Marcel wiped the sweat from his brow as he finished his final sprint, the sun beginning to dip behind the clouds, casting long shadows across the worn football field. His lungs burned with every inhale, a fierce reminder of the relentless two weeks of training he had endured, but the satisfaction of pushing through another grueling session filled him with a renewed sense of determination. The sharp, salty taste of sweat lingered on his lips, his muscles throbbing, yet something deeper drove him—an unyielding hunger to prove himself.
For the past two weeks, his life had become a constant cycle of training, recovery, and mental preparation for what would undoubtedly be the most pivotal trial of his young career. Every moment was spent fine-tuning his body and sharpening his mind, knowing that the slightest edge could make the difference. The field where he trained was a patchy, uneven surface, with tufts of grass battling the bare earth. The air was thick with the humidity that clung to his skin, almost suffocating at times, but it felt like the weight of his ambitions—oppressive, yet necessary.
Standing by the edge of the field, Coach Oumar Njike, a towering figure in his early forties, barked out orders, his voice carrying across the still air like a whip. Oumar's presence was commanding—his broad shoulders and powerful build spoke of a man who had once been a force on the pitch. His deep voice sliced through the thick, humid air with authority.
"One more lap, Marcel! Don't even think about slowing down. Sharper, faster—this is where it counts!" Oumar's words, though harsh, were layered with a subtle warmth, a mentor's pride hidden beneath the tough exterior. The two had formed an undeniable bond over these intense weeks. Oumar had a vested interest in Marcel's success, seeing in the young boy the potential he himself once had before injury cruelly cut his career short.
Oumar had been a semi-professional player, well-known in the district of Fouda before a knee injury took him out of the game he loved. The pain of that loss was something Oumar carried silently, but it made him the passionate, no-nonsense coach he was today. His reputation for pushing his players to their limits was well-known, and few could handle the demands he placed on them. Marcel, however, was different—he had the fire and the raw talent, and Oumar knew that with the right guidance, he could go far.
As Marcel jogged his final lap, each footfall echoed through the emptiness of the field, the soft crunch of the dirt underfoot somehow grounding him. His shirt was soaked, clinging to his wiry frame, and his legs felt like they were made of stone. Every muscle screamed for relief, but somewhere beneath the physical exhaustion was a quiet sense of achievement.
When he'd started this grueling routine two weeks ago, his body was sluggish, uncooperative—a consequence of three long months away from football while he studied for his BEPC exams. His speed, once his greatest asset, had dulled. His touch felt unfamiliar, almost foreign. But now, as the sun dipped lower in the sky, he could feel it—his rhythm returning, the power in his legs growing, his lungs learning to embrace the burn. The fire that made him the pride of the neighborhood was reigniting.
That first week had nearly broken him. Oumar was relentless, focusing on rebuilding Marcel's core strength and endurance. Each day began before sunrise, with long, grueling sprints that seemed to stretch on forever, followed by sharp bursts of speed that left his legs trembling. Endless cone drills filled the mornings, with Marcel weaving through them like a slalom skier, sweat pouring down his face. By noon, it was time for strength training—squats that burned his thighs, lunges that tested his resolve, and push-ups that made his arms feel like jelly.
Oumar would stand nearby, arms crossed, watching Marcel with the eyes of a hawk. "Football is not just about the feet, Marcel," he would say between sets, his voice gruff but patient. "Your whole body needs to be ready. You need legs strong enough to outpace your opponents but a core that's solid enough to hold your ground when they try to knock you down."
By the second week, the focus shifted. The brutal physical conditioning remained, but Oumar turned his attention to the finer details—the technical aspects that would separate Marcel from the rest. "You've got the talent, Marcel," Oumar would tell him during drills, "but talent without quick thinking is wasted. You need to make decisions faster, be sharper with your movements."
Every afternoon, Marcel would practice dribbling through tight spaces, the cones scattered haphazardly across the field, forcing him to think on his feet. The ball felt like an extension of his body—each touch, each flick of his ankle, had to be precise. He practiced quick changes of direction, darting left and right, pushing the ball ahead and stopping it dead with the inside of his foot. His favorite drills were the ones that allowed him to showcase his flair—the elastico, stepovers, sharp cuts and turns that had long defined his playing style. Each move felt smoother, crisper, more natural as the days passed.
