The bus ride to the stadium was a mixture of nervous energy and focused silence. The usual boisterous chatter had been replaced by the quiet rumble of the engine and the soft murmur of prayers. Praise, sitting by the window, watched the urban sprawl of South Africa, the host nation of the COSAFA Cup, pass by. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat of both fear and unbridled excitement. Bistos, across the aisle, was completely engrossed in his phone, probably playing a mobile game to distract himself. Kion sat a few rows ahead, a serious, contemplative expression on his face, a rare sight.
When the bus pulled up to the stadium, a roar hit them like a physical force. The crowd was already massive, their chants and songs echoing off the concrete walls. This wasn't a dusty training field; this was the real deal.
They were led to the team dressing room, a sterile, almost sacred space. The air was thick with the scent of fresh paint and anticipation. Praise's eyes scanned the room, his breath catching in his throat. His jersey was hanging in his locker, a crisp, clean white with bold blue lettering. But it wasn't the number that caught his attention at first; it was the name—PRAISE—stitched perfectly above the number. He walked over, his legs feeling strangely heavy, and reached for it, his fingers brushing against the fabric.
Then he saw the number. It was not 20, or 7, or 11. It was 10. The number 10. The number of the legend, the maestro, the one who had made the game a thing of beauty. Zinedine Zidane.
A wave of emotions hit Praise so hard he staggered back, his eyes welling up with tears. He stood there, frozen, the jersey in his hands, a physical manifestation of his childhood promise. This wasn't just a number; it was a legacy. It was the memory of his father, Patrick, whispering, "That, my boy, is a master." It was the echo of his mother, Theetsano, telling him to enjoy the game. It was the crushing weight of his initial failure at the trial and the glorious second chance his father had fought for. The number 10 meant he was a playmaker, a leader, a master of the midfield. It was an honor, and a burden, and a dream all rolled into one.
"Hey, Praise, you alright?" Bistos asked, walking up to him, a concerned look on his face.
Praise just shook his head, unable to speak, the tears now openly streaming down his face.
Kion, walking by, stopped and looked at him, then at the jersey. He shook his head, a teasing smile on his face. "What's this, little man? Getting all emotional over a jersey number? Are you going to cry on the pitch too? The crowd might think you're scared."
Praise wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, managing a small, shaky laugh. "No, it's not that," he choked out. "It's just... it's just the number. It's my hero's number."
Kion and Bistos exchanged a look, and Kion just laughed and gave Praise a playful shove. "Aww, don't worry, man," Kion said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "We all get sentimental sometimes. But seriously, stop crying. The coach will think you're not ready."
Unbeknownst to them, the number wasn't just a symbol; it was the culmination of a decade-long journey, a testament to his family's unwavering belief.
Coach Molefi, "Coach Devil," strode into the dressing room, a serious expression on his face that silenced all the banter. He clapped his hands, the sound a sharp crack that commanded attention. "Alright, boys. Listen up. I'm not going to give a long speech. We've done the work. Now it's time to show the world what we're made of." He paused, scanning each player's face. "The starting lineup for today's match is as follows: in goal, Bistos."
Praise and Bistos exchanged a triumphant, nervous glance.
"In defense, we have Michael, Andy, Keabetswe, and Tefo. Our midfield will be anchored by Kion and Praise, with Peace and Reabetswe on the wings. Up front, we have Frank and Thapelo."
Praise's heart hammered in his chest. He was starting. The number 10.
With the instructions ringing in their ears, they walked out into the tunnel. The roar from the crowd intensified, a deafening wave of noise. The air was electric, a pulsing energy that made the hairs on Praise's arms stand on end.
As they jogged onto the field for warmups, the sight was breathtaking. The stadium was a sea of people, a vibrant, living entity of chants, colors, and the rhythmic sound of vuvuzelas. The smell of popcorn and grass filled the air. This was it. This was the moment he had dreamed of since he was ten years old. He looked up, his eyes searching the crowd, scanning for a familiar face. And then he saw him.
In a sea of faces, his father, Patrick, stood out. He was holding a small, crumpled sign, a handwritten message: "That's my son!" He gave Praise a wide, proud smile and a single, reassuring nod. In that moment, the noise of the crowd, the pressure of the moment, and the weight of the number 10 all seemed to melt away. He was just Praise, his father's son, ready to play the game he loved.
After a few minutes, Coach Molefi gathered the team one last time. "That was your warmup. Now, let's get ready for the main event." He pointed to the packed stands. "Look at them. All of these people came to watch you play. To watch you represent your country. Don't let them down. Play for yourselves, for your family, and for the flag on your chest. You're not just a team. You're a family. Play for each other. Now go out there and show them what we're made of!"