It had been a month sihe Brasseries Tour, and Marcel was adjusting back to life outside of petition. The new school year roag, and he would sooarting Sede C, the sce stream of Cameroon’s sedary school system. But football opped.

  Even without official matches, Coach Emile kept the team training regurly. Some days, they focused on fitness—grueling running drills uhe scorg sun, s down their faces as their coach shouted, “If you ’t run, you ’t py!” Other days, they pyed 11v11 simution matches, refining tactid teical skills. Coach Emile made it clear: “Even if you don’t have games now, some of you might be called up for the national team. And if that happens, you better be ready.”

  For Marcel, this month had been about ohing—fixing his finishing.

  Despite sg five goals in the Brasseries Tour, he knew he had missed far too many ces—ces that could have ged games, evehem to victory. His curling shots were insistent, often g accuracy or the right amount of spin. If he wao be more lethal, he o work harder.

  So he asked Coach Emile to desigra shooting drills for him. Every day after training, while most of his teammates rested, Marcel stayed behind, perfeg his finishing.

  In the beginning, his results were frustrating. Out of 2 shots, only two or three found the back of the . His teique was insistent—sometimes he struck too hard, sometimes too soft, and sometimes pletely off-target. The poor pitch ditions didn’t help either, with uneven ground causing the ball to bounce awkwardly at times.

  But he kept at it.

  Over time, he started hitting his targets more ofteudied Cristiano Ronaldo, analyzing his runs, his movements, his deaking, and especially his shooting teique. After a month, his version rate had jumped to 8-10 out of 20 attempts. It still wasn’t perfect, but it rogress. His one-on-one finishing had improved the most—he was far more fident in front of goal.

  Now, all that was left was testing himself in a real match.

  "ASSEMBLE!"

  The familiar voice of Coach Emile rang out, snapping Marcel out of his thoughts. Training had just finished, and the team—still drenched i—quickly gathered around. Something was different.

  Coach Emile had a serious expression, his arms crossed as he looked over his pyers. A few of them g each other, their nervous energy filling the humid air. Had something happened? Was he going to cut pyers? Or announething big?

  Then, uedly, the coach’s stern face broke into a smile.

  “Good work today, boys. I’ve seen improvements in some of you. That’s what I want to see.”

  Relieved sighs spread through the group.

  “I have good news for two of you.”

  Now everyone was locked in, waiting anxiously to hear their names.

  Coach Emile’s eyes nded on Jean, the team captain.

  “Jean—gratutions. The first-team coach has been watg you, and he’s decided to call you up for pre-season with Dragon FC’s senior squad. If you impress, you could even sign your first professional tract.”

  The words hit like thunder.

  Jean froze for a moment before breaking into a massive grin. He ched his fists, eyes shining with pure joy, before letting out a victorious shout. His teammates patted him on the back, gratuting him—some genuinely happy, others secretly envious.

  Coach Emile nodded. “You worked hard for this, Jean. Keep pushing, and don’t waste this opportunity.”

  Jean’s pride was evident. This was his moment—his first real step torofessional football.

  But Coach Emile wasn’t done. He turned his gaze to Marcel.

  “Now, for the sed annou…”

  A small smirk appeared on his face. “Jean—you’ll be extra happy about this. You won’t just be training with the first team. You and Marcel have both beeed for the Cameroon U-17 national team.”

  A wave of stunned silence washed over the group. Then—

  “EEEEHH?!”

  Excited shouts erupted from the pyers. Marcel’s breath hitched.

  He had heard correctly, right?

  He blinked in disbelief, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The national team. He was actually called up.

  Jean looked pletely overwhelmed—this was double the joy for him. First the first-team call-up, now this? He could barely tain himself.

  But Marcel was different.

  The moment the shock faded, it was repced by pure determination.

  This was it.

  This was his ce to prove himself on the tial stage. His ce to erase the pain of the Brasseries Tour and finally lift his first real trophy.