Still, there were moments when his body betrayed him. His legs would tremble from fatigue, his chest would tighten as he gasped for air, and for a brief second, he'd wonder if he could keep going. But each time, Oumar's voice pulled him back from the edge.
"Two weeks, Marcel. That's all you've got to prepare. The difference between you and those other boys will be in the work you've put in. They might be good, but you need to be better. You're good, but you have to be ready for *anything*."
As the sun set each day, Marcel would collapse onto the patchy grass, his chest heaving as he stared up at the orange and pink streaks in the sky. His body was battered, his muscles sore, but there was a quiet satisfaction in the fatigue. It was the good kind—the kind that told him he was getting closer, step by step, to his dream. Each drop of sweat, each aching muscle brought him one step closer to the trial, and the fire in his chest burned brighter than ever.
...
When he wasn't training under Oumar's watchful eye, Marcel found time to reconnect with the roots of his passion, escaping into the comfort of his old neighborhood to play football with his childhood friends, Jordan and Dimitri. The small dirt pitch where they played, tucked between two overgrown bushes, had been their makeshift stadium for as long as Marcel could remember. It was a humble setting—the goals were nothing more than two large stones on either side, the field itself uneven and riddled with patches of dirt and dry, scraggly grass clinging stubbornly to life under the relentless heat of the sun. The trees lining the pitch provided sparse shade, and the air smelled faintly of earth and dust, a reminder of the simplicity and purity of their game.
It was a late Wednesday afternoon, and the sun hung low on the horizon, casting a golden hue across the sky. The light breeze did little to cool the dry heat that lingered in the air. Marcel, eager for a break from the rigorous structure of his training sessions, had joined Jordan and Dimitri for a casual 5v5 match with some of the other boys from the neighborhood. These were the friends he'd grown up with, the ones who knew him before football became anything more than a pastime.
Jordan, with his wiry build and boundless energy, was the most animated of the group. He had a cheeky grin perpetually plastered on his face and a mouth that seemed to run as fast as his feet. Known for his quick banter and relentless teasing, he rarely passed up an opportunity to crack a joke. As the boys lined up for the game, Jordan threw a playful jab at Marcel. "You better not slack off, Marcel. Just because you've got that trial coming up doesn't mean we're giving you any breaks!" His voice carried a lighthearted challenge, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Jordan, always the joker, thrived on getting under people's skin in the most harmless way.
Marcel couldn't help but laugh, rolling his eyes at his friend's antics. "We'll see about that," he replied with a smirk, loosening his shoulders. Jordan had been his closest friend for as long as he could remember, the two of them inseparable on and off the pitch.
In contrast, Dimitri was a quieter presence. Built stockier than Jordan, he possessed an unwavering intensity that he carried both in life and on the field. He wasn't one for flashy moves or loud words, preferring to let his strength and positional sense do the talking. Despite his reserved demeanor, Dimitri's love for the game burned just as fiercely as Marcel's. His brow furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the bandana he always wore during games, a habit he'd had since they were kids. "Let's just get started," he muttered, focused as ever.
The match kicked off, and the neighborhood boys chased the ball with the carefree abandon of youth. Laughter echoed through the air, mingled with shouts of encouragement and playful insults. For Marcel, the game was an opportunity to relax, a brief respite from the looming pressure of his upcoming trial. He played with a lightness he hadn't felt in weeks, moving across the dusty pitch with ease. Despite holding back, his natural talent was undeniable.
As the match progressed, the score remained tight at 2-2, with only a few minutes left. Marcel had mostly kept his competitive edge in check, but as the game neared its end, a spark ignited within him. The ball found its way to his feet near the edge of his own goal, and in an instant, he decided to take control.
Jordan, sensing what was coming, called out with a knowing grin. "Here he goes! Showtime, everyone!"
Marcel's eyes flickered with a playful gleam as he launched into motion. With a deft flick of his foot, the ball was off, and so was he. The first defender came rushing in, but Marcel barely acknowledged him, breezing past with a perfectly timed *elastico*. The ball danced effortlessly from the outside to the inside of his foot, the defender left grasping at thin air.
Another boy, quicker and more aggressive, lunged toward him, but Marcel was ready. With a sharp *Marseille turn*, he spun gracefully out of reach, his movements fluid and seamless, like water slipping through fingers. His body twisted with precision, the ball glued to his feet as he pirouetted out of danger. The crowd of neighborhood boys cheered and gasped, fully invested in the spectacle unfolding before them.
