Trial Match
The trial match kicked off under the unforgiving midday sun.
The red team, made up of substitutes, squared off nervously against the blue team, the clear starters.
Even though it was just a practice match, the stakes were high—especially for Marcel.
This was his moment. His one shot to prove he has a place in this team.
From the opening whistle, the blue team pressed aggressively. Their shape was good, their intent clear. They weren't just playing casually—they were dominating.
The red team, however, struggled to get going. Their passes were hesitant, their first touches slightly off. The starters' intensity was suffocating, and every attempt at playing out from the back ended with a rushed clearance or a misplaced pass.
For the first few minutes, the ball rarely left the red team's half.
The blue team's number 9, their forward, was pressing like a predator hunting its prey. The red team's striker, number 19, tried to drop deeper for support, but every time he received the ball, he was instantly swarmed.
They needed relief.
Now.
Number 19 laid the ball off to number 15, the central midfielder. But before he could even raise his head, an opponent was already on him.
With barely a second to react, he played it wide to the left-back, who found himself immediately trapped by the blue team's right winger.
Under pressure, the left-back panicked and played a risky pass back toward the center-back.
The red team was now passing just to survive.
Each touch was becoming heavier.
Each decision, more frantic.
Each pass, riskier than the last.
The blue team could feel it.
Marcel could feel it.
Their nervous energy, their lack of composure—they were moments away from losing possession.
His instincts kicked in. He had to get them out of this.
"Here!" Marcel called out, his voice cutting through the tension.
The right-back, desperate for an option, hesitated for a split second before making a desperate back pass to the goalkeeper.
But the blue team was ruthless.
Two forwards immediately charged the keeper.
No time. No space. No options.
The goalkeeper panicked.
His attempted clearance wasn't clean—it came off his shin slightly, causing the ball to travel in a high, awkward loop down the left flank.
Straight toward Marcel.
A bad pass. Awkward height. Too fast.
Marcel had no time to adjust.
The blue team's right winger had already locked onto the ball, racing forward to intercept.
If Marcel hesitated, even for a second, he'd lose the ball.
He didn't.
As the ball descended, he timed his movement perfectly, letting it bounce once.
The right winger lunged—trying to trap Marcel before he could react.
But Marcel was a step ahead.
With a sharp flick of the outside of his right foot, he lifted the ball over the onrushing winger's head, spinning around him in one motion.
The winger twisted in confusion, realizing too late that Marcel was already past him—sprinting into space.
Now, he had an opening.
The blue team scrambled to reorganize, but their right-back, a tough and aggressive defender, was already closing in fast.
Marcel slowed down slightly, rolling the ball under his foot, waiting.
The defender took the bait.
He lunged.
That was all Marcel needed.
With a quick chip, he lifted the ball over the defender's outstretched foot, darting past him and collecting it on the other side.
It wasn't perfect—the ball bounced a little farther than he intended, forcing him to take an extra touch to regain control.
Now, he was just outside the penalty area.
Two defenders closed in from both sides.
No time. One decision.
Marcel glanced up.
A curling shot to the far post?
He had the technique. The angle was there.
But then—he spotted something better.
On the far side of the box, the red team's right winger stood wide open.
The defenders had been so focused on him that they had left the opposite flank completely exposed.
This was it.
Marcel stood his ground, the ball at his feet, the two defenders ready to pounce.
He stayed calm, shifting his weight left, then right, using quick body feints to keep them guessing.
The tall center-back, the same one who had challenged him in the locker room, was getting frustrated.
Then—he lost patience.
He lunged.
Marcel was waiting for it.
With a smooth, effortless roll, he slipped the ball through the defender's legs—a perfect nutmeg.
The crowd gasped.
The center-back, momentarily frozen, twisted his body, scrambling to recover—but it was too late.
Marcel was already past him, sprinting into open space.
Two more defenders rushed in from either side.
No time. One chance.
Marcel angled his body and, without breaking stride, swung his right foot around the ball—a trivela pass, curling beautifully through the gap between the defenders.
It wasn't perfect.
The ball bounced slightly as it traveled, causing the right winger to adjust his first touch—but he controlled it well enough.
