The setting sun bled orange and purple across the sky, its light filtering through the canopy of ancient plane trees that guarded the village square. Long shadows knitted together on the packed earth. The cooling air carried the scents of dust, woodsmoke, and night-blooming jasmine.
In a dusty clearing between the tree roots, the scene narrowed.
Here, under the oldest tree, four old men were locked in a silent battle. Ryan's grandfather, Baba, stood statue-still, a heavy metal boule cradled in his palm. His eyes, sharp and calculating, were fixed on the small target ball a dozen feet away. With a soft grunt, he uncoiled his arm. The sphere flew in a low, perfect arc, landing with a soft thud to kiss the target and knock his opponent's ball away.
A slow, deep smile spread across the old man's face. He turned to his friends, his chest puffed out just slightly.
"This," he declared, his voice rich with satisfaction, "is my game. I can feel it in the dirt. I can feel it in my bones."
One of the other players, a stout man named Mohand, gave a dry chuckle. "A good play, Omar. And you are already speaking. Keep this up for when you lose. You will need pretty words to soothe your pride."
As Ryan approached with the drinks, he caught the exchange. Oh, nice one, he thought, his eyes flicking between the men and the drinks in his hands. A little strategic laxative in these bottles... Grandpa sweeps the game. One little chess move and I'm untouchable.
He stopped beside his grandfather, his hand already stretched out with the coffee. Baba's eyes stayed locked on the game.
Ryan coughed again, louder this time. "AHEM."
His grandfather's eyes finally flicked toward him, annoyed. "What?" the old man grumbled.
Ryan's eyebrow twitched. Scratch that. I should put something in his drink. Any major ego boost and he may start whipping us for sport.
"Your coffee," Ryan said, pressing the warm cup into his grandfather's waiting hand. He moved around the circle, handing the second coffee to Mohand and the bottles of juice to the other two men. "And your change," he added, pulling the coins from his pocket and offering them back to Mohand.
Mohand waved a dismissive hand, then reached out and ruffled Ryan's hair affectionately. "Keep it, my son. For the trouble."
Ryan could feel his grandfather's stare burning into the side of his head without even taking a look. He risked a small glimpse at the heavy metal boule in the old man's hand.
He's already aimed and ready. One wrong move and a disfigurement is in my near future.
"بالصحة," Ryan said, trying to push the coins back. "No trouble, Uncle, please. There is no need."
Mohand kept his hand outstretched, his expression turning to mock offense. "What, are you letting my hand hang in the air? An old man's arm will get tired."
"No, that's not what I mean, but—" Ryan started.
Thwack.
A sharp, open-handed slap to the back of his head cut him off. He spun to see his grandfather, Baba, glaring at him.
"When an elder gives you something, you accept it and be thankful," the old man grumbled. "Don't be a stubborn donkey."
One of the other players chuckled. "Ah, why did you smack him, Omar? He was being very polite!"
Baba grunted. "That's nothing. The coffee shop is just a few meters away, it's not like he carried wood from the forest for us."
Ryan rubbed the back of his head, finally taking the money. "Thank you, Uncle. But truly, it was no trouble." Bullshit. Al Capone would be less threatening behind me.
He began to slowly back away, hoping to make a clean retreat.
"Ryan! Come here," Mohand called out, beckoning him back. "You are Ahmed's son, right? Very well mannered." He gave Ryan a warm, appraising look. "Do you know how to play?"
Ryan nodded cautiously. "A little."
Mohand laughed. "Good. Play in my place," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm not feeling it today. Show these old men what the new generation can do."
Ryan's eyes immediately found his grandfather's. A wide, challenging grin was spreading across the old man's face.
He stepped into the circle, hefted the boule, and with a surprisingly fluid motion, sent it flying in a perfect, high arc. It landed with a soft thud right next to the cochonnet, an impossible shot to beat.
A moment of stunned silence was broken by Mohand's booming laugh.
Baba stared, first at the perfect throw, then at his grandson. He pointed a finger, his face a mask of pure, grudging outrage. "This bastard..."
Ryan did it again. Another perfect, high-arcing throw that landed with a soft, definitive thud next to the target.
First time was nice. Had to do it again.
He blinked, turning to Mohand with an expression of pure, mock innocence. "Uncle? Is that good?"
Baba played with his mustache, looking from Ryan to the game and back again. "Oh... my stomach," he groaned. "Maybe there's something wrong with that coffee..."
The other two players immediately nodded. "Yes, his juice didn't have a right aftertaste either," one added.
"Maybe we can continue later," Baba declared, already walking toward the benches.
Mohand laughed heartily, slapping Ryan on the back. "You shameless old men! Look at your ages, making these excuses against a kid!"
