Brasseries Tournament Semi-finals Part 2
As the second half progressed, Kadji Sports abandoned their patient, possession-based approach. Instead, they switched to a more direct, physical style, launching long balls into Dragons FC's defensive third, hoping their tall striker could capitalize.
But Jean, ever the defensive rock, was having none of it. Time and again, he positioned himself perfectly, leaping high to win headers and clearing the danger before Kadji Sports' striker could even challenge him. His dominance in the air was shutting down their strategy, forcing Kadji Sports to rethink their approach.
Marcel, meanwhile, was observing everything. Kadji Sports' defensive line was creeping dangerously high, leaving them vulnerable to counterattacks. Sensing an opportunity, he adjusted his position carefully to avoid being caught offside.
Then, another long ball came into Dragons FC's half. Jean once again rose above everyone, heading it down toward one of his midfield teammates. The midfielder took a touch, scanning the field. That was when Marcel made his move.
He sprinted forward and raised his arm, signaling for the ball.
Jean's teammate immediately spotted him and played a quick return pass to Jean, who didn't hesitate. With a perfectly weighted, lofted ball, Jean sent it soaring over the Kadji Sports defense, leading Marcel into open space.
The ball dropped perfectly into his path, just ahead of him. If he timed it right, he could let it bounce once and continue his charge toward goal without breaking stride.
Then he saw the spot where it would land.
The pitch was uneven, worn from constant use. A patch just outside the penalty box had already caused awkward bounces earlier in the game. As the ball struck the ground, instead of slowing down, it took an unpredictable skip forward, veering slightly.
Marcel had expected some irregularity, but the sudden change forced him to adjust. He pushed himself to accelerate even harder.
The goalkeeper saw the danger and made a split-second decision to rush out, determined to reach the ball first. He couldn't use his hands—it was still outside the box—so he went for a desperate clearance.
Marcel got there at the exact same time.
As the keeper swung his foot, Marcel reacted instinctively. Instead of trying to dribble around him, he lunged forward and planted his right boot on top of the ball, momentarily pinning it against the turf. The keeper's momentum carried him forward, his leg swiping through nothing but air.
Then, in one fluid motion, Marcel executed a half-spin, dragging the ball with him—a sharp pivot rather than a full Marseille turn. The move was effective enough to leave the keeper sprawling past him, completely beaten.
For a brief second, time seemed to slow.
The goal was wide open. Marcel steadied himself, took a composed touch, and slotted the ball into the empty net.
GOAL!
Dragons FC took the lead! 1-2 in the 58th minute!
On the touchline, Coach Emile shot to his feet, fists clenched in satisfaction. The small crowd reacted with a ripple of cheers, and in the stands, Francine and Christina were on their feet, celebrating wildly.
Marcel barely paused—he turned and pointed toward Jean, acknowledging the perfect assist, before being swarmed by his teammates.
They were now ahead, but the match was far from over. Kadji Sports wouldn't go down without a fight.
…
The match restarted with both teams locked in battle, neither willing to concede an inch. The midfield became a warzone, possession shifting back and forth as players scrambled for control.
In the 63rd minute, Ngoah received the ball just inside Dragons FC's half and immediately surged forward. A Dragons FC midfielder stepped up to stop him, but with a subtle body feint, Ngoah glided past him effortlessly. Another defender lunged, only to be left behind as Ngoah cut inside with deceptive ease.
Now in the right half-space, dangerously close to the penalty area, he attempted a driven lateral cross.
Jean, reading the play, reacted quickly, closing down on him. The pass was weak—one of Dragons FC's defenders intercepted and cleared the ball away to the left flank.
67th minute. Dragons FC launched another counterattack, Marcel breaking through once again. His cross was aimed perfectly, but Toukam was there, heading it clear. Ngoah, tracking back, recovered the ball and immediately lifted his head, spotting his right winger making a run.
With a perfectly weighted long ball, he sent it down the right side of Dragons FC's half. The pass was precise, but it carried too much pace. The winger barely managed to keep it in play, and by the time he controlled it, Dragons FC's left-back had closed him down.