Then—he struck it low, first-time, aiming for the far post.
The blue team's goalkeeper reacted—diving late, his fingertips grazing the ball.
But not enough.
The ball whizzed past him and nestled into the back of the net.
GOAL.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—celebration.
The red team erupted as the right winger sprinted toward Marcel, his face lit up with excitement.
"What a pass!" he shouted, throwing his arms around Marcel.
"That was amazing!"
Marcel, breathing heavily, allowed himself a small smile.
"Just keep finding space," he said. "I'll keep feeding you."
...
The red team's lead didn't last long. The starters, stung by the early goal, tightened their grip on the game. Their pressing became relentless, their passing sharper, their movement quicker. The substitutes were already struggling, and now, they were barely holding on.
The blue team's midfield took control, cutting off passing lanes and forcing mistakes. Every clearance from the red team felt rushed, every pass under pressure. The ball barely left their half.
In the twelfth minute, the inevitable nearly happened.
The blue team's number eight, a composed playmaker, spotted a gap and threaded a perfect pass between the center-backs. Their striker reacted instantly, bursting through the space.
One-on-one with the keeper.
For a second, it looked like a certain goal. But the red team's goalkeeper was quick off his line, closing the angle fast. As the striker tried to slot the ball past him, the keeper threw himself low, blocking the shot with his outstretched leg. The ball spun wide for a corner.
The blue team took it fast. Their tall center-back, the same one Marcel had embarrassed earlier, rose highest and smashed a header toward goal. The power behind it was undeniable.
The goalkeeper reacted again. He leaped, fingertips grazing the ball just enough to push it over the bar. Another save.
But the pressure didn't stop.
The red team couldn't get out of their own half. Every attempted counterattack was snuffed out before it even started. Passes went astray, clearances came straight back. Marcel barely touched the ball.
Then, in the twenty-second minute, a rare opening.
Instead of blasting the ball forward, the goalkeeper spotted Marcel in space and played a quick pass out to him.
Marcel turned sharply, sprinting down the left wing. The right-back chased, but Marcel was already ahead. He feinted inside before cutting back out, leaving his marker flat-footed.
With space to work, he played a quick one-two with the central midfielder, breaking into the final third.
The striker was waiting.
Marcel whipped in a low cross, the ball rolling perfectly into his path. A first-time strike sent the ball curving toward the far post.
It looked perfect.
It wasn't.
The ball skimmed just wide.
A wasted chance.
The blue team punished them immediately.
Their right-back surged forward, linking up with his winger. A sharp one-two sent him free, and he whipped a low cross into the box.
The striker, lurking near the six-yard line, made his move.
A flick of his foot, a quick reaction—goal?
No.
The red team's center-back threw himself into a desperate block, deflecting it away for another corner.
The blue team played the set-piece the same way as before—aiming for their dominant center-back. This time, his header was perfect, bulleting toward the top corner.
Somehow, the goalkeeper got there.
Another unbelievable save.
But the red team was breaking.
The warning signs were everywhere. The midfield was exhausted. The backline was panicking. The blue team had complete control.
Then, in the twenty-fifth minute, the equalizer came.
The blue team's defensive midfielder lifted a precise long ball over the defense.
The striker timed his run to perfection, slipping past the center-backs just before they reacted.
This time, the keeper couldn't save them.
One touch to settle.
One touch to score.
The ball rolled into the bottom corner.
The blue team roared in celebration.
Game on.
...
The red team, though rattled by the equalizer, refused to crumble. They regrouped, tightening their shape, but the blue team was relentless, pushing forward in waves. Marcel, recognizing the danger, took on more defensive duties. He tracked back, covering the left flank, blocking passing lanes, and helping his full-back deal with the constant overload. Each time the blue team switched play, stretching the defense, Marcel was there, ensuring they had no easy way through.
Despite their effort, the red team was visibly tiring. The blue team's playmaker dictated the tempo, moving the ball from side to side, pulling defenders out of position. The substitutes chased shadows, struggling to get a touch. Marcel could feel the weight of fatigue settling in.
Then, in the fortieth minute, a rare opportunity.