But Marcel wasn't done. Two more defenders charged at him, desperation clear in their frantic steps. Marcel, however, remained composed, reading the situation with a calmness born from hours of practice and instinct. He pulled off a *croqueta*, swiftly shifting the ball between his feet to evade their clutches. The two boys stumbled as he darted between them, their attempt to stop him futile.
By now, the remaining defenders had abandoned all sense of positioning, scrambling to close him down. Marcel approached the last defender, who hesitated, unsure of how to handle the young prodigy. With a quick step-over, Marcel sent the defender off balance, his weight shifting awkwardly as he bit on the feint. Marcel capitalized, cutting inside with a feint of his own, leaving the defender behind in his wake.
And then there was only the makeshift goal in front of him. With a swift, powerful strike, Marcel sent the ball flying between the two stones, the sound of its impact against the dusty ground echoing in the quiet evening air. The ball nestled in the back of the goal, and the game was won.
The other boys groaned in unison, some collapsing dramatically to the ground, laughing at their failed attempts to stop Marcel's dazzling run. Jordan, ever the comedian, jogged over with an exaggerated sigh, giving Marcel a playful shove. "You didn't even have to try, did you? Show-off." He grinned, but the admiration in his eyes was clear.
Dimitri, always more serious, approached with his usual calm demeanor. His face, typically stern, softened as he allowed himself a rare smile. "Good goal," he said quietly, nodding in approval. "But don't burn yourself out. Save some of that magic for the trial."
Marcel returned their smiles, a sense of contentment settling over him. These moments, away from the pressure of the upcoming trial, reminded him of why he played football in the first place. It wasn't just about the competition or the fame that might follow—it was about the joy of the game, the thrill of a well-timed move, and the camaraderie that came with it. These were the moments that fueled his love for football, the moments that kept the fire inside him burning.
...
When Marcel wasn't training or playing football with his friends, he spent time with his girlfriend, Christina Yamesse. Christina was slightly shorter than Marcel, her caramel-toned skin glowing in the late afternoon sun. Her neatly braided cornrows framed her face, highlighting her bright eyes and her naturally radiant smile. Marcel always admired how beautiful she looked without even trying.
On Friday afternoon, they met at his mother's restaurant, Le Normalien, located on Rue Mpondo Akwa. The familiar smells of spices filled the air as they entered, the restaurant bustling with the lively energy of customers and the clatter of dishes. Francine, Marcel's mother, gave them a warm smile from behind the counter. She had always liked Christina and appreciated the steady support she offered Marcel.
Christina wore a simple white blouse paired with a flowing skirt that brushed her ankles, as graceful and effortlessly beautiful as ever. They found a table by the window, where the warm sunlight bathed the restaurant in a soft glow, making their plates of ndolé and plantains even more appetizing.
"So, how's training been going?" Christina asked, her voice curious but with a familiar warmth. She was always genuinely interested in his football journey, even though she wasn't deeply into the sport.
"It's been going great," Marcel replied between bites, a confident smile spreading across his face. "Oumar's been pushing me harder than ever, but I'm feeling strong. The trial is coming up soon, and I'm ready for it."
Christina raised an eyebrow, amused by his self-assured tone. "Look at you, all calm and collected. I was expecting you to be at least a little nervous."
Marcel chuckled. "Nah, no nerves. This is what I've been working for, you know? I can't wait to show what I can do."
She smiled back at him, reassured by his confidence. "You've got the right mindset. I know you'll stand out, just like always."
He grinned, appreciating her unwavering belief in him. "Thanks. It feels good to hear you say that."
"What about you? How are you feeling about the BEPC results?" Marcel asked, shifting the conversation to her.
Christina sighed, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. "I'm hopeful. I worked hard, and I really want to get into Série A so I can study to become a teacher. But you know how exams are—they can be tricky."
Marcel nodded. "You're going to make it. You've always been great with kids. I can already see you in front of a classroom."
Christina laughed, her eyes softening. "I hope you're right. Let's just see how the results turn out."
"Don't stress too much," Marcel added, flashing her a smile. "If anyone can get through it, it's you."