  Coach Emile’s sharp voice cut through the excitement, refog the group.

  “For the rest of you—don’t let this disce you. If anything, use it as motivation. Marcel has only been with us for two months, but he’s worked hard and forced people to take notice. Let that push you to do better. If you keep improving, your time will e.”

  A few pyers nodded, abs the words. Others weren’t so good at hiding their disappoi.

  Marcel could feel some of the stares on him—not all friendly.

  As soon as training ended, Marcel practically sprinted off the field.

  He o call his mother. Then his father. Then Christina. Then Dimitri. Then Jordan.

  Everyone had to know.

  For the first time sihe Brasseries Tour, he felt unstoppable.

  He had lost before, but now?

  Now, he was going to win.

  ......

  ......

  The evening was warm, the aroma of grilled chi, ndolé, and fried pntains filling the air. Marcel sat o Christina, while his mother Frane, and his best friends Jordan and Dimitri gathered around the dining table.

  The meal was simple but hearty, and though it wasn’t a massive party, there was an undeniable sense of joy in the air. Marcel’s first national team call-up was something worth celebrating.

  Fraapped her spoon against her gss, gathering everyone’s attention. She looked at her son, her pride evident in her eyes.

  “Marcel, roud of you. Your father called earlier—he wishes he could be here, but he said he will send you a surprise if you mao score at least one goal with the national team.”

  Marcel smirked slightly. A goal challenge from his father? He for it.

  “This is just the beginning,” Frane tinued. “You’ve worked hard, and God has blessed you with this opportunity. But I want you to remember something—you have not ‘made it’ yet. This is a small step in a long journey. Stay humble, stay focused, and never let success make you lose sight of who you are.”

  She pced a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “We will pray now, not just for today, but for the journey ahead.”

  Everyone bowed their heads.

  “Lord, we thank You for the blessings You have given Marcel. We ask that You guide his steps, protect him from injury, and give him the strength to rise above every challenge. Let him represent his family, his try, and You with honor. May he remain humble in victory and strong i. Amen.”

  “Amen,” they echoed, and Marcel felt warmth fill his chest.

  As the prayer ended, Jordan, being Jordan, immediately switched the mood.

  “Now that we’re done being serious, let’s eat before all the food disappears!”

  Laughter filled the room as they dug into the meal, the tension lifting.

  ......

  Jordan leaned back after finishing his pte, rubbing his stomach. Then, out of nowhere, he stood up like a man delivering a motivational speech.

  “Ladies aleme be known that I—Jordan Ewane—was the FIRST to believe in Mardonga! One day, when he wins the Ballon d’Or, I will proudly tell the world that I pyed alongside him as a kid! When he scores in the Champions League final, I’ll be sitting in VIP seats, and people will ask me, ‘Jordan, how do you know him?’ And I’ll say—‘Know him? That’s my best friend!’”

  Marcel shook his head, ughing.

  “Who told you I’ll give you VIP tickets?”

  “Ekié, if you dare fet me, I’ll expose all the embarrassing things you did as a kid! Including that oime you—”

  “Jordan, shut up!” Marcel threiece of pntain at him.

  The room erupted in ughter, with Christina chug beside him.

  Dimitri, who had been mostly quiet, then said with a small smile, “In all hoy though, we’re proud of you, man. We always knew you were going to be something special.”

  Marcel felt his heart swell. He had lost the Brasseries Tour, but now, he was stepping into a bigger stage.

  And most importantly—he wasn’t doing it alone.

  ......

  ......

  On the m of September 6, 2014, Marcel stood at the threshold of his home, a modest yet well-kept residen Yaoundé. His mother, Frane, had insisted on apanying him to the CAF Excellence tre in Mbankomo, where the national U-17 team would eheir training camp. The jouro Mbankomo was filled with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.

