The day before the COSAFA Cup began, a palpable tension hung in the air at the team's training camp. The usual boisterous energy had been replaced by a focused quiet. Coach Molefi had eased the physical intensity of the training, opting instead for light tactical sessions and mental preparation. He emphasized the importance of staying calm, trusting their training, and playing with heart.
Praise found himself sitting next to Kion during one of the team's final strategy meetings. They listened intently as Coach Molefi outlined their game plan for the opening match against Eswatini, highlighting their opponents' strengths and weaknesses.
"Their right winger is quick, so our left-back, Michael, you'll need to be disciplined and not get caught out of position," Coach Molefi instructed. He then turned his attention to the midfielders. "Praise, Kion, your role in controlling the tempo of the game will be crucial. Use your passing range and vision to dictate play. Don't be afraid to take risks in the final third, but always be mindful of our defensive shape."
After the meeting, as the players were stretching, Kion turned to Praise. "We need to work together in the midfield tomorrow," he said, his usual bravado replaced by a serious tone. "If we can control that space, we can control the game."
"I agree," Praise replied, meeting Kion's gaze. "Let's focus on quick passes and supporting each other. If one of us goes forward, the other needs to cover."
It was a significant moment. The rivalry that had defined their initial encounters seemed to be melting away, replaced by a shared understanding and a common goal. They were no longer just two talented individuals; they were becoming a midfield partnership.
Later that day, Praise called his father.
"Papa, it starts tomorrow," he said, his voice filled with a mixture of excitement and nerves. "Our first match is against Eswatini."
"I know, my boy," Patrick's voice was warm and reassuring. "I'll be watching, every minute. Just remember everything you've worked for. Play your game, Praise. Play with your heart. And don't forget what your mother always told you: enjoy it."
"It feels different now, Papa," Praise admitted. "The training has been so hard, but… I feel ready. Even Kion… we're actually working together. Coach Molefi has been pushing us so much, sometimes we joke that he's the devil."
Patrick chuckled. "A devil who's trying to bring out the best in you, it sounds like. Your mother always said that sometimes the toughest challenges are the ones that make you stronger."
"He even heard us calling him that," Praise laughed. "And the next day, he made training even harder, bragging about being the devil! He's crazy, Papa, but… I think he knows what he's doing."
"Trust him, Praise. And trust yourself. You've got the talent, the vision. Now you just need to believe in it, every time you step onto that pitch."
As the evening drew in, Coach Molefi gathered the team one last time. He spoke not of tactics or formations, but of pride and opportunity.
"Tomorrow, you step onto that field not just as players, but as representatives of Botswana," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "Wear that jersey with pride. Fight for every ball. Play for yourselves, for your families, and for your country. This is your moment. Seize it."
That night, Praise lay in his bed, his mind racing. He thought of his mother, her gentle smile and unwavering belief. He thought of his father, his constant support and encouragement. He thought of Zidane, the maestro who had ignited his dream all those years ago. And he thought of the grueling training sessions, the sweat, the pain, and the unexpected camaraderie he had found with his teammates, even Kion.
He closed his eyes, picturing the roar of the crowd, the feel of the ball at his feet, and the chance to finally prove himself on the international stage. The eve of battle had arrived, and Praise was ready to answer the call. His second chance had blossomed into a real opportunity, and he wasn't going to let it slip away.