Nigeria — Imo State.
The sun beat down hard on the cracked dirt pitch.
The kind of heat that soaked through your bones. The kind that told you to stop running, to sit, to give up.
But one boy kept sprinting anyway.
Wisdom Ezekiel. 18 years old.
Barefoot. Dust in his hair. Blood on his knee.
Still chasing the ball like it held the future inside it.
The older boys laughed as he cut between them. His touches weren't clean. His dribbles weren't flashy.
But his speed? Decent enough.
"Pass na, Wisdom!" a teammate shouted.
But he kept sprinting.
"Dribble kill you there!" another one yelled.
"You no dey hear word? Dem go soon collect am!"
But Wisdom ignored them.
It was five-a-side. No time for ego.
He just had to place it well—time it right.
He charged forward—
Then came a rough tackle.
He hit the dirt. The ball rolled loose.
But a teammate was ready.
One touch. A clean shot.
GOAL.
They celebrated.
Wisdom didn't.
He just bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
He'd done this every day for three years.
And still barely scored. Still trying to matter.
Tomorrow was big.
A friendly match.
Scouts rumored to be coming.
A chance — maybe the only one — to get noticed.
But deep down, Wisdom knew:
He wasn't the best.
Not the strongest, not the sharpest.
Not better than the boys he'd be playing with — or against.
---
Later, sitting on a plastic chair outside a run-down training shed, he poured water over his head. The cool splash offered brief relief.
He stared at the poster on the wall — sun-faded, edges curling.
A Nigerian footballer — shirtless, golden boots, holding a World Cup trophy.
Probably photoshopped.
Still looked like hope.
Beneath it, someone had scrawled in faded ink:
"Become the GOAT."
Wisdom stared at it for a long time.
Not smiling.
Not frowning.
Just thinking.
Then he stood up and walked to his small home. His parents were no more—just him and his grandmother—but he never complained. He never did, because he remembered all the sacrifices his father had made for him while he was still alive.
As he stepped inside, he called out, "Grandma, where are you?"
"I'm in the kitchen, my son. Come and get your food," she replied.
He entered and said, "Good evening, Grandma."
She turned to him and asked, "How was your day?"
"Fine," he said.
"I hope you had fun," she added.
"Yes," he replied with a grin. Then, after a brief pause, he said, "Tomorrow is the day."
"I know," she said gently. "You already told me. I've cleaned your boots and your jersey, so you have to give it your best."
"Sure," he nodded.
He finished his food quietly, got up, and dropped his plate in the kitchen.
That night, Wisdom lies on his thin mattress, staring at the rusted ceiling fan turning slowly above him. Every creak, every gust of wind outside sounds louder than usual. He replays old matches in his mind — missed chances, lucky tackles, moments he could've done better.
His grandmother enters quietly, lays her hand on his shoulder.
"You've already made me proud," she whispers.
He doesn't reply. He just nods, eyes open in the dark.
He had mixed feelings—excited yet sad—because he knew this might be his only chance, and if he missed it, it would be gone forever. Determined to prepare, he watched past matches of superstars like Ronaldo, Messi, and Neymar, studying their every move to learn whatever he could. But despite his drive, he also knew he needed rest. So, reluctantly, he turned off the screen.
A thought came to his head "If I blow it tomorrow... then what?" he dismissed it then went to bed.
Wisdom woke up feeling rested.
For once, no mosquitoes buzzed in his ears — as if the night itself had decided to give him peace. No tossing, no itching. Just quiet sleep.
He blinked at the soft morning light creeping through the window. Today. The day.
The smell hit him before his feet touched the floor. He washed up and made his way to the table. His grandma was already up — as always. She'd made everything ready: clean boots, pressed jersey, hot breakfast.
He ate in silence, excitement humming low in his chest. Then he put on his jersey, laced his boots, and was just about to leave when—
"Wisdom," his grandmother called gently.
He turned. She was holding something small in her hand.
A pendant. Old. Bronze. A bit worn.
"This was your father's," she said. "He wore it to every match he ever played. I think… it's time you had it."
He stepped forward, and she pressed it into his palm. It was warm from her hand.
"Keep it close," she said. "Maybe it will bring you luck."
Wisdom nodded slowly. "I'll make sure I give my best."
His grandmother smiled, though her eyes shimmered.
"Just remember — win or lose, this is always your home. As long as you enjoy it… I'm already proud."
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. He quickly wiped it, nodded again, and hugged her tight — just for a second.
Then he grabbed his bicycle and rode off, the pendant tucked safely into his jersey.
The sun was already high. The streets blurred past him.
He pedaled faster.
Not just toward a pitch —
But toward a chance, a future, a name.