Dragons FC Yaoundé U17 vs Union Douala U17 Part 1
10 July 2014, Stade Militaire, Ngoa Ekelé
The scorching afternoon sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the dusty and uneven pitch of Military Stadium in Ngoa Ekelé. The dry heat clung to everything, the kind that made sweat bead instantly on a player's skin. Despite the punishing conditions, a few hundred spectators had gathered—some were casual onlookers drawn in by the noise, others more invested, their eyes scanning the field for potential talent.
The stands, worn from years of use, offered little relief from the heat. Many fans shaded themselves with newspapers or hats, while others waved small banners, determined to 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 suffocating. Coach Emile stood in the center, his deep voice slicing through the silence as he addressed his players.
"Alright, listen up," he began, his tone calm but firm. "This is our first game in the tournament, and it's against Union Douala. We need to win this if we want to make it to the quarter-finals. Our other matches against Brasseries Football Academy and Canon Yaoundé will be even tougher, but everything starts here."
He paused, letting the words sink in. The players were locked in, absorbing every instruction, their young faces a mix of nerves and determination.
"We're sticking to our tactical plan. Union Douala might seem like the weakest team on paper, but that doesn't mean we take them lightly. We'll let them come at us, make them feel like they're controlling the game. But the moment they leave a gap, we strike—fast and precise. We need to get a goal before halftime; if we do that, the second half will be much easier, especially once Marcel comes in."
At the mention of Marcel, a few players glanced toward the bench, where he sat with a composed 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 can't afford to concede. Stay disciplined at the back, keep your shape, and don't let them break through. If we keep a clean sheet, we'll win this match."
He scanned the players, 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 conviction.
Minutes later, both teams emerged from the tunnel, stepping onto the dry, cracked field of Military Stadium. The crowd responded with scattered applause, the claps cutting through the thick, humid air. Dragons FC's players jogged into position, while Marcel, seated on the substitutes' bench, took a moment to scan the stands, his gaze searching for something familiar.
It didn't take long to find it.
Near the benches, Christina, his girlfriend, waved enthusiastically, her smile beaming with excitement.
"Come on, Marcel! Show them who's the best!" she called out, her voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.
Beside her, Francine, Marcel's mother, stood with her usual composed presence. Dressed in her neat, simple attire, she was the picture of quiet pride. She didn't need to shout—her belief in Marcel was unwavering.
"You've got this, Marcel! Give it everything," she encouraged, her voice steady and filled with warmth.
As the teams lined up for kick-off, Francine turned to a middle-aged man standing nearby. He seemed curious but not particularly invested in the match. 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 change this game."
The man glanced at 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 change the game if he's not even playing?"
Francine didn't flinch. She simply smiled wider, her confidence unwavering.
"Just wait," she said softly. "Even from the bench, when his moment comes, 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 clenched his fists. The game had begun, and while Union Douala cautiously pushed forward, Dragons FC stayed disciplined, following Emile's plan to absorb pressure and wait for the right moment to strike.
For now, all Marcel could do was wait. But his moment was coming.
...
...
The referee's whistle echoed through Military Stadium, cutting through the humid afternoon air. Union Douala, set up in a disciplined 4-4-2, wasted no time asserting themselves. From the first touch, their midfield sought control, 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, absorbing the pressure.
Unlike Union Douala's controlled buildup, Coach Emile's team played with patience, almost inviting their opponents 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 dominance. It was a trap, carefully laid.
The crowd, though not deeply invested in either side, watched with quiet curiosity. The match had yet to catch fire, but that was about to change.
Sensing Dragons' reluctance to press, Union Douala adjusted their approach. Their coach's voice rang from the touchline, urging his players to push higher, take risks. The shift was immediate. By the 18th minute, Union Douala's number 15, their midfield engine, found himself in space. He took a touch, then launched a precise diagonal ball to the left winger, who sprinted down the flank.
Dragons' right-back hesitated—a costly mistake. The winger, recognizing the opportunity, threaded a clever through ball to the overlapping left-back, who surged 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 Douala's center-forward, who positioned himself perfectly to attack the ball.
Jean-Pierre saw the danger unfolding. Timing his jump perfectly, the center-back threw himself into the air, his forehead meeting the ball cleanly. The clearance was powerful, but more importantly, it sent the ball into open space on the left flank.
The Dragons left-back, alert to the moment, controlled it with a sharp touch before darting forward. His quick acceleration left an onrushing defender behind, and as he crossed midfield, he spotted his central midfielder sprinting into position.
Without hesitation, he delivered a clean, well-placed pass. The midfielder barely needed a touch before launching a brilliant long through ball over Union Douala's defensive line.