  Upon arrival, the CAF Excellence tre preseself as a serene enestled within the lush equatorial forest, approximately 24 kilometers from Yaoundé. The facility, operational since 2010, boasted moderies desigo nurture young talent. As they approached the main building, Marcel couldn't help but notice the expansive football pitches with both artificial and natural grass, a semi-Olympic swimming pool, and the well-maintaiennis courts. The tral structure housed 40 luxury rooms, a restaurant, ferens, and administrative offices. The tranquility of the surroundings, bined with the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves, provided an ideal setting for focused training.

  Ihe main hall, a flurry of activity sighe arrival of pyers and officials. Marcel proceeded to the che desk, where he was greeted by team officials who handed him his room key and schedule for the week. As he turo find his room, a familiar voice called out.

  "Ndonga! You're here!" Marcel turned, already reizing the wide grin before seeing the face. Ignatius Ganago walked up, fiden his stride.

  "I knew you’d be called up. I was looking forward to this," Ganago said.

  Marcel smirked. "Same. It’ll be good to have you leading the attack. With you, our road to the U17 gets easier."

  Ganago raised an eyebrow pyfully. "If I’m leading the attack? Please, let’s be ho—if I weren’t here, who would score the goals?" He grinned.

  Marcel shook his head. "We’ll see about that. I’ve been training, and trust me, I’m not the same pyer you st saw."

  Befanago could fire back, another voice cut in. "If you two are done hyping yourselves up, just remember—I was the one who made the final, her of you."

  Marcel and Ganago turo see Ngono Ngoah, arms crossed, that same smirk Marcel remembered from their mat the Brasseries tour.

  Ganago scoffed. "And? You didn’t win. What’s the point of reag the final if you leave empty-handed?"

  Ngoah’s smirk remained. "At least I pyed in the final. Unlike some people who crumbled in the semis."

  Marcel rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. We get it. But we’ll settle this oot here."

  A team official walked over. "Move along, boys. More pyers o che."

  Entering the room, they were greeted by a spacious area featuring three single beds ly arranged with crisp white linens. The room exuded a blend of funality and fort, with a rge window a view of the verdant forest outside. A ft-s television was mounted on the wall opposite the beds, and a small seating area with a couple of armchairs and a coffee table occupied one er. The en-suite bathroom was equipped with modern fixtures, including a walk-in shower and a sizable mirror above the sink.

  "Not bad," Ganago remarked, tossing his bag onto one of the beds. "First time staying in a hotel like this."

  Ngoah nodded, iing the room. "Same here. We should probably sort out a schedule for the bathroom to avoid any m rush."

  Marcel agreed, setting his belongings beside his chosen bed. "Good idea. Let's make sure we're all on time for training."

  After unpag, they had a brief moment to rex before their scheduled medical check-ups. The medical examinatiohh, ensuring each pyer was in peak physical dition.

  Later that evening, the pyers were directed to the feren—a spacious, well-lit hall with rows of chairs ly arranged fag a projector s. Large windows allowed i traces of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the room. The air buzzed with anticipation, quiet murmurs filling the space as the newly assembled squad took their seats.

  Marcel’s gaze shifted as a middle-aged man stepped forward. The moment he saw him, his breath hitched slightly. He reized him.

  The same man from the Brasseries tour, the one who had spoken to him after the match, telling him he had a bright future. So he was the coach of the U17 national team? It all made sense now—his prese the tour, the way he had analyzed the game, the way he had approached him afterward.

  Their eyes met briefly, and for a moment, Marcel saw the fai flicker of aowledgment in the coach’s gaze. A subtle nod followed. Marcel straightened in his seat. This was real now.

  The man cleared his throat, his deep, anding voice cutting through the room like a sharp whistle.

  "Wele, gentlemen. My name is Joseph Atangana."

  The room fell into plete silence.

  "You are here because you have earhe right to wear this jersey. You have proven yourselves in your clubs, in your academies. But let me make this clear—you have proven nothi this level."

