The TV in the hospital room flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the sterile surroundings. A man in his 60s, lying in bed, looked up from his worn-out book and fixed his gaze on the screen. His eyes, cloudy with age, sparkled with excitement as the commentator's voice boomed, "Goal for Lamine Yamal! At 22 years of age, the young talent is still going strong, regardless."
The man's face contorted into a mix of emotions - excitement and a tinge of jealousy. He couldn't help but feel a pang in his chest as he watched the young player celebrate his goal with his teammates. "What a beautiful sport," he thought to himself, his mind wandering back to his own dreams of playing soccer. As he gazed at the TV, memories flooded his mind. He remembered watching the greats, mesmerized by their skill and artistry on the field. He recalled the countless hours he spent practicing in his backyard, pretending to be his idols, and the countless times he fell, his frail legs unable to support him.
The man's eyes misted over as he thought about what could have been. "If only I had been born without this curse," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. He felt a lump form in his throat as he watched Lamine Yamal dance with joy, his teammates congratulating him on his goal.
Despite the ache in his heart, the man's face cracked a smile. He couldn't help but be swept up in the excitement of the game. "This is what it means to be alive," he thought, his eyes glued to the screen as the commentary continued. For a moment, he forgot about his pain, his limitations, and his regrets. All that mattered was the beautiful game, and the thrill of watching someone else live his dream. The commentator's voice continued to electrify the atmosphere, "Lamine Yamal's goal has managed to keep Barcelona alive in the finals of the 2029 Club World Cup!" The man's eyes widened with excitement as he watched the drama unfold on the screen. "Both Doué and Yamal have scored and assisted in this game for their teams, and both are favorites to win the Ballon D'or this season. This could be the deciding factor," the commentator analyzed.
As the match neared its climax, the tension was palpable. The man's emotions seesawed between exhilaration and melancholy, his mind wandering back to his own thwarted dreams of soccer stardom. The final whistle blew, and the game went into a penalty shootout. The man's heart was racing as Yamal stepped up to take the final kick for Barcelona. With precision and poise, Yamal scored the decisive penalty, securing Barcelona's victory in the 2029 Club World Cup. The man's face lit up with joy, and he felt a sense of triumph wash over him. "Barcelona has won!" he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement.
In that moment, the man's eyes shone with happiness, and his face relaxed into a serene smile. But, as the cheers and confetti filled the TV screen, the man's heart suddenly gave out. His chest stopped rising, and his eyes froze, still fixed on the TV. The smile remained on his lips, but his body went limp, his life slipping away in the midst of celebration and beauty. The TV continued to broadcast the jubilant scenes from the stadium, but the hospital room fell silent, the only sound the steady beep of the heart monitor now flatlining. The man's journey had ended, but his love for the beautiful game would live on. As the man's life slipped away, he felt himself sinking into the water, but without the struggle. He drifted away, his consciousness fading, until he heard a voice speaking to him. "It feels sad for you dying without living your dream," the voice said. "If you had a chance to live it, even if it's in someone else's body, would you take it?"
Without hesitation, the man agreed. "Soccer is my life," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would do anything for it."
The voice asked him another question. "If you could choose two skills of any two players in the world, which would you choose? Keep in mind that those talents can't be swapped once chosen."
The man thought for a moment before responding. "I would choose Ronaldinho's ball control skills," he said. "The world never got to witness it shine to its fullest, and to me, that's soccer's greatest mistake." He paused, a smile spreading across his face. "And I would choose Lewandowski's Sharp Shooter Ability. Like other soccer fan who dream of playing the game, I want to be the hero who scores the goals, and Lewandowski's ability to score incredible goals is unmatched."
The voice took a moment to respond, and then said, " i have found the perfect vessel and fixed it up for you, as well as blessed it with your choices. I hope you find peace this time and live a happy life of being the hero on the pitch like you always wanted."
The man's confusion was palpable as he suddenly felt himself getting pulled back out of the water. He gasped for air as he woke up, finding himself in a room he didn't recognize. He was disoriented, and his body was on the floor. A capsule of pills was clutched in his hand, and he had no idea how he got there or what was happening. The man's mind was reeling with questions, but one thing was certain - he was alive, and something strange had just occurred.
As the man's mind struggled to make sense of his surroundings, a rush of memories suddenly flooded his consciousness. He saw flashes of a life he didn't recognize - a life filled with soccer, triumph, and heartbreak. He saw himself as a young boy, kicking a ball around with his friends in the streets of North London. He saw himself training with Manchester United's youth team, the coaches praising his skills and predicting a bright future for him.
But then, the memories took a darker turn. He saw himself suffering a career-ending injury, the pain and despair etched on his face as he realized his dreams were slipping away. He saw himself going through physiotherapy, trying to cling to hope, but ultimately facing the harsh reality that he would never play again. The memories culminated in a desperate act - he saw himself trying to end it all by overdosing on sleeping pills. The capsule of pills in his hand made sense now, and the man's mind reeled in horror as he realized he had been about to take his own life.
But something was different now. The man's thoughts were jumbled, and his memories felt...off. He looked down at his hands, and they were younger, stronger than he remembered. He looked around the room, and it was unfamiliar, yet somehow...familiar. A name echoed in his mind - Leon Blake. He was Leon Blake, an 18-year-old boy from North London who had been touted as a soccer prodigy. But that was before the injury, before the darkness had consumed him. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions and questions. What was happening to him? How did he get here? And what did it mean to be Leon Blake?
As his eyes adjusted to his surroundings, he slowly stood up, his mind racing with questions. He looked around the room, taking in the familiar-yet-unfamiliar sights. There were soccer trophies on the shelf, and posters of his favorite players on the wall. A Manchester United scarf hung on the bedpost, and a soccer ball sat in the corner of the room.
Leon's eyes landed on a mirror hanging on the wall, and he approached it cautiously. The reflection staring back at him was unfamiliar, yet somehow...familiar. He saw a light brown-skinned boy with short dreadlocks and an athletic build. The eyes sparkled with a mix of confusion and determination.
"Is this what i loom like now?" Leon whispered to himself, his voice shaking slightly. "Did i really take over the kids body?"
As he gazed at his reflection, more memories began to resurface. He remembered training sessions, matches, and teammates. He remembered the thrill of scoring goals and the agony of defeat. But there were gaps in his memory, too. Gaps that seemed to be filled with...someone else's memories. A strange sense of disorientation washed over Leon, and he stumbled backward, collapsing onto the bed. He buried his face in his hands, trying to make sense of the chaos in his mind.
Suddenly, a voice echoed in his mind - the same voice he had heard before his life slipped away. " I hope you find peace this time and live a happy life of being the hero on the pitch like you always wanted."." The words seemed to take on a new meaning now.
"Hero on the pitch?" He said to himself softly as his eyes snapped open, and he looked around the room with newfound determination. He would make the most of this second chance. He stood up, walked over to the soccer ball in the corner of the room, and began to dribble it, feeling the familiar weight and rhythm of the ball at his feet. As he moved around the room, something strange happened - his movements felt...different. More fluid. More confident.
"I'm guessing not even the owner of this body ever felt like this when he was on the ball." He said with a smile spreading across his face, and he knew that he was ready to take on this new chapter of his life. He was ready to be Leon Blake, the soccer prodigy that had faded into the background.