Baba paused, looking back at Ryan with a faint, proud smile. "He is my grandson. Even if he wins, I'm winning also. My definition."
The group of old men settled onto a long, worn stone bench, their dramatic ailments already forgotten as they fell into easy conversation.
Ryan watched them, shaking his head. The amount of bullshit that's about to come out of their mouths, Ryan mused inwardly, could fund four Bollywood movie scripts. Easy.
His gaze drifted to a patch of ground near a large tree where a group of middle-aged men were playing a keep-away game of rondo.
One man in the middle was stumbling
around, red-faced, never getting anywhere near the ball. Ryan laughed at the poor guy's flailing.
Then he froze.
Fuck. That's my old man .
He stared, utterly dumfounded. Why is he moving like that? His joints look like they haven't been oiled since he got married.
I can't be the only one suffering this.
He leaned over to his grandfather. "Ooh, Grandpa! Look! It's Dad playing..."
Baba squinted toward the patch of ground. "Oh, Ahmed? Where?" His eyes found his son, and his face morphed into pure flabbergasted shock. "Why the hell is he moving like that?"
He's your son, Ryan thought. I should be the one asking you that.
The old man turned to Ryan, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. "Did he get into some accident and not tell me?"
Ryan just shook his head slowly, sharing a moment of mutual, horrified bewilderment.
"Go call your dad here," Baba commanded, shaking his head in dismay.
Ryan didn't need to be told twice. He jogged over to the edge of the patch of ground, waiting for a break in play. "Dad! Dad!" he called out.
Ahmed, red-faced and breathing heavily, trotted over. "What? What is it?"
Ryan made a subtle gesture with his head toward the bench. "Grandpa's calling you. I think he wants you to come greet some of his friends."
Ahmed wiped his brow, looking over at the group of old men. "Oh, I know them," he said. He turned back to his teammates. "Guys, wait a minute! Let me go greet some
acquaintances I haven't seen in a long time!"
They walked over to the bench. Ahmed warmly greeted each of the old men, shaking their hands and kissing their cheeks.
"Look at you, all grown up," one of them said, clapping Ahmed on the shoulder.
Ahmed laughed, puffing out his chest slightly. "Hahaha, time flies! And my son here is almost my height now!"
The man who had clutched his stomach earlier chuckled. "Hahahaha, true! He destroyed us in our game, including your father!"
Ahmed's cheerful expression froze. His head slowly turned, his eyes narrowing to sharp points as they landed on Ryan, who was trying to look incredibly interested in a distant cloud.
Mohand laughed, slapping his knee. "Don't listen to them, Ahmed! The boy won fair and square. They just won't admit they got beaten by a kid."
Ahmed forced a laugh, trying to save face. "Beginner's luck, you know how it is."
One of the other men, Larbi, leaned in. "Speaking of work, are you still fixing cars in the city?"
"Yeah, of course," Ahmed said, his posture relaxing as the topic shifted to his profession.
"I've got an old Beetle," Larbi said. "It needs some looking at. I don't trust it with anyone else. Could you take a glance?"
Just then, Ahmed's teammates called out to him, impatient to restart their match.
"Just one minute!" Ahmed yelled back, already deep in conversation with Larbi about the car's engine. He held up a finger, hurried over to his waiting team, and after a quick, hushed conversation, jogged back to the bench.
He turned to Ryan. "I'm tired. You go play in the middle."
Ryan stared at him, utterly baffled. "Why should I? It was your game."
His father looked over at the waiting men. One of them called out, "Ahmed! Come on, the grass isn't going to trip you this time!" The group chuckled.
A faint twitch flickered under Ahmed's eye. Then he gave them a wide, genuine-looking smile and a friendly, dismissive wave. He turned back to Ryan, his expression calm, but his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.
"Destroy them. When it finishes, I don't want to see a single smile on their faces."
Ryan's eyebrows shot up. Oooh, they made Pops angry. Direct order from above. Nothing I can do.
He shrugged, putting on an innocent face as he trudged over to the men. "Uncle, I'm playing. Go easy on me," he said, giving them a charming, helpless smile.
"So you're Ahmed's son! Don't worry, we're just playing for fun."
Ryan gave a tight smile. "Yeah. It's gonna be fun." For me.
Back on the stone bench, Baba shook his head, watching his son chat animatedly about the car. "Tsk. Throwing the boy in as soon as he heard about an engine."
Mohand started to reply, but his words died in his throat. His eyes, like Baba's, were pulled back to the patch of ground.
Ryan had been in the middle for less than a minute. On the second pass, he anticipated the trajectory, intercepting the ball with the outside of his boot. Instead of a simple pass out, he dragged the ball back with his sole, spinning away from a challenge and leaving one man grasping at air.