The winger hesitated, trying multiple feints to get past, but he was locked down. Instead, he rolled the ball back to a midfielder. Seizing the moment, the midfielder attempted a nutmeg pass, sliding it through the legs of a pressing Dragons FC player.
The ball, however, hit an uneven patch of dirt, bouncing awkwardly. For a second, it seemed like it might go out of reach, but Ngoah controlled it masterfully.
Seeing an opening, he drove forward centrally, with Dragons FC's defenders backpedaling, giving him too much space.
Jean realized their mistake too late. He rushed forward to close down, but the moment he stepped up—
BOOM!
Ngoah unleashed a thunderous strike from outside the box.
The ball rocketed through the air, seemingly destined for the top corner.
CRACK!
It smashed against the crossbar, the sound echoing across the pitch.
The Dragons FC goalkeeper had barely reacted, frozen in place as he watched the ball ricochet out of play. A collective exhale followed—they had just survived a near disaster.
The game remained deadlocked. Dragons FC, now fully aware of the threat, sat back, absorbing pressure while waiting for Kadji Sports to overcommit. Even Marcel was dropping deep, helping his left-back track the right winger's runs.
In the 73rd minute, Kadji Sports' right winger managed to break through, cutting inside past the left-back. Before he could take another step, Marcel lunged in, sweeping the ball away with a tackle.
Fweee!
The referee blew his whistle. Foul.
Marcel groaned in frustration. It was right on the edge of the box—too close for comfort.
Jean stood in the wall, the tallest player in Dragons FC's squad, staring down Ngoah, who was preparing to take the free kick. The goalkeeper adjusted his position, anticipating a cross.
Fweee!
Ngoah took a deep breath, eyes locked on the target as he approached the ball with a composed stride. His right foot swung forward in a smooth, calculated motion, striking the ball with the perfect blend of power and finesse.
The ball lifted off the ground, spinning viciously as it climbed over the wall.
Jean and the others jumped, arms raised in desperation, but they were a fraction too late—the ball had already cleared them.
Time seemed to slow.
The ball hung in the air for what felt like an eternity, spinning with deadly precision as it curved toward the top left corner.
The goalkeeper's eyes widened—he read the trajectory a second too late.
He sprang to his right, his body stretching out, arms fully extended, fingers reaching...
For a brief moment, it looked like he might get there.
Then—
SMACK!
The ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled into the net with a crisp snap of the mesh.
A moment of silence.
Then—
GOAL!
Kadji Sports equalized in the 75th minute!
The Dragons FC players stood motionless, their eyes locked on the ball inside the net, struggling to process what had just happened.
The small crowd erupted in cheers, and Kadji Sports players rushed to Ngoah, patting him on the back, his face beaming with confidence.
Marcel clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.
Coach Emile let out a deep sigh, rubbing his forehead. He had seen this before.
The match was once again wide open. 2-2, with 15 minutes left to play.
...
Dragon FC couldn't afford to sit back anymore. They had to attack, to push forward, to find the goal that would secure their place in the final.
Marcel was relentless, tormenting Toukam and his defense with every attack. His crosses whipped into the box like daggers, but either they clipped the crossbar or the Kadji Sports keeper, having the game of his life, was there to deny them.
Marcel himself had tried to take matters into his own hands, cutting inside and letting fly, but his shots either soared over the bar or landed straight in the keeper's hands. Frustration was setting in.
On the other side, Ngoah was orchestrating Kadji Sports' midfield with masterful control. Whenever he had the ball, he found openings where others saw none, threading passes that could carve out danger. But the pitch betrayed him at times, its uneven surface compromising the precision of his deliveries. And when the ball did land perfectly, Jean was always there, anticipating every move, cutting out passes, and leading the defensive line with sheer determination.
Both teams were throwing everything they had into the game. The goalkeepers became the central figures, each making spectacular saves to keep the score at 2-2. It was a battle of wills, and the next goal would likely decide the match.
Then it happened.
The 86th minute.
Ngoah received the ball just outside the penalty arc from his left winger. As he turned to face the goal, two Dragon FC defenders closed in, Jean among them.
Sensing a momentary gap, the second defender lunged, stretching his leg out to snatch the ball away. But with a sharp croqueta, Ngoah shifted the ball smoothly from one foot to the other, evading the challenge in a single fluid motion. The path to goal was still blocked—Jean stood firm, eyes locked on the ball, ready to shut him down.