After finishing their meal, they decided to take a walk through a small park near the restaurant. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow across the sky. Children played nearby, their laughter echoing in the distance, and the occasional rustle of leaves filled the quiet air. The park had a familiar tranquility, one that Marcel found comforting.
As they walked along the worn path, their hands occasionally brushed, a subtle connection that brought a quiet sense of contentment to both of them. Marcel glanced over at Christina, noticing the way the fading sunlight framed her face, accentuating her serene beauty.
"You ever think about what things will be like in the future?" Marcel asked as they reached a bench under a large mango tree. They sat down, the shadows of the branches creating a cool canopy overhead.
Christina smiled. "Yeah, I do. I wonder where we'll be a few years from now. It's exciting and scary at the same time."
"I can't wait to see how things turn out," Marcel said, his voice filled with anticipation. "If everything goes well at the trial, things could change fast."
Christina looked at him, admiration in her eyes. "You'll make it. You've worked too hard not to."
Marcel smiled, appreciating her faith in him. "Thanks. And when I do, don't worry—I'll make sure you're right there with me."
She chuckled. "You better not forget about me when you're a big football star."
Marcel's face grew serious as he turned to her. "Forget you? Never. I promise, if I make it big, I'll bring you with me. Once I've got the money, we'll go to Europe together. We'll figure it out."
Christina's eyes softened at his words, a sense of relief washing over her. "You really mean that?"
"Of course," he said firmly. "You've been by my side through everything. I wouldn't want to do this without you."
She smiled, her voice warm. "That means a lot, Marcel."
They sat there for a few more minutes, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere and the bond they shared. As the sky darkened, they decided to head home. The streets were quieter now, with only the distant hum of the city's nightlife beginning to stir.
Marcel flagged down an empty taxi as they reached the main road. "Depot for Fouda," he said to the driver, who nodded.
They climbed into the back seat of the taxi, and after agreeing on the fare, the driver set off without stopping for other passengers. The car weaved through the city streets, passing the bustling market stalls and the lively streets of Yaoundé as they headed toward their neighborhood. Marcel stared out the window, his thoughts drifting back to the trial and the future that awaited him.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at their building in Fouda. Marcel paid the driver and got out, walking alongside Christina toward the entrance of their apartment building.
At the door, Christina turned to him. "Promise me something?" she asked softly.
"Anything," Marcel replied.
"Promise me that no matter how far you go, you'll always stay true to yourself."
Marcel smiled, his eyes full of determination. "I promise. And I'll make sure you're right there with me when it happens."
She smiled, satisfied with his answer. "Good. Now get some rest—you'll need it for tomorrow."
They said their goodbyes at the entrance before heading to their separate apartments. Marcel climbed the stairs, a surge of excitement filling him. The trial was just around the corner, and with Christina's support and his own confidence, he knew he was ready for whatever was coming.
...
When Marcel wasn't training with Oumar or spending time with Christina, he was fully immersed in expanding his football knowledge. His dedication to understanding the game went beyond just his physical skills. He spent hours watching old matches and analyzing tactical systems, eager to master the strategic side of football. One of his favorite pastimes was studying videos of Pep Guardiola's Barcelona, a team that had revolutionized modern football with their "tiki-taka" style of play. Marcel was mesmerized by their intricate passing triangles, the way they dominated possession, and how fluidly they moved as a unit.
He paid special attention to the movements of players like Xavi and Iniesta, the midfield maestros who pulled the strings for Barça. The way they controlled the tempo of the game, always aware of where their teammates were, left Marcel in awe. Their ability to read the game, anticipate passes, and create space with subtle movements was something Marcel aspired to replicate. And then there was Lionel Messi—the way he drifted between defenders with perfect timing, using his intelligence as much as his technical skill, seemed almost magical. Marcel watched Messi's movements on repeat, hoping to emulate even a fraction of the Argentine's mastery.
But Marcel's education didn't stop at Barcelona. He also devoted time to watching clips of Real Madrid under José Mourinho, where he learned the art of the counter-attack. Madrid's approach was the opposite of Barcelona's slow, possession-based buildup. They thrived on quick transitions, turning defense into attack in the blink of an eye. Marcel studied how players like Cristiano Ronaldo, Ángel Di María, and Mesut Özil would burst forward with deadly precision, making the most of every attacking opportunity. The contrast between Barcelona's methodical style and Madrid's rapid counters fascinated him, and he knew that mastering both would give him an edge on the field.