The casual rhythm of the rondo shattered.
He nutmegged the next man who lunged in, the ball popping neatly between his legs. A collective "OOOH" rippled from the old men on the bench.
Now outside the circle, Ryan became a conduit for chaos. The ball arrived at his feet. A man charged. Ryan let the sphere roll across his body and flicked it with his heel, the leather bypassing the press on an invisible line.
Another opponent closed in. This time, the inside of his foot scooped under the ball. It sailed up in a gentle arc, clearing the man's desperate reach, and landed with a soft thud at a teammate's feet.
Laughter and disbelief erupted from the growing crowd.
Mohand leaned toward Baba, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Omar," he said, his voice full of warm admiration. "I am loving your boy more and more."
Baba chuckled softly, a low, proud sound in his chest as he watched. A pass was fired toward Ryan at shoulder height. Instead of bringing it down, he leaned into it and, with a sharp, deliberate thrust of his chest, redirected the ball on a new, first-time pass that sliced between two stunned defenders.
More people drifted over from the square. A small crowd was now forming a semi-circle around the game, their chatter and laughter rising with every trick.
One of the men, red-faced and panting, threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Ahmed! Come get your son! This little devil is abusing us at this point!"
Another man laughed, slapping Ryan on the back good-naturedly as the game dissolved into chaos. "Yeah, let's just stop before he embarrasses us any more." The group of players began walking off, leaving Ryan alone in the center of the patch of ground, now surrounded by a ring of watching villagers.
"Yo, kid! Show us what you can do!" a voice called from the crowd.
"Yeah, that was awesome! Do some more!" another added.
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, giving them an apologetic smile. "Um, I'm kinda tired. Maybe another time?"
"Come on!" someone shouted.
From his bench, Baba called out through a mouthful of peanuts, "Yeah, play some more!" He waved a dismissive hand, scattering peanut shells.
Did I get out of bed with the wrong foot today? Ryan wondered, utterly defeated. Should I have checked my horoscope? Bossing me around all day and I'm not even getting a salary out of it.
With a long-suffering sigh, Ryan trudged back to the center of the patch of ground. The crowd cheered. He started simply, then launched into a series of moves—a few step-overs, a rainbow flick. He spun a sharp 180, the ball glued to his foot, then another, weaving an invisible pattern in the dirt before flicking the ball over his own head to a final roar of approval.
Mohand watched, a slow smile spreading across his face. He nudged Baba. "Omar, your boy is sure good with his foot."
Baba tried to play it cool, waving a dismissive hand. "Yeah, you know boys his age. Always playing around."
"Mmm, true," Mohand said, his eyes twinkling as he teased his old friend. "Didn't think anyone from your lineage could be this smooth, though."
Baba's head snapped around. "Fuck off! I was better than you at football!"
"You are lying through your teeth!" Mohand fired back, laughing. "At no time in our lives were you even close to me!"
Seeing his friend's genuine frown, Mohand softened his tone, clapping him on the shoulder. " But your boy... the ball is glued to his foot. I will give you that."
He looked back at Ryan, who was finally making his escape from the adoring crowd. "Does he play with any club in Algiers?"
Baba shook his head. "No."
Mohand nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. "Mmm. Pity."
Eventually, the village square emptied as the men headed home for their evening meals. The orange glow of the sunset faded into a deep twilight, leaving behind a quiet hum.
Later, in the warm, lamp-lit kitchen, Ryan lay with his head in his grandmother's lap. She gently smoothed his hair while his father and grandfather sat nearby, sipping tea.
"You won't believe the bullying today," Ryan murmured, his voice heavy with fake exhaustion. "They treated me like a marionette. From Dad to Grandpa. Pulling my strings."
His grandmother tutted sympathetically. "Oh, my lion." She looked up, her expression turning stern. "Omar! Ahmed! How can you treat Ryan like that? Look how upset you made him!"
Ryan nodded solemnly against her lap. Then he added, his voice dripping with fake concern, "I'm more upset for you, Grandma. Dad... instead of spending time with you on his vacation, he's already making plans to work on a car. And Grandpa! We should all go out together, but no he's already made plans with his friends tomorrow."
She looked down at him, her voice softening again. "How about Grandma cuts some melon for you?"
Ryan peeked up, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah... but only for me."
She smiled, stroking his hair. "Hmph. Of course. Why should I care about people who don't care about me?"
Ryan sat up, the picture of a devoted grandson. He shot a supremely smug look at his speechless father and grandfather. "Let me go help you, Grandma."
As he stood to follow her to the counter, he closed his eyes for a moment, a triumphant, contented smile on his face. Got you, he thought, already seeing the scolding lessons they were both about to get.
MISSION SUCCESS