Ngoah feigned left. Jean didn't bite.
Then, in a split second, the ball flicked through Jean's legs—a nutmeg executed to perfection.
Jean's mind barely had time to register what had happened. His body tensed with frustration. No way. Not like this.
As the ball rolled past him, Jean reacted on instinct. He lunged—full stretch, desperate—his boot sweeping through the dirt. His leg made contact.
Ngoah tumbled forward, hitting the ground hard.
Fweeee!!!
The sharp blast of the whistle cut through the air. For a moment, time seemed to freeze.
Jean picked himself up, eyes immediately scanning for the spot of the foul. It was outside the box. It had to be. A free kick, nothing more. He sighed in relief. His teammates started shifting back into position.
Then, confusion turned into disbelief.
The referee wasn't pointing to the spot of the foul.
He was pointing to the penalty spot.
Chaos erupted.
"No way! That was outside the box!" Jean shouted, his arms shooting up in protest. His teammates swarmed the referee, pointing furiously to the place where the tackle had happened.
Marcel stormed over, shaking his head. "Ref, you saw that! It was outside! How are you giving that?!"
One of the Dragon FC midfielders got in the referee's face, jabbing his finger at the ground. "You can't just guess! Look at where it happened!"
Jean turned to Ngoah, still on the ground, catching his breath. "You know that wasn't inside! Tell him! Don't be a coward!"
Ngoah said nothing.
Fweeee!
A yellow card.
Jean.
Another whistle.
A second yellow.
The protesting midfielder.
Marcel stepped forward again, hands still raised—another sharp whistle, and his name was taken too.
That's when Coach Emile lost it.
He had already been yelling from the sidelines, but when he saw three of his players getting booked in seconds, his face turned red with rage.
"Hey! HEY! That's enough!" His voice cut through the chaos. "Get back! No more talking! You're gonna get a red next!"
The players hesitated, still fuming, but his next words hit harder.
"Jean, Marcel, you want to leave your team with ten?! Get back in position! Let it go! We can still tie the score if you keep your heads! You lose control, you lose the match!"
Reluctantly, they stepped back. The frustration didn't leave their faces, but they had no choice.
As the dust settled, Ngoah slowly picked himself up and walked to the penalty spot. He placed the ball down, taking a deep breath.
Now, all that was left was the penalty.
...
...
Francine and Christina jumped to their feet the moment the referee pointed to the penalty spot.
"What the hell is wrong with this referee?!" Francine shouted, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "That was not a penalty! I thought a foul has to be inside the box for it to count?!"
"Normally, yes," Christina muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. "I have no idea what this referee drank before the match."
Francine scoffed, arms crossed. "I'm sure he was paid off before the match. This is Cameroon, after all. Even in a competition for kids, they have to cheat."
The middle-aged man wearing the Cameroon national team tracksuit let out a small chuckle before responding, "It's just something that happens in football. It's not necessarily corruption. From where we're sitting, it's clear the foul happened outside the box. But from the referee's position, with all the movement and chaos, it could have looked like it happened inside. It's a tough call."
Both Francine and Christina turned to him at the exact same time, their eyes sharp and unrelenting.
"So, you're saying this is a penalty?" They almost spoke in unison, their disbelief thick in the air.
The man hesitated, suddenly aware that any attempt at reasoning with them was futile. "No, no, I'm not saying that, just that—" He stopped mid-sentence as their glares intensified, realizing there was no winning this argument. With a defeated sigh, he simply turned back to the pitch, letting the conversation die there.
Francine and Christina huffed, but their attention quickly returned to the field.
Down on the pitch, Ngoah was placing the ball on the spot, taking a deep breath as he prepared for the penalty.
Francine clenched her fists.
"Come on… just save this," she muttered under her breath, barely realizing she was speaking out loud.
Christina nodded beside her, hands clasped tightly. "If that ball goes in, I swear, I'll—"
She didn't finish her sentence.
All eyes were locked on the goal.
...
...
Ngoah took a deep breath, stepping back as he locked eyes with the goalkeeper. He had already decided where to place the shot.