The more Marcel studied these top European teams, the more he realized that football wasn't just about speed and dribbling. It was about understanding space—when to move into it, when to pull defenders out of position, and how to exploit the gaps left behind. Timing was everything. Marcel began to appreciate how vital the tactical side of the game was, and how much he still had to learn.
Watching Cameroon's World Cup matches had also become part of his daily routine. He had eagerly tuned in on June 13th for the first group stage game against Mexico, filled with hope for his national team. But the 1-0 loss had been disheartening. Despite their best efforts, Cameroon struggled to break down Mexico's defense, and Marcel saw first-hand how much tactical discipline mattered on the international stage.
In their second match against Croatia, things went from bad to worse. Marcel had watched in disbelief as Cameroon were torn apart, losing 4-0. The disorganization in the defense was glaring, and Marcel found himself frustrated, not just as a fan but as a student of the game. Samuel Eto'o, the country's talismanic striker, had been sidelined with an injury, and without him, Cameroon seemed directionless. The Croatians punished every mistake, and Marcel couldn't help but analyze each misstep, thinking about how such errors could be avoided.
By the time Cameroon faced Brazil in their final group match, Marcel's expectations were low. Yet he watched the game with the same keen attention to detail, his eyes fixed on every movement, every run off the ball. Brazil, led by Neymar, completely dominated the match, securing a 4-1 victory. Marcel sat with his family and friends as they watched in disappointment, but his mind was focused on something else. Despite the loss, he saw the game as a lesson. Neymar's brilliant performance highlighted the importance of timing, precision, and anticipation, while Cameroon's struggles served as a harsh reminder of the challenges of playing at the highest level.
Even though the World Cup had been a disappointment for Cameroon, Marcel didn't dwell on it. Instead, he took these matches as opportunities to learn. Whether it was the tactical brilliance of the best teams in Europe or the harsh realities of international competition, Marcel absorbed it all. He knew that football wasn't just a physical game—it was a mental battle, and understanding tactics, movement, and decision-making was just as important as physical ability.
...
...
It was early in the morning, and Marcel stood in his room, preparing for what felt like the most important day of his young life. His room, a reflection of his football dreams, was covered in posters of his idols. A large poster of Cristiano Ronaldo in his Real Madrid jersey dominated the wall above his bed, capturing Ronaldo mid-celebration. Nearby, posters of Ronaldinho and Ronaldo Nazário, both in their iconic Brazil jerseys, added to the collection of inspiration.
His room wasn't fancy but had everything he needed. A small wooden desk was cluttered with schoolbooks, a few notebooks filled with tactical notes from the football videos he had watched, and a stack of papers from his recent exams. A small TV and a PlayStation 4 sat on a shelf, with CD games neatly arranged in a row—FIFA, Call of Duty, and others that kept him entertained when he wasn't playing football. His bed, neatly made with a blue-and-white striped blanket, sat in the corner, and right next to it, lay a pair of boots that had been untouched since his birthday.
Those boots were special. His mother had given him the Nike Mercurial boots, a model endorsed by Cristiano Ronaldo, for his birthday months ago. They still gleamed, untouched since the day he received them. He had waited for the right moment to wear them, and now, that moment had arrived.
Marcel took a deep breath and packed his bag carefully, making sure to tuck the boots in last. He had trained hard for this trial, and he was ready to give it his all.
Downstairs, his mother, Francine, had prepared a light breakfast. The usual sounds of Yaoundé waking up filled the house. The faint honking of taxis, the distant hum of motorcycles, and the chatter of people heading to work gave a sense of normalcy to a day that felt anything but ordinary to Marcel.
"How are you feeling?" Francine asked as she placed a plate of toast and fruit in front of him. Her voice was gentle, but he could sense the concern behind it.
"I'm ready, Mama. I've trained hard. I just need to show them what I can do," Marcel replied, though his nerves were slowly catching up to him.
Francine smiled softly, placing her hand on his. "You've already made us proud, Marcel. No matter what happens today, just remember that. Go out there and do your best."