A diagonal ball from the right flank found Marcel in space. His marker, exhausted from the relentless pace, hesitated. Marcel controlled it smoothly and immediately played a quick one-two with his midfielder, bursting past the right-back and collecting the return pass.
This was his chance.
The ball sat up perfectly, inviting the strike. Marcel didn't think—he just reacted. He caught it first time, his volley arcing toward goal.
For a brief moment, time seemed to slow.
The ball soared, cutting through the air with venom. The goalkeeper barely moved. It was destined for the top corner.
But then—
A deafening thud.
The crossbar rattled violently as the ball ricocheted back into the box.
Marcel barely had time to react before the blue team's center-back cleared it long. His chance to equalize—gone in an instant.
And suddenly, disaster.
The clearance turned into a perfect counterattack. The blue team's striker sprinted onto the long ball, outmuscling the last defender, who stumbled and collapsed under the pressure.
One-on-one.
The goalkeeper rushed out, but the striker stayed composed, slotting the ball calmly into the net.
2-1.
The red team had gone from nearly retaking the lead to trailing in a matter of seconds.
Marcel stood frozen, hands on his hips. His missed goal replayed in his mind like a cruel taunt. A few inches lower, and he would have been the hero. Instead, they were behind.
The whistle blew for halftime.
As the players walked off, frustration hung in the air. Coach Emile gathered both teams, his voice steady but firm.
"Alright, listen up!" His tone was direct but encouraging. "This isn't just a trial for Marcel. It's a chance for all of you to show you deserve your spot in this squad. I want intensity. I want sharpness. I want to see who steps up in the second half."
His eyes settled on Marcel.
"You've done well. You've been involved, created chances, got an assist. That volley? Nearly perfect. But football is like that—it's a game of inches. Shake it off. The second half is yours to make a real impact."
Marcel exhaled, nodding. "Yes, Coach."
He knew he had played well, but well wasn't enough. Not today.
He headed toward the bench, swapping his red jersey for a blue one.
This wasn't just about a new color—it was a step up. He was now playing with the starters. A bigger challenge, a bigger stage.
Marcel didn't feel pressure. He felt ready.
As the referee prepared to restart the match, he took a deep breath.
This was it. His moment to shine.
...
...
The second half kicked off, and Marcel, now in the blue jersey, stepped onto the pitch with a quiet determination. No longer the underdog, he was part of the starters now—part of the team that dictated the game.
With the blue team leading 2-1, their confidence was evident. Their midfield controlled possession, stringing together passes with purpose, shifting the red team from side to side. Marcel, positioned out wide on the left, stayed patient, watching, waiting for his moment to strike.
In the 48th minute, the ball switched to his flank. He controlled it smoothly, his marker—the red team's right-back—already on high alert. The defender hesitated, knowing what Marcel was capable of.
Marcel feinted left, then right, testing his opponent's balance. The defender bit too early. That was all Marcel needed. He burst forward, gliding past him in a flash.
As he drove toward the box, the red team scrambled to recover. A center-back rushed to cut him off, but Marcel had already spotted the better option. Instead of forcing a shot, he whipped in a precise cross with the outside of his foot.
The blue team's striker had read it perfectly. Timing his run, he lunged forward, meeting the ball with a powerful first-time strike.
The net rippled.
3-1.
Marcel allowed himself a small smile as his teammates celebrated around him. He glanced toward the sidelines and caught his mother watching from a distance, hands clasped together, a flicker of pride in her eyes. She wasn't the type to jump and cheer, but the way she nodded slightly told him everything he needed to know.
The red team, unwilling to roll over, pushed forward in response. They upped their intensity, pressing higher and trying to cut off passing lanes. The blue team, however, remained composed, forcing their opponents into rushed decisions. Each time the red team managed to break forward, they struggled to find an opening, the blue team's midfield closing down space with ruthless efficiency.
By the 55th minute, Marcel was fully locked in. His touches were clean, his movement sharp. He received the ball on the left again, immediately facing his right-back for a second duel.
This time, he didn't use tricks—just speed. A quick touch past the defender, and he was gone. The defender lunged in desperation, but Marcel was already cutting inside, gliding past another challenge with a slick drag-back.
