10 July 2014, Stade Militaire, Ngoa Ekelé

  The scorg afternoon sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty and uneven pitilitary Stadium in Ngoa Ekelé. The dry heat g to everything, the kind that made sweat bead instantly on a pyer's skie the punishing ditions, a few hundred spectators had gathered—some were casual onlookers drawn in by the hers more ied, their eyes sing the field for potential talent.

  The stands, worn from years of use, offered little relief from the heat. Many fans shaded themselves with neers or hats, while others waved small banners, determio keep their spirits high despite the oppressive sun.

  Inside Dragons FC Yaoundé's dressing room, tension filled the air. The mix of sweat, adrenaline, and nervous energy made it almost suffog. Coach Emile stood in the ter, his deep voice slig through the silence as he addressed his pyers.

  "Alright, listen up," he began, his tone calm but firm. "This is our first game iour, and it's against Union Doua. We o win this if we want to make it to the quarter-finals. Our other matches against Brasseries Football Academy and Yaoundé will be even tougher, but everything starts here."

  He paused, letting the words sink in. The pyers were locked in, abs every instru, their young faces a mix of nerves aermination.

  "We're stig to our tactical pn. Union Doua might seem like the weakest team on paper, but that doesn't meaake them lightly. We'll let them e at us, make them feel like they're trolling the game. But the moment they leave a gap, we strike—fast and precise. We o get a goal before halftime; if we do that, the sed half will be much easier, especially once Marcel es in."

  At the mention of Marcel, a few pyers goward the bench, where he sat with a posed yet focused expression. He wasn't starting, but there was no doubt among the squad that once he stepped onto the pitch, his impact would be felt.

  "But listen carefully," Emile's voice sharpened. "We 't afford to cede. Stay discipli the back, keep your shape, and don't let them break through. If we keep a sheet, we'll win this match."

  He sed the pyers, looking for any flicker of doubt. Seeing none, he gave a firm nod.

  "Are we all in agreement?"

  "Yes, Coach!" the squad responded in unison, their voices ringing through the room with vi.

  Mier, both teams emerged from the tunnel, stepping onto the dry, cracked field of Military Stadium. The crowd responded with scattered appuse, the cps cutting through the thick, humid air. Dragons FC's pyers jogged into position, while Marcel, seated on the substitutes' bench, took a moment to s the stands, his gaze searg for something familiar.

  It didn't take long to find it.

  he benches, Christina, his girlfriend, waved enthusiastically, her smile beaming with excitement.

  "e on, Marcel! Show them who's the best!" she called out, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.

  Beside her, Frane, Marcel's mother, stood with her usual posed presence. Dressed in her , simple attire, she was the picture of quiet pride. She didn't o shout—her belief in Marcel was unwavering.

  "You've got this, Marcel! Give it everything," she enced, her voice steady and filled with warmth.

  As the teams lined up for kick-off, Frauro a middle-aged man standing nearby. He seemed curious but not particurly ied ich. She couldn't help but introduce her son.

  "Watch out for number 17," she said with a proud smile. "That's my boy, Marcel. He's going to ge this game."

  The man g the pitch, then back at her with a skeptical expression.

  "But he's on the bench," he pointed out bluntly. "How's he going to ge the game if he's not even pying?"

  Frane didn't flinch. She simply smiled wider, her fidenwavering.

  "Just wait," she said softly. "Even from the bench, when his moment es, you'll see."

  Her words hung in the air, filled with a certainty that only a mother could have.

  As the referee's whistle blew, signaling the start of the match, Marcel ched his fists. The game had begun, and while Union Doua cautiously pushed forward, Dragons FC stayed disciplined, following Emile's pn to absorb pressure and wait for the right moment to strike.

  For now, all Marcel could do was wait. But his moment was ing.

  ...

  ...

  The referee's whistle echoed through Military Stadium, cutting through the humid afternoon air. Union Doua, set up in a disciplined 4-4-2, wasted no time asserting themselves. From the first touch, their midfield sought trol, passing with sharp precision. Their coach had clearly instructed them to dictate the tempo, and for the first ten minutes, Dragons FC obliged, sitting deep, abs the pressure.

  Unlike Union Doua's trolled buildup, Coach Emile's team pyed with patience, almost inviting their oppos forward. Their number 9 applied occasional pressure but not enough to disrupt the flow—just enough to lull the opposition into a false sense of domi was a trap, carefully id.

  The crowd, though not deeply ied iher side, watched with quiet curiosity. The match had yet to catch fire, but that was about to ge.