After finishing breakfast, they left their home in the Fouda neighborhood. Francine drove them in her old RAV4, navigating through the familiar streets of Yaoundé. Marcel gazed out of the window as the city buzzed with life. Vendors were setting up their stalls along the road, selling everything from fruit to roasted maize. Motorbikes weaved between the cars, honking as they sped past, and the people bustled around, going about their daily routines.
The road to Stade Militaire at Ngoa Ekélé wound through narrower streets as they approached the stadium. Though Marcel had been here before, today felt different. His nerves were raw, but excitement bubbled inside him, too. This was his chance to prove what he could do.
When they reached the stadium, the first thing Marcel noticed was how quiet it was. There was no crowd, just a few people passing by on the street, glancing over at the field. Stade Militaire wasn't one of Yaoundé's grandest stadiums, and the pitch reflected that. Though it appeared green from a distance, the grass was patchy, with several areas worn down to the dirt, especially around the goals. The field had clearly seen better days, but it would serve as the setting for Marcel's trial.
As they walked toward the entrance, they were greeted by Coach Emile Atangana. He was a man in his mid-forties, stocky with a graying hairline that spoke of years spent on the field. Emile had spent his entire career in Cameroon's MTN Elite One, playing for several clubs before transitioning to coaching. He now led Dragons FC Yaoundé's U17 team, where he focused on molding the next generation of footballers.
"Bonjour," Coach Emile greeted them, shaking Marcel's hand first and then Francine's. "Marcel, I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do."
"Thank you, Coach," Marcel replied, standing tall. He had met Emile briefly before, but today was different. Today was the real test.
Emile gave him a red practice jersey with the number 20 on the back and front. "You'll be with the substitutes for the first half. Show me what you've got."
Marcel nodded, clutching the jersey tightly. As Emile walked away, Francine turned to Marcel, her eyes filled with love and belief. "Remember why you're doing this, Marcel. You've worked for this, and no matter what happens, you've made us proud."
"I will, Mama. I'll do my best," Marcel replied, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He gave her one last hug before heading to the dressing room.
Inside, the tension was palpable. The dressing room was simple, with wooden benches lining the walls and hooks for hanging bags and gear. The other boys were already there, chatting quietly among themselves as they laced up their boots and adjusted their jerseys. Marcel found a spot in the corner and pulled on his red jersey with the number 20. He then reached for his boots—the Nike Mercurials that had remained untouched since his birthday. Today, he would wear them for the first time.
As Marcel was about to leave the room, a tall, imposing figure blocked his path. The boy was at least six feet tall, his skin glistening with sweat. He had a cocky grin on his face, his confidence evident in his swagger.
"You must be the trialist," the tall boy said, crossing his arms. "We're supposed to be preparing for the Cameroon Brasseries Football Tournament in a week, and now there's a match trial? Let me guess—you got in through the back door. Paid your way in, didn't you?"
The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes turned to Marcel, waiting for his response. The accusation stung, not because it was entirely false—his father's connections had arranged this—but because it felt like an attack on his abilities.
"Yeah, that's right," Marcel said, meeting the taller boy's gaze without flinching. "But that doesn't mean I'm not good enough. If you want to know, we'll see what happens on the pitch."
The tall boy blinked, clearly not expecting such a direct response. After a moment, a smirk appeared on his face. "We'll see. And if you prove yourself, maybe I'll tell you my name."
With that, the tension eased, and the other players returned to their preparations. Marcel, his confidence shaken but still intact, finished lacing up his boots and headed out to the pitch.
The players lined up on the field—red jerseys for the substitutes, blue jerseys for the starters. The grass was uneven, with patches of dirt peeking through, and the worn-down goalposts told stories of many matches played here. It wasn't perfect, but this was the proving ground for today.
Coach Emile stepped forward to address the team. "Most of you know me already, but for the new player today, I'm Emile Atangana, head coach of the U17 team. We've got a full 90-minute match. Marcel, you'll start on the left wing with the substitutes. After halftime, you'll switch to the starters. Show me what you can do in both roles."
He turned to Marcel, locking eyes with him. "I'll be looking at your positioning, awareness, and decision-making. Prove to me that you belong here."
As the players started their warm-ups, Marcel couldn't help but think about the lottery ticket stored in his system. Should he use it now? The temptation was strong, but he quickly shook the thought away. No, he told himself. I don't need the system. I've trained for this. I can do this on my own.
With that, he took his position on the left wing, his heart racing as the whistle blew to start the match.