He approached the ball with a few quick strides, then suddenly slowed, pausing slightly before striking. The Dragons FC keeper reacted instinctively, diving low to his left.
But he had guessed wrong.
Ngoah struck the ball dead center, a simple yet ruthless penalty. The goalkeeper's outstretched hands hit nothing but air, and the ball thudded into the back of the net.
GOAL!
Kadji Sports take the lead, 3-2!
The Kadji Sports players erupted, rushing to surround Ngoah, slapping his back and ruffling his hair. Their substitutes on the sidelines jumped in excitement, while the goalkeeper, who had barely been tested in the second half, pumped his fists.
Meanwhile, Marcel stood frozen, staring at the ball resting in the net. His fists clenched, frustration boiling inside him. How?
He had done everything. They had done everything. And yet, they were still behind.
He dropped his head for a moment, hands on his hips. But then, slowly, he raised his eyes.
There was still time.
It wasn't much, but it was enough.
Coach Emile was already shouting from the sideline, voice hoarse with urgency.
"BOYS, IT'S NOT OVER! WHY ARE YOU STANDING LIKE THAT?!" He waved his arms furiously. "HEADS UP! WE CAN STILL SCORE! DO NOT GIVE UP NOW!"
Every Dragon FC player snapped back to reality, fire burning in their eyes.
The ball was placed at the center circle.
The game restarted.
Five minutes of additional time.
Kadji Sports players wasted no time slowing the match down. They started playing rondos, passing the ball in tight triangles, forcing Dragons FC to chase, running down the clock.
The frustration built. Every second mattered.
Then, suddenly—a mistake.
A Kadji Sports midfielder, under pressure, miscontrolled the ball. It rolled too far from his feet.
A Dragons FC midfielder pounced.
A quick touch—stolen.
No hesitation—a pass to Marcel.
Marcel received the ball on the left wing, facing Kadji Sports' right-back.
The defender lunged forward, but Marcel was faster. A sharp feint, then a burst of speed—gone.
He cut inside, Toukam stepping up to block him.
Marcel didn't stop.
With a perfectly timed croqueta, he slipped the ball from his right foot to his left, bypassing Toukam entirely.
Now, inside the penalty area, Marcel saw it.
A teammate was open at the far post.
The perfect pass.
He drove a low cross, slicing through the defense, bypassing everyone—it reached him.
Time slowed.
The midfielder positioned himself, his foot already swinging forward, ready to strike.
But then—
A divot.
A barely noticeable bump in the uneven pitch—but enough to alter everything.
The ball bounced just before reaching him.
His foot, expecting a clean contact, hit awkwardly against his tibia instead.
The shot launched into the air, veering hopelessly over the crossbar.
Fweeeeee!
Fweeeeee!
Fweeeeee!
The referee blew for full-time.
The match was over.
Kadji Sports Academy won, 3-2.
Marcel stood still, his expression blank, eyes empty.
He didn't understand. How?
His knees felt weak. He dropped onto the grass, hands covering his face.
He wasn't crying—but he was close.
His teammates sat on the ground, devastated. Some covered their faces, others stared at the field, lost in frustration.
Coach Emile stepped onto the pitch, walking toward each player, offering quiet words of comfort.
He reached Marcel, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"You played very well," Emile said softly. "You have a bright future ahead of you. Don't let this discourage you."
Marcel barely nodded, the words not fully sinking in.
Francine and Christina hurried onto the pitch, their eyes searching for Marcel among the Dragons FC players scattered across the field, heads down in silent frustration. The moment they spotted him, kneeling with his hands over his face, their pace quickened.
"Mom…" His voice was barely above a whisper, heavy with disappointment. He tried to hold back the emotions clawing at his throat. "I said I would win. But we lost."
Francine didn't hesitate. She pulled him into a tight embrace, cradling the back of his head as she had done when he was a child. "It's okay," she whispered. "You did your best. That's all that matters."
He stayed in her arms, his breathing uneven. His father always said a man doesn't cry, that he has to take it all in. But right now, it was difficult. The pain of losing, the sting of elimination—it was unbearable.
