THE GOLDEN BALL

PENALITY

"All eyes are Zaïre."

"Coach Laplace saved the best man for last. Lots of pressure for young Zaïre."

"We expected more from him during the Euro. Zaïre remained discreet by mostly giving out decisive passes."

"Zaïre has never been a m'as tu vu [French expression meaning do you see me] type of player."

"If he scores, not only will all the world see him, but he will go down as the youngest player to have won all the trophies."

"That's all the bad we wish him."

While the commentators speculated, the crowd howled in a frenzy as Zaïre, the river that swallows all rivers, was about to show his uniqueness once more.

"ZA-WOZ-KING, ZA-WOZ-KING," the fans yelled while they clapped in unison, making the stadium tremble.

Zaïre heard nothing. His father's voice played in his mind: You were born to score, but above all, you were born to win."

Yes, Zaïre was a winner of the lottery of life. Nothing set Zaïre apart from the next child from a modest background, yet here he was, a minute away from taking the Euro trophy home.

The crowd grew silent.

Only the sound of his pounding heart filled his ears, and his father's words rang once more, "listen to the drumbeat; follow the beat when you play with your feet."

The supporters who came to see him score that day were his tribe. Zaïre had to make them proud.

He advanced, backed away, took a deep breath, ran, and kicked. The rest was in God's hands.

"And goaㅡ, no, no, unbelievable. It's a miss for the king. Germany is the Euro'sEuro's champion."

Zaïre's eyes refused to blink. They punished the man by forcing him to see his failure.

Stupefied, he watched the German players run onto the field to hug their goalkeeper and captain.

The French players broke down one by one. Some cried while others lowered their heads, seeking comfort on the preparator's shoulders.

Zaïre stood in front of the goal, dumbstruck. Desire found itself drained. The man became a question mark as his mind became a blank space, unable to register what followed until the fatal question.

"What had just happened?"

The camera flash sound snapped Zaïre back to his senses as he blatantly answered," I have no excuse," and got up to leave the press conference.

"I'll tell you what happened." The Tiktoker stood staring at his microwave, imitating the attacker's expression while one of TikTok's trending meme songs, Oh No by Kreepa, played in the background. "Boi jus stood in front of the goal like a dumbass, wit his mouth going duhhhh."

The video went viral with one million views and one point one million likes, just like all the Give Me A Refund gifs and memes people made after the finals.

Newspapers titled:

-ZAIRE-WAS-KING.

-MIDAS LOST HIS TOUCH.

-THE RIVER SWALLOWED BY THE GERMAN SEA.

- ENDGAME, and the list went on; the once-beloved champion became a media buffoon.

"It's always the same. You're French as long as you win the games. Lose, and the media disowns you," Massa said as he read the article where Zaïre was referred to as a child born out of immigration.

Zaïre sighed and closed his locker, "one can't win them all."

"But you should. You're the greatest; everyone placed bets on you. Coach, the team, the public, everyone believed in you, Zaïre," Mehdi said as he slammed his locker door.

Mehdi didn't speak in theory. The man had family members bet over ten grand on the French team and Zaïre's scores to the final.

EUROBET and other betting apps placed the French team as favorites. Bringing back the trophy for France was child's play with goliath major league players like Wozniak, Grand-Bourg, Kayembi, and Kaseem, yet they lost as a team, but all the blame weighed on Zaïre's missed penalty.

"Mehdi, stop it," Massa said. He, too, had been in the culprit's spot, judged and hung by the public for poor play in the national championship. It took him one year to rebuild a semblance of self-esteem and another year to regain the public's trust. He accurately knew what Zaïre was going through.

Prodigy or not, blood ran through Zaïre's veins, and at that moment, it hurt to live.

"What? Aren't you pissed? I'm not like you, Massa. We won't even have the bonus. My sponsors might drop me, but heㅡ."

Mehdi stopped, and all turned to look at the locker room door, "Hey, where are you going?"

Zaïre stood at the door, ready to leave, when Coach Laplace blocked the door frame, "I see the ambiance is great here. Listen, I won't say this enough, but if you want to play the blame game, take accountability for your actions." The coach entered the room and let his eyes roam on every face, "do I have to remind you all why we got to the penalties in the first place? The game was weak, and the teamwork was tipsy. I doubt any of you can tell me you gave it your best shot."

The team was usually free to celebrate its win; its loss resulted in two weeks of detention at La Colombe training facilities.

The media was the second reason for the retention. Keeping them together was crucial for coach Laplace, who knew the team spirit was fractured. An angry player on the loose could cause a lot more damage. The French club's training headquarters served as an asylum as the fury bounced off the balls to the walls and back.

Now, they were free to leave. Some were on vacation, while others immediately would return to their clubs.

As for Zaïre, his future pended; the Spanish Premier League team already asked for a