In the blink of an eye, Dragons' center-forward was through on goal.
He wrestled past two defenders, using his balance and 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 cleanly—a venomous volley, struck with precision.
The Union Douala goalkeeper barely had time to react. The ball rocketed toward the top-right corner, clipping the underside of the crossbar before smashing into the net.
For a split second, silence.
Then—eruption.
Dragons FC players mobbed their striker, celebrating the sheer brilliance of the goal. Even Coach Emile, usually composed, allowed himself a satisfied nod, clapping firmly but not getting carried away. He had expected this.
1-0.
A goal that was pure discipline, precision, and ruthless execution.
Union Douala, stunned, quickly retrieved the ball from the net. They had controlled possession for much of the opening minutes—but in one swift move, Dragons FC had shown exactly why patience was their greatest weapon.
...
The game resumed with a noticeable shift in tempo. Union Douala, now trailing, had no intention of accepting defeat quietly. Their midfield pressed higher, their wingers hugged the touchline, and their forwards lurked dangerously near the Dragons FC defense, waiting for the right moment to strike.
For the next ten 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 towering presence, every through ball intercepted before it could reach its intended target. His reading of the game was sharp, and his physicality made him an unshakable presence in the backline.
But no defender could hold off a relentless attack forever.
In the 38th minute, Union Douala finally found their opening. Their central midfielder, patient and composed, saw the right-back slightly out of position. With a swift glance, he released a perfect through ball, threading it between the right-back and the nearest center-back.
The left winger had already started his run. Sprinting into the gap, he controlled the ball inside the penalty area. But his first touch was heavy. The ball rolled just ahead of him—an invitation for Dragons FC's goalkeeper to pounce.
Sensing the danger, the 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 inevitable.
Just as the winger pulled back his foot to strike, a blur of red flashed into view.
Jean-Pierre.
Launching himself across the goal, he threw out his leg in a desperate, last-ditch block.
The thud of his boot against the ball echoed across the pitch. The shot, once destined for the back of the net, 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, landing at the feet of Union Douala's right winger. He wasted no time, striking a first-time volley with deadly accuracy. The ball screamed toward the bottom corner.
Dragons FC's goalkeeper, still recovering 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 fraction of a second later, 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 deflection spun the ball awkwardly. The change in direction was brutal, unforgiving.
It looped helplessly into the back of the net.
1-1.
For a brief moment, silence.
Then, explosion.
Union Douala's supporters erupted in celebration, their players swarming together, relief and joy etched across their faces.
On the other side, Dragons FC stood frozen. Jean-Pierre, having put his body on the line just seconds 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 wanted to disappear.
Coach Emile clenched his fists on the sideline, shaking his head—but instead of yelling, he clapped twice, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Head up! It's 1-1, not 10-1! Reset!"
Jean-Pierre took a deep breath, then turned toward his teammates, rallying them. "Forget it! It's nothing! We go again!"
The match had been reset. And with the first half nearing its conclusion, both teams now had everything to fight for.
...
Marcel sat on the bench, his eyes locked on the pitch, analyzing every movement with a quiet intensity. The equalizer had changed everything.
For most of the first half, Jean-Pierre had been immense. His commanding presence had repelled nearly every attack, his pivotal block on Union Douala's left winger a moment of pure defensive brilliance. But football can be unforgiving. One mistimed clearance, one unlucky deflection—and just like that, all of Dragons FC's defensive discipline had been undone.
Yet Marcel remained calm. Not indifferent, not unaffected—but calm. The frustration of his teammates, the renewed energy of Union Douala, the pressure of the tournament—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 plan. They had contained the game well—Union Douala had barely created real chances. That goal was a fluke, a gut punch right before halftime. And now, the second half would be twice as difficult.
He glanced toward the bench. Marcel was already watching him. Not nervously, not impatiently—just watching, waiting.
Emile made his decision.
"Marcel," he called out, his voice sharp.
Marcel snapped to his feet before the coach even finished his sentence.
"Start warming up. You're going in at halftime."
A flicker of a grin crossed Marcel's face—not 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 second-guessing, no hesitation—just football.
Back on the pitch, Dragons FC needed to hold firm for the last few minutes before halftime. Union Douala, emboldened by their equalizer, pushed harder. Their midfielders played with more urgency, knocking the ball around quickly, forcing Dragons FC's defense to scramble.
In the 43rd minute, a long diagonal pass from the Douala center-back sent their right winger sprinting toward goal. Dragons' right-back, still shaken from his earlier mistake, hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough time for the winger to 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 second, Union Douala's midfielder lined up a volley from the edge of the box—but before he could connect, Dragons FC's central midfielder threw himself in the way, blocking the shot with his body.