Christina stepped forward hesitantly, watching him closely. Then, without a word, she wrapped her arms around him from the side, pressing herself against him. She kissed his cheek softly, her voice quiet but firm. "You played really well," she said. "It wasn't your fault. I think you were the best player on the pitch."
Marcel remained silent, but Christina could feel the tension in his body. Seeing him like this, so broken, was something she wasn't used to. No one else on the team seemed as devastated as he was. To them, it was just a youth tournament. A tough loss, but one they could move past.
But Christina understood why it hurt Marcel so much.
Since she had known him, whether in the neighborhood, in school, or any competition he played in, he had always been the best. He was the one who made his team win, the one who dominated, the one who never lost. This was his first real taste of defeat. And worse, it wasn't just about him—his whole team had lost, and he felt responsible.
She tightened her grip on him, trying to give him comfort, but he slowly pulled away. He shook his head, his voice filled with frustration. "No," he muttered. "If I played well enough, we would have won."
His words hung in the air before he turned away from them and started toward the locker room.
Francine let out a quiet sigh, watching him go. "Don't worry," she murmured to Christina. "This is his first elimination. He'll be okay."
Christina nodded but kept her eyes on him, watching the way his shoulders tensed with every step.
As Marcel made his way off the field, lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed the man stepping into his path until a firm hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up, meeting the gaze of a middle-aged man wearing a Cameroon national team tracksuit.
"You played exceptionally," the man said, his voice calm and steady. "Your runs, your dribbling, your technique… it was a pleasure to watch. Don't be too hard on yourself. You have a bright future ahead of you."
Marcel stared at him, unsure how to respond. The man's presence was unfamiliar, yet his words carried weight. He wasn't just another spectator.
"I hope you play like this," the man continued, "and even better in two months."
Before Marcel could ask what he meant, the man patted his shoulder and walked away, heading toward Coach Emile.
Marcel stood frozen for a moment, his mind trying to process what had just been said. Two months? He wasn't scheduled to play in any more competitions with Dragons FC anytime soon. What was he talking about?
He shook the thought away. His head was still heavy with the loss, the regret. He pushed open the locker room door and stepped inside, the noise of the stadium fading behind him.
When he finally emerged, his mother and Christina were already waiting in the car. He slid into his seat, staring out of the window as they drove off.
No one spoke.
Francine glanced at him through the rearview mirror a few times, but she didn't say anything. Christina, sitting beside him, sneaked worried glances, but he kept his eyes on the streets passing by.
Marcel didn't feel like talking. His mind was still trapped in the match, replaying every missed opportunity, every moment he could have done something better.
...
Lying on his bed, Marcel stared at the ceiling, his mind a storm of swirling thoughts. The "what ifs" crept in, tempting him to replay every moment of the match, but he forced himself to shut them out. There was no changing the past.
Instead, his thoughts drifted toward the upcoming African U-17 Championship. Would he even have a chance now? He hadn't won the tournament, hadn't even reached the final. He had played well, yes, but was that enough? He wasn't sure anymore.
He exhaled slowly, pushing the doubts aside. Thinking about it wouldn't change anything. He would just have to wait and see.
His mind then shifted to something else—his system. Since the match against Canon Yaoundé, he hadn't checked it once. Now, curiosity sparked, and he summoned the interface in his mind.
[Elite Boost System]
Level: 1 (16/500 XP)
Name: Marcel Ndonga
Date of Birth: 17 May 2000 (14 years old)
Height: 168 cm
Weight: 64 kg
Position: Left Winger / Right Winger
Special Boosts:
Bronze Boost: Defensive Cohesion +5% (One slot available)
Lottery Tickets: 0
Player Attributes
Market: Locked
Points: 33
Marcel studied the interface. His progression looked solid, but then a troubling thought hit him. If he wasn't called up for the Cameroon U-17 squad, how would he keep accumulating experience? Without official matches, his development would stagnate.
The only other way would be if he somehow got promoted to Dragon FC's senior team. But at just 14 years old, what were the chances of that happening? Even if he felt ready—believed he could handle the MTN Elite One—he doubted the club's coaches saw him the same way.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips.
"I just hope I get called up…" he murmured to himself, closing the system interface.
With that last thought lingering in his mind, he shut his eyes and drifted into sleep.