Lamine Yamal kicked the ball hard against the chain-link fence. It bounced back so fast it nearly clipped his shin. He stumbled, eyes wide, as the ball settled at his feet. It seemed to pulse faintly in the sunlight. He grinned and felt a spark of impossible magic.
He tried a gentle chip shot. The ball looped too high and landed tangled in a patch of wildflowers. Petals brushed his cheeks as he knelt to free it. The stems seemed to sway and bow. He placed the ball back and decided to try harder.
He swung with all his might. The ball curved wildly and struck a bicycle's handlebar. It bounced into a dark drain. He dropped to his knees, peering into the grate where the ball glinted just out of reach. He clenched his fists.
He tapped the grate gently with his toe. The ball didn't budge. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Then he stood and looked at the field again.
He imagined roaring crowds and bright stadium lights. He kicked the ball as hard as he could, and it soared upward, defying gravity for one heartbeat. It arced through the air and looped perfectly into the net. He stood frozen. Then he pumped his fist.
The net rippled. A single dry leaf drifted down and landed on the ball, like a trophy. He laughed out loud. The roar of the imaginary crowd swelled in his head.
The sun dipped lower. The field went quiet. He sat on the sideline grass and rested the ball against his knee. He looked at the sky, then back at the goal.
He gave the ball a gentle kick toward the goal. It rolled slowly across the grass and stopped just shy of the net. He smiled, picked it up, and got ready to begin again.