The ball spun out for a throw-in.
Coach Emile exhaled.
A moment later, the referee's whistle pierced the humid air.
Halftime.
Union Douala jogged off with renewed confidence, chatting excitedly among themselves. They had clawed their way back, and now, they smelled blood.
Dragons FC, meanwhile, walked toward the tunnel in near silence. Not 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 second half."
Marcel, still stretching, 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 players sat with their heads down, their fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on their socks. Others leaned back against the walls, exhaling sharply, staring at nothing in particular.
A water bottle skidded across the floor as one of the midfielders nudged it away with his boot, shaking his head.
Jean-Pierre, ever the leader, clenched his fists but stayed silent, his jaw tight. He had done everything he could in that first half—yet one cruel deflection had undone all their work.
Then, the door swung open.
Coach Emile strode in with purpose, his sharp gaze cutting through the tension. He took a long, deliberate look at his players, reading their expressions. He let the silence stretch 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 played 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 Douala's feeling confident right now? Of course they are. They think they've got us rattled. They think we're going to come 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 pointed toward the imaginary numbers in the air. "It's 1-1. That's all. Nothing's lost. Nothing's decided."
The players slowly started to sit up straighter.
"We're still in control. They're the ones who have to prove they can break us down. But guess what? They can'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, locking eyes with different players, 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 players nodded, the fire returning to their expressions.
Then, Emile's gaze landed on Marcel.
"Marcel."
His voice cut through the room like a knife.
Every player turned to look at the 14-year-old.
"You're going in. Start of the second half. Left wing."
Marcel's stomach flipped, but he didn't hesitate. He nodded sharply.
Emile continued, his tone more direct now.
"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 corner of Marcel's lips.
"Understood, coach."
Emile's eyes stayed on him for a second longer. He gave a short nod.
"I know you won't waste it."
With that, the tension in the room shifted. Players rolled their shoulders back, tightened their laces, stretched their legs. The fire was back. The belief had returned.
Jean-Pierre clapped his hands once, loudly. "Let's go win this."
A ripple of agreement passed through the team.
Marcel took one last deep breath as they stepped toward the tunnel.
His heart was hammering, but his mind was clear.
As the Dragons FC players 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 second half kicked off with renewed intensity, the energy buzzing in the air like static.
Dragons FC wasted no time—the midfielders looked sharper, the ball moving faster, their intent clear. But Union Douala had come out with a vengeance, pressing aggressively, their backline pushing higher.
It was in the 47th minute that Marcel made his first move.
The Dragons' central midfielder, under immediate pressure, turned sharply, scanning for an escape. Then he spotted it—Marcel, already in motion, sprinting diagonally down the left flank, peeling away from his marker.
With one swift swing of his boot, the midfielder launched a looping ball over the top, dropping it perfectly into Marcel's path.
Marcel didn't break stride.
With a feather-light touch, he controlled the ball in full sprint, his foot cushioning its momentum. The Union Douala right-back, realizing the danger too late, 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, watching as his opponent slid helplessly past him, landing in the dirt.
Now, the center-back stepped forward, cautious, having seen what Marcel had just done. The second defender, covering behind, watched closely, waiting to trap him.
Marcel slowed slightly, his feet dancing over the ball, his body shifting ever so slightly left, then right. The first center-back hesitated—just for a second.
It was all Marcel needed.
A sudden acceleration—Marcel darted right, then snapped the ball left with a quick flick of his instep, squeezing between the two defenders.
The second defender lunged late, managing to clip Marcel slightly, causing him to stumble momentarily.
But Marcel didn't stop.
With sheer instinct, he recovered his balance, reeling the ball back into control just before the goalkeeper could close the gap.
Now it was just him and the keeper.
The shot needed to be perfect.
The goalkeeper rushed forward, making himself big, his eyes locked onto the ball, ready to react.
Marcel took one last breath, kept his composure, and struck.
A firm, curling shot—aimed for the top right corner.
The keeper dived at full stretch, fingertips grazing the air—
But it wasn't enough.
The ball whistled past his outstretched gloves, smashing into the net.
GOAL! 2-1!
The crowd erupted, the small stadium alive with cheers and applause. Marcel stood still for a brief moment, letting it sink in. Then, before he knew it, his teammates swarmed him, slapping 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, in the stands, Francine clapped her hands together, shaking her head with a proud smile.
"I told you," she murmured to no one in particular. "I knew he'd do something special."
Marcel glanced toward the sideline, catching his mother's gaze. She gave him a thumbs-up.
He nodded back.
But he wasn't done yet.
The game was still far from over.