  Sensing Dragons' reluce to press, Union Doua adjusted their approach. Their coach's voice rang from the toue, urging his pyers to push higher, take risks. The shift was immediate. By the 18th minute, Union Doua's number 15, their midfield engine, found himself in space. He took a touch, then unched a precise diagonal ball to the left winger, who sprinted down the fnk.

  Dragons' right-back hesitated—a costly mistake. The winger, reizing the opportunity, threaded a clever through ball to the overppi-back, whed forward with blistering pace. The defensive line scrambled, but the damage was already done.

  A sharp low cross sliced through the penalty area, aimed at Union Doua's ter-forward, who positioned himself perfectly to attack the ball.

  Jean-Pierre saw the danger unfolding. Timing his jump perfectly, the ter-back threw himself into the air, his forehead meeting the ball ly. The clearance owerful, but more importantly, it sent the ball into open spa the left fnk.

  The Drago-back, alert to the moment, trolled it with a sharp touch before darting forward. His quick acceleratio an onrushing defender behind, and as he crossed midfield, he spotted his tral midfielder sprinting into position.

  Without hesitation, he delivered a , well-pced pass. The midfielder barely needed a touch before ung a brilliant long through ball over Union Doua's defensive line.

  In the blink of an eye, Dragons' ter-forward was through on goal.

  He wrestled past two defenders, using his band strength to stay on his feet. The ball dropped perfectly in front of him. Instinct took over. Without letting it touch the ground, he swung his foot ly—a venomous volley, struck with precision.

  The Union Doua goalkeeper barely had time to react. The ball rocketed toward the tht er, clipping the underside of the crossbar before smashing into the .

  For a split sed, silence.

  Theion.

  Dragons FC pyers mobbed their striker, celebrating the sheer brilliance of the goal. Even Coach Emile, usually posed, allowed himself a satisfied nod, g firmly but not getting carried away. He had expected this.

  1-0.

  A goal that ure discipline, precision, and ruthless execution.

  Union Doua, stunned, quickly retrieved the ball from the hey had trolled possession for much of the opening minutes—but in one swift move, Dragons FC had showly why patience was their greatest on.

  ...

  The game resumed with a noticeable shift in tempo. Union Doua, now trailing, had no iion of accepti quietly. Their midfield pressed higher, their wingers hugged the toue, and their forwards lurked dangerously he Dragons FC defense, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  For the en minutes, Dragons FC found themselves increasingly pinned back, their midfield struggling to maintain possession. Jean-Pierre, however, stood firm at the heart of the defense. Every cross swung into the box was met by his t presence, every through ball intercepted before it could reach its intearget. His reading of the game was sharp, and his physicality made him an unshakable presen the bae.

  But no defender could hold off a relentless attack forever.

  Ih minute, Union Doua finally found their opening. Their tral midfielder, patient and posed, saw the right-back slightly out of position. With a swift gnce, he released a perfect through ball, threading it between the right-bad the ter-back.

  The left winger had already started his run. Sprinting into the gap, he trolled the ball ihe penalty area. But his first touch was heavy. The ball rolled just ahead of him—an invitation fons FC's goalkeeper to pounce.

  Sensing the dahe keeper charged off his line, diving low to smother the ball. But the winger, realizing he was about to be closed down, stretched out his boot and poked it past the diving keeper.

  The goal was gaping. The equalizer was iable.

  Just as the winger pulled back his foot to strike, a blur of red fshed into view.

  Jean-Pierre.

  Laung himself across the goal, he threw out his leg in a desperate, st-ditch block.

  The thud of his boot against the ball echoed across the pitch. The shot, once destined for the back of the , deflected violently off his shin, spinning wide of the post.

  The Dragons FC supporters exhaled in relief—but the danger wasn't over.

  The ball ricocheted toward the edge of the box, nding at the feet of Union Doua's right winger. He wasted no time, striking a first-time volley with deadly accuracy. The ball screamed toward the bottom er.

  Dragons FC's goalkeeper, still rec from his dive, reacted on pure instinct. Throwing himself to the right, he stretched out a desperate glove—just enough to get a touch.

  But disaster struck.

  A fra of a sed ter, the Dragons FC right-back stormed in. In his urgency to clear the danger, he swung his boot just as the keeper's hands met the ball.

  The unintended defle spun the ball awkwardly. The ge in dire was brutal, unfiving.

  It looped helplessly into the back of the .

  1-1.

  For a brief moment, silence.

  Then, explosion.

  Union Doua's supporters erupted in celebration, their pyers swarming together, relief and joy etched across their faces.

  Oher side, Dragons FC stood frozen. Jean-Pierre, having put his body on the line just seds earlier, grabbed the back of his head in frustration. The goalkeeper sat on the ground, staring at the ball in disbelief. The right-back, who had meant to clear the danger, looked as though he wao disappear.