He had space. He took the shot.
The ball flew toward the far post, curving dangerously—but the red team's goalkeeper reacted in time, diving at full stretch to tip it over the bar.
A murmur of appreciation spread across the field. Close.
Moments later, the red team found a way through. A quick counter, a precise through ball, and suddenly their striker was bearing down on goal. The blue team's last defender was too slow—Marcel wasn't.
He sprinted back, closing the distance just as the striker wound up to shoot. Timing it perfectly, he slid in, hooking the ball away cleanly before the shot could be taken.
His teammates patted him on the back, nodding in approval. Even as an attacker, he was proving his worth all over the pitch.
By the 68th minute, the blue team's control was undeniable. They passed with precision, dragging the red team's defense out of shape. The ball made its way to Marcel again.
This time, two defenders rushed to stop him.
Marcel stayed calm. He let them commit first. Then, with a deft flick, he slipped the ball through the first defender's legs—a nutmeg that left the opponent stunned.
The second defender lunged wildly. Marcel anticipated it, spinning away with a Marseille turn, his movement seamless.
Now, it was just him and the goalkeeper.
He stayed composed, waited for the keeper to commit, then placed the ball into the bottom corner.
4-1.
No excessive celebration, no over-the-top reactions—just a quiet nod to himself as he jogged back, ready for the next play.
…
…
On the sidelines, Coach Emile stood with his arms folded, his sharp eyes locked on Marcel. Every touch, every movement, every decision the boy made was being scrutinized. One of his assistants, a wiry man in his late thirties, leaned in slightly.
"The kid's got something special," the assistant muttered, shaking his head in quiet amazement. "His awareness, his control under pressure... you don't see that often at this level."
Emile nodded but didn't take his eyes off the pitch. "He's got vision beyond his years. You can see it in the way he scans before receiving the ball, how he anticipates the play."
Another assistant, a former defender himself, crossed his arms. "And he's not just a flashy dribbler. He tracks back, he presses, and he makes the right decisions. We could use him in the wide areas for the Brasseries Tournament. Defenders won't know if he's cutting inside or going down the line."
Emile's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "He's in the squad," he said decisively. "With him, we can stretch teams and create more openings. He's the kind of player who can turn a match on its head."
The assistants exchanged knowing glances. The Brasseries Tournament was just weeks away, and with Marcel in their ranks, their ambitions suddenly seemed much bigger.
…
…
By the 75th minute, the blue team had completely taken control of the match, their confidence translating into fluid, precise passing. Every touch, every movement seemed synchronized, as if they had been playing together for years. The red team, exhausted and outclassed, struggled to keep up.
A quick sequence of one-touch passes from the blue team's midfield carved open space, shifting the ball from the left to the right flank. Just as the red team adjusted, the ball was switched again—this time finding its way to Marcel on the edge of the box.
Marcel took one touch, lifting his head. He spotted the blue team's right winger making a perfectly timed late run into the penalty area. He had options—he could go for goal himself, curl a shot toward the far post—but he didn't hesitate.
Instead, he disguised his intent, shaping to shoot before slicing a low, driven cross across the face of goal. The ball zipped past the scrambling defenders, arriving perfectly at the feet of the right winger. Without breaking stride, the winger met it first-time, slotting it neatly past the goalkeeper.
5-1.
The red team was broken.
On the sidelines, Francine clapped, her smile wide with pride. She wasn't an expert in tactics or formations, but she didn't need to be. She could see how much Marcel was influencing the game, how his teammates gravitated toward him.
Even with the match winding down, Marcel didn't ease off. In the 89th minute, he found himself deep in his own half, tracking back to help his team defend. But as soon as he intercepted a loose ball near the touchline, he sensed an opportunity.
With a sharp turn, he escaped his marker and accelerated forward.
One player, then another, tried to close him down, but his feet moved too quickly. A flurry of stepovers sent the first defender stumbling. The second, desperate to stop him, lunged in with a reckless challenge, but Marcel flicked the ball over his outstretched leg before gliding past him like a shadow.
Now, with the penalty area in sight, only one defender stood between him and the goal.