  He let that sink in before tinuing.

  "Ghana is the only obstacle between us and qualification for the U17. That match will not be easy. If you are here thinking this is just another youth tour where you show off your talent and py for yourself, then you are mistaken." His eyes moved sharply across the room.

  "This is about national pride. Cameroon is one of the biggest footballing nations in Africa, and no matter the age group, we must dominate. If we do not qualify, it will be seen as failure."

  Marcel felt the weight of those words pressing on him. The room was heavy with tension now. He had alyed to win, alushed himself to be better, but this… this was something else.

  Coach Atangana’s assistant stepped forward, holding a clipboard.

  "Before we begin tactical preparations, let’s introduce ourselves. Name, age, club, and position."

  The goalkeepers stood first.

  "Cédric Girex Djomo Tchotcheu, 16 years old, Fundesport de Doua."

  "Gabin Donald Wandji Baba, 15 years old, Gactique de Doua."

  "Assale Mathieu Augustin, 15 years old. I py for AS Estuaire de Doua."

  Then it tinued with the defenders.

  Jean stood up fidently, his voice clear. "Jean Vi Mvondo, 15 years old. I py ter-back fon FC de Yaoundé."

  Marodded slightly. He had already known Jean would be here, but hearing it made it official.

  , another familiar face.

  "Keita Ouambo Toukam, 14 years old, Kadji Sport Academy, ter-back."

  Then another.

  "Jules Frédérigassa Njike, 15 years old. I py for Espérance Pour Tous Académie de Yaoundé as a right-back."

  "Martin Hong, 16 years old from Nkufor Academy Sport. I py as a ter-back, but my position is defensive midfielder."

  At the mention of Nkufor Academy, Marcel’s attention soward him. Nkufor Academy—the team that had won the Brasseries tour, beating Kadji Sports Academy 1-0 in the final. He hadn’t pyed against them, but he had watched them.

  The midfielders followed.

  A familiar smirk apahe introdu.

  "Ngono Ngoah, 15 years old, Kadji Sports Academy. Attag midfielder."

  Marcel met his gaze briefly. A rival, but now also a teammate.

  Then came Ganago, grinning as he stood.

  "Ignatius Ganago, 15 years old, Brasseries Academy. Striker. And it's me who’ll score all the goals for the team."

  A few chuckles rippled through the room, followed by murmurs. The pyers exged gnces, some amused, others intrigued. Coach Atangana smiled. He liked fidence, but now it to Ganago to back it up.

  Then it was Marcel’s turn.

  He stood, keeping his voice steady, clear.

  "Mardonga, 14 years old, fron FC Yaoundé. I py as a left winger."

  A few heads turoward him. One of the you pyer in the squad. He felt their eyes linger—some curious, others indifferent. He caught Ngoah’s smirk again, the same look from the Brasseries tour.

  Marcel ched his fists slightly. He had lost against Ngoah before, but now? Now they were on the same side. He hoped Ngoah could replicate that tour form because if he did, it would bring them closer to U17 qualification.

  Coach Atangahe murmurs settle before stepping forward once more.

  "Good." His voice was sharp, trolled.

  "Now you know your teammates. Now you know your petition. Some of you will be starters. Some of you will fight for your pce. But I do not care about past reputations."

  His eyes moved across the room, sing each face, his tone unwavering.

  "What I care about is who will give everything in training. Who will give everything on matchday."

  He let the words linger.

  "This is not a friendly. This is qualification. If we fail, we are fotten. If we succeed, we take a step closer to U17. From there, we aim for the U17 World Cup."

  His voice hardened.

  "Remember that."

  Sileno one moved.

  Coach Atangana took one final look around the room, his expression unreadable.

  "Training begins tomorrow. Be ready."

  Marcel exhaled slowly, ung his fists uhe table.

  He had waited for this.

  Now, it was time to prove his pce was among the starter.