The practice match began with a frantic energy, a testament to the fact that these boys, despite their shared national jersey, were still competing for a place in the starting lineup. The first few minutes were a blur of hard tackles and misplaced passes, a reflection of the team's unfamiliarity with one another. But in the midst of the chaos, a sense of order began to emerge, and that order was orchestrated by one player: Praise. He moved with a quiet purpose, his mind a step ahead of his body, no longer the frantic, frustrated boy from the trial. This was a player reborn, a calm presence in a storm of anxious energy. He passed to the open man, he switched the play with long, diagonal balls that stretched the defense, and he did it all with a simple, almost nonchalant grace that was a stark contrast to the aggressive play around him.
He received a short pass from Andy, the team captain, and a defender immediately lunged at him. With a quick, feathery touch and a swivel of his hips, Praise spun away from the tackle, leaving his opponent stumbling. He looked up, feinted a pass to his right, and then, with a no-look pass, he slid a perfect ball to Frank, who had made a diagonal run into the box. The pass was a whisper, a work of art, and Frank met it with a powerful shot, but the goalkeeper, Brian, made a brilliant save, tipping it over the crossbar.
From the sidelines, the head coach, a man with a stern face and an even sterner reputation, stood with his arms crossed. He had been watching Praise closely, his expression unreadable.Beside him, the assistant coach nudged him. "Did you see that?" he whispered. "The no-look pass to Frank? That's not something you teach. That's instinct. Who does that in a practice match?"
The head coach just nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. "He's got vision, that boy. And he's got guts. He wasn't afraid to try something difficult, and he executed it perfectly."
A few minutes later, Praise received the ball from Peace, the same midfielder who had once ignored him during the trial. This time, Praise didn't even have to look up. He felt the weight of the ball on his foot, knew where the other players were, and with a single touch, he played a perfect through-ball between two defenders, finding Reabetswe in stride. Reabetswe took a touch and slammed the ball into the back of the net, celebrating with an excited whoop.
"That's a goal!" Reabetswe yelled, jogging back to Praise. "Nice pass, man! Where were you hiding all this at the trial?"
Praise just smiled. "I was a little distracted," he said, a silent nod to his old rival, Kion.
The coach clapped his hands loudly, bringing the game to a halt. "That's enough," he said, his voice carrying the authority of a general. "Good job, boys. We'll work on our defensive formations tomorrow. For now, I want to get to know you all a bit better. Sit down."
The players, a mix of exhausted grunts and nervous energy, gathered in a semicircle on the grass. The coach took a moment, letting the silence build, before he spoke again. "Before we get into introductions, there's something you need to know. The COSAFA Cup is a prestigious tournament, and it's your first taste of international football. The competition is fierce, and we are not going to be facing pushovers."
He then proceeded to list the names of the teams they would be competing against. "We are in a group with Eswatini and Seychelles. Our other opponents in the tournament will be South Africa, Zambia, Angola, Malawi, Mozambique, Namibia, and Lesotho. Each of these teams has its own strengths. South Africa is known for its physicality, Zambia for its technical skill, and Angola for its speed. This is a chance for you to measure yourselves against the best in the region. We are not just participating; we are here to win."
The names echoed in Praise's mind. This was real. This was bigger than a schoolyard match, bigger than a trial. This was the COSAFA Cup.
The coach then motioned for them to get comfortable. "Now, let's get to it. I want to know who you are. State your name, your position, your dream, and your biggest inspiration. And no boring answers."
The first few players spoke quickly, their answers a mix of excitement and nerves. Andy, the captain, spoke first. "Andy. Defender. I want to play for the senior national team one day, and my inspiration is my older brother, who also played for the national team."
The turn came to Kion. He stood tall and confident, his chest puffed out. "Kion. Midfielder. My dream is to play abroad, in Germany's Bundesliga. My inspiration is Michael Ballack." He spoke with a quiet intensity, and a few of the boys nodded in respect. Ballack was known for his powerful shots and leadership on the pitch, a fitting role model for a player like Kion.
Next was Bistos. He stood up, his
lanky frame a little awkward. "Bistos. Goalkeeper. My dream is also to play abroad, hopefully in the English Premier League. My inspiration is Petr Cech."
He paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I want to be a brick wall, just like him. A damsel in distress with very strong hands."
A ripple of laughter went through the group. Praise, sitting beside him, nudged him playfully. "You're a clown," he whispered.
Finally, it was Praise's turn. He felt a nervous flutter in his stomach, but this time, it was a feeling of anticipation, not fear. He took a deep breath, and as he spoke, he looked directly at the coach.
"Praise," he said, his voice steady. "Midfielder." He paused, the weight of his dream settling over him. "My dream is to play in the English Premier League for Chelsea FC." He could feel some of the other boys' eyes on him, a mix of curiosity and skepticism. He didn't care. This was his truth, a promise he had made to his family. "My inspiration is Zinedine Zidane. I want to play like him. He wasn't the fastest or the strongest, but he made the game look beautiful. I want to be a master of the midfield."
A hushed silence followed. The players, even Kion, seemed genuinely surprised by his answer. The coach's expression, however, softened. He looked at the assistant coach, a small, knowing smile on his face.
"A master of the midfield, huh?"
the coach said, his voice a low rumble. "You have to be a master of your emotions first. That's what separates the good from the great." He paused, his gaze fixed on Praise. "We will see, young man. We will see."
He then turned to his assistant coach, a quiet whisper that only the two of them could hear. "He's got it. The vision, the touch… that boy has the potential to be a master. I almost made a huge sin leaving him out. The kid is special, I can see it."
The assistant coach just nodded. "He's
something else, for sure."
The coach smiled, a genuine, rare thing. He looked at Praise, a new respect in his eyes. The boy who was once a frustrated and angry mess was now a player with a purpose. He had found his confidence, and it was shining brightly for all to see. The journey was just beginning.