Marcel slowed for a brief second, watching the defender's stance. Then, with a sudden shift of his weight, he dropped his shoulder to the left before cutting inside, leaving the defender twisting helplessly.
One-on-one with the goalkeeper now.
The keeper rushed out, trying to close the angle. Marcel stayed calm.
With a delicate touch, he scooped the ball over the diving keeper, watching as it floated gently into the net.
6-1.
The final whistle blew.
A rush of emotions surged through him as his teammates swarmed him, clapping his back, ruffling his hair, throwing their arms around his shoulders. Laughter and cheers echoed across the field as the blue team celebrated a dominant victory.
On the sidelines, Francine placed a hand over her heart, her chest swelling with pride. Marcel wasn't just playing well—he was standing out. He had walked into this trial as just another hopeful player. Now, there was no doubt. He had left his mark.
…
…
As the players gathered near the center of the field, Marcel wiped the sweat from his forehead, his breathing still heavy from the intensity of the match. The weight of the trial had lifted, replaced by the buzzing energy of victory and acceptance.
Even Jean-Pierre Mvondo, the tall defender who had been skeptical before the game, walked over with a smirk that no longer carried its earlier doubt. He extended a hand, his previous hesitation gone.
"You're good, Marcel. With you on the team, we can do some real damage in the tournament," Jean-Pierre admitted, his voice carrying a new layer of respect. "Sorry for doubting you earlier."
Marcel grinned, shaking his hand firmly. "No worries, Jean. We'll make a great team."
A few of the other players joined in, patting Marcel on the back, nodding at him in approval. The atmosphere had shifted—he was no longer just the trialist, the outsider trying to prove himself. He was now one of them.
Coach Emile stepped forward, calling the players together. His voice, though firm as always, carried a distinct note of satisfaction. "Great job today, everyone. You all put in the effort, and I saw some strong performances. But I think we all know who stood out today."
He let the words settle before turning to Marcel. "Welcome to Dragons FC Yaoundé U17, Marcel. You've earned your place."
A small cheer broke out among the players, some clapping, others simply nodding in approval. Marcel felt a surge of pride swell in his chest. He had done it.
But Emile wasn't done. His tone became sharper, shifting into coach mode. "That said, don't think this was the hard part. We've got the Brasseries Football Academy Tournament coming up. And let me remind you, our group is no joke—Brasseries Football Academy, Canon Yaoundé U17, and Union Douala U17. These teams don't mess around, and neither will we."
The players' post-match buzz dimmed slightly at the mention of their upcoming opponents, but in its place came a focused determination. Everyone understood the challenge ahead.
Emile smirked, his gaze flicking back to Marcel. "Oh, and one last thing. Marcel here is only 14, the youngest in the squad. You're all 16 or 17. So if you let him outwork you in training, don't come crying to me!"
Laughter erupted from the group, the lingering tension dissolving. But beneath the jokes, Marcel could sense the respect they now held for him. The trial had been one thing, but earning his spot in the squad was only the first step.
As the players began heading toward the locker room, Emile made his way to the sidelines, where Francine stood waiting, her hands clasped together, eyes still glowing with pride.
"Mrs. Ndonga," Emile greeted, offering a smile, "your son is something special. We're bringing him into the team immediately. He'll start training with us this week. He's got a bright future ahead of him."
Francine, unable to contain her joy, returned the smile warmly. "Thank you, Coach. He's been waiting for this moment."
Emile nodded, glancing back at the players. "And knowing him, he won't be waiting much longer before he makes an even bigger impact."
As Marcel approached, his exhaustion evident but overshadowed by his wide grin, Francine couldn't hold back anymore. She pulled him into a tight hug, squeezing him as though she could somehow freeze this moment in time.
"You were incredible today, Marcel," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "I might not understand all the tactics, but I knew when you were the one making things happen. I'm so, so proud of you."
Marcel felt the warmth of her words settle deep within him. This wasn't just his victory—it was hers too. "Thanks, Mom," he said softly, returning her embrace. "Let's go home and celebrate."
With that, they walked off together, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the field where Marcel had just taken one step closer to his dream.