  Coach Emile ched his fists on the sideline, shaking his head—but instead of yelling, he cpped twice, his voice cutting through the noise.

  "Head up! It's 1-1, not 10-1! Reset!"

  Jean-Pierre took a deep breath, then turoward his teammates, rallying them. "Fet it! It's nothing! We go again!"

  The match had bee. And with the first half nearing its clusion, both teams now had everything to fight for.

  ...

  Marcel sat on the bench, his eyes locked och, analyzing every movement with a quiet iy. The equalizer had ged everything.

  For most of the first half, Jean-Pierre had been immense. His anding presence had repelled nearly every attack, his pivotal blo Union Doua's left winger a moment of pure defensive brilliance. But football be unfiving. One mistimed clearance, one unlucky defle—and just like that, all ons FC's defensive discipline had been undone.

  Yet Marcel remained calm. Not indifferent, not ued—but calm. The frustration of his teammates, the renewed energy of Union Doua, the pressure of the tour—none of it shook him. He believed in his ability. Not in an arrogant way, but in the way only someone who had prepared endlessly could.

  On the sideline, Coach Emile paced. His arms were crossed, his jaw set tight. This wasn't the pn. They had taihe game well—Union Doua had barely created real ces. That goal was a fluke, a gut punch right before halftime. And now, the sed half would be twice as difficult.

  He goward the bench. Marcel was already watg him. Not nervously, not impatiently—just watg, waiting.

  Emile made his decision.

  "Marcel," he called out, his voice sharp.

  Marcel so his feet before the coach even finished his sentence.

  "Start warming up. Yoing in at halftime."

  A flicker of a grin crossed Marcel's faot cocky, but eager.

  "Yes, coach!"

  He jogged toward the sideline, rolling his shoulders loose as he began his warm-up routine. Every step sharpened his focus. This was the moment he had been preparing for. No sed-guessing, ation—just football.

  Ba the pitch, Dragons Feeded to hold firm for the st few minutes before halftime. Union Doua, emboldened by their equalizer, pushed harder. Their midfielders pyed with more urgency, knog the ball around quickly, f Dragons FC's defeo scramble.

  In the 43rd minute, a long diagonal pass from the Doua ter-back sent their right winger sprinting toal. Dragons' right-back, still shaken from his earlier mistake, hesitated for a fra of a sed—just enough time for the wio slip past him.

  Jean-Pierre reacted instantly. Sprinting across the box, he lunged into a sliding challenge, his outstretched boot just barely intercepting the cross before it could reach the striker at the far post.

  The ball deflected high into the air—not fully cleared.

  For a split sed, Union Doua's midfielder lined up a volley from the edge of the box—but before he could ect, Dragons FC's tral midfielder threw himself in the way, blog the shot with his body.

  The ball spun out for a throw-in.

  Coach Emile exhaled.

  A momehe referee's whistle pierced the humid air.

  Halftime.

  Union Doua jogged off with renewed fidence, chattiedly among themselves. They had cwed their way back, and now, they smelled blood.

  Dragons FC, meanwhile, walked toward the tunnel in near silenot defeated—just frustrated. Jean-Pierre gave the right-back a quick pat on the back as they walked. "Don't dwell on it," he muttered. "We will fix it in the sed half."

  Marcel, still stretg, didn't take his eyes off the pitch.

  His moment had arrived.

  ...

  ...

  The Dragons FC dressing room was silent, weighed down by frustration. The equalizer just before halftime had sucked the air out of the team. Some pyers sat with their heads down, their fingers absentmindedly trag patterns on their socks. Others leaned back against the walls, exhaling sharply, staring at nothing in particur.

  A water bottle skidded across the floor as one of the midfielders away with his boot, shaking his head.

  Jean-Pierre, ever the leader, ched his fists but stayed silent, his jaw tight. He had done everything he could in that first half—yet one cruel defle had undone all their work.

  Then, the door swung open.

  Coach Emile strode in with purpose, his sharp gaze cutting through the tensioook a long, deliberate look at his pyers, reading their expressions. He let the sileretch for a moment, letting the weight of the situation sink in.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  "Alright, boys, listen up."

  His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

  "You pyed a damn good first half. That goal? Yeah, it stung. But it's football. Things happen. What matters is how we respond."

  His words, sharp and measured, started to pull the team's focus back from their frustration.

  "You think Union Doua's feeling fident right now? Of course they are. They think they've got us rattled. They think we're going to e out there with our heads down."

  Emile took a step forward, his voice rising slightly.

  "But I want you to look at the scoreboard." He poioward the imaginary numbers in the air. "It's 1-1. That's all. Nothing's lost. Nothing's decided."

  The pyers slowly started to sit up straighter.

