.
One evening, he called Bistos. "Get over here now!" he demanded, his voice buzzing with urgency. Bistos arrived a few minutes later, already knowing what was coming.
"Before we watch the big one, we have to watch the final," Praise announced, and he fired up an old recording of the 2008 Champions League Final between Chelsea and Manchester United. It was a game Bistos had never gotten over.
"This is the one, man," Bistos said, his eyes glued to the screen. "Petr Cech... I'm telling you, he was on another level."
They watched in silent awe as Cristiano Ronaldo's header found the back of the net, followed by Lampard's emotional equalizer. Bistos went wild with every Cech save, screaming, "See! He's the best keeper in the world! Goalkeepers are the most important players on the pitch. They're the last line of defense!"
Praise shook his head vehemently. "No, man! Midfielders are the heartbeat of football! Look at how Scholes and Lampard are controlling the tempo, fighting for every inch of the pitch. Without them, the ball never even gets to the strikers!"
Patrick, sitting in his armchair, interjected with a smile. "You're both wrong. Wingers are the best! They're fast, they're good dribblers, and they score goals. They're the ones who create the magic!"
They debated, argued, and laughed their way through the highlights, with Praise's father encouraging him to analyze the game. "Look at Scholes, son. Watch how he dictates play with a single pass. And Lampard, he's everywhere. He's the engine. You need to be both."
After watching the highlights, they waited for the live game to start—a crucial EPL clash between the two rivals. As the game kicked off, Praise's father, as always, leaned over. "Watch the midfielders, son. Learn everything you can."
Before the game even began, Patrick, with a mischievous glint in his eye, announced, "Alright, a little bet. Man of the Match. Loser has to wear Theetsano's makeup to school tomorrow."
Praise's eyes lit up. "Lampard!" he declared.
"Petr Cech, for sure!" Bistos shot back.
Patrick "one of Manchester united players"
"No fair!" Praise and Bistos yelled in unison.
Patrick held up a hand. "Rules are for babies. I'm the adult, and I say it's going to be a Manchester United player." He winked, clearly enjoying his tyrannical power as the patriarch of the viewing party. The game was a wild, back-and-forth affair at Old Trafford, a crucial match in the 2011/2012 season. Manchester United's defense was shaky at times, but their attack was on fire. A beautiful, long-range goal from Nani in the first half had Praise groaning. Then Wayne Rooney, in a moment of brilliance, found the back of the net, giving United a comfortable lead. For a moment, it seemed like Patrick was going to win the bet easily.
But Chelsea fought back in the second half. Fernando Torres, who had been struggling for form, scored a brilliant goal that breathed new life into the game. The final score was a hard-fought 3-1 to Manchester United. When the Man of the Match announcement came on the screen, a loud roar of boos erupted from the two kids. The award didn't go to a Chelsea player, but to the unstoppable winger Nani, who had been the creative spark for Manchester United, scoring a goal and providing a brilliant performance throughout the game.Bistos and Praise looked at each other, their faces a mixture of disappointment and dawning horror. They had both lost.
"Well, boys," Patrick said, a wide grin spreading across his face, "I'll be sure to find you the prettiest shades of pink and blue." He laughed, a deep, satisfied sound, as the two boys groaned, already dreading the taunts they would face at school the next day. The dream of playing in the EPL was still very much alive for Praise, but so was the reality of a humiliating, makeup-filled school day.