  "We're still in trol. They're the ones who have to prove they break us down. But guess what? They 't. You've been rock solid back there, and if we stay sharp, they'll run out of ideas. And when they do, we punish them."

  He looked around the room, log eyes with different pyers, making sure the message hit home.

  "This game? It's there for the taking. But only if you go out there and take it."

  A few pyers he fire returning to their expressions.

  Then, Emile's gaze nded on Marcel.

  "Marcel."

  His voice cut through the room like a knife.

  Every pyer turo look at the 14-year-old.

  "Yoing in. Start of the sed half. Left wing."

  Marcel's stomach flipped, but he didn't hesitate. He nodded sharply.

  Emile tinued, his tone more direow.

  "I don't want you waiting around. As soon as you get the ball, attack. Drive at them. Take them on. Force them to react to you."

  A small smirk tugged at the er of Marcel's lips.

  "Uood, coach."

  Emile's eyes stayed on him for a sed longer. He gave a short nod.

  "I know you won't waste it."

  With that, the tension in the room shifted. Pyers rolled their shoulders back, tighteheir ces, stretched their legs. The fire was back. The belief had returned.

  Jean-Pierre cpped his hands once, loudly. "Let's go win this."

  A ripple of agreement passed through the team.

  Marcel took o deep breath as they stepped toward the tunnel.

  His heart was hammering, but his mind was clear.

  As the Dragons FC pyers emerged onto the pitch, Marcel cracked his knuckles, adjusting the tape around his wrists.

  He felt it in his bones.

  This was his moment.

  And he was ready.

  ...

  The sed half kicked off with renewed iy, the energy buzzing in the air like static.

  Dragons FC wasted no time—the midfielders looked sharper, the ball moving faster, their i clear. But Union Doua had e out with a vengeance, pressing aggressively, their bae pushing higher.

  It was ih mihat Marcel made his first move.

  The Dragons' tral midfielder, under immediate pressure, turned sharply, sing for an escape. Then he spotted it—Marcel, already in motion, sprinting diagonally down the left fnk, peeling away from his marker.

  With one swift swing of his boot, the midfielder unched a looping ball over the top, dropping it perfectly into Marcel's path.

  Marcel didn't break stride.

  With a feather-light touch, he trolled the ball in full sprint, his foot cushioning its momentum. The Union Dht-back, realizing the daoo te, bolted after him, but Marcel had already gained a step.

  The crowd stirred as Marcel closed in on the penalty area, the excitement palpable.

  Then—he feigned a cross.

  The right-back, desperate to block, lunged in with a sliding tackle.

  But Marcel was ready.

  With a slick drag-back, he pulled the ball out of reach, watg as his oppo slid helplessly past him, nding in the dirt.

  Now, the ter-back stepped forward, cautious, having seen what Marcel had just dohe sed defender, c behind, watched closely, waiting to trap him.

  Marcel slowed slightly, his feet dang over the ball, his body shifting ever so slightly left, then right. The first ter-back hesitated—just for a sed.

  It was all Mareeded.

  A sudden acceleration—Marcel darted right, then she ball left with a quick flick of his instep, squeeziweewo defenders.

  The sed defender lue, managing to clip Marcel slightly, causing him to stumble momentarily.

  But Marcel didn't stop.

  With sheer instinct, he recovered his bance, reeling the ball bato trol just before the goalkeeper could close the gap.

  Now it was just him and the keeper.

  The shot o be perfect.

  The goalkeeper rushed forward, making himself big, his eyes locked onto the ball, ready to react.

  Marcel took o breath, kept his posure, and struck.

  A firm, curling shot—aimed for the tht er.

  The keeper dived at full stretch, fiips grazing the air—

  But it wasn't enough.

  The ball whistled past his outstretched gloves, smashing into the .

  GOAL! 2-1!

  The crowd erupted, the small stadium alive with cheers and appuse. Marcel stood still for a brief moment, letting it sink in. Then, before he k, his teammates swarmed him, spping his back, grabbing his jersey, lifting him slightly off the ground.

  Jean-Pierre was the first to reach him, a wide grin on his face. "Man, you really don't waste time, do you?"

  Marcel just smiled, breath still heavy from the sprint. "Told you I was ready."

  From the sidelines, Coach Emile allowed himself a small, satisfied nod. He had no doubt Marcel would make an impact—but even he hadn't expected it this fast.

  Meanwhile, iands, Frane cpped her hands together, shaking her head with a proud smile.

  "I told you," she murmured to no one in particur. "I knew he'd do something special."

  Marcel goward the sideline, catg his maze. She gave him a thumbs-up.

  He nodded back.

  But he wasn't do.

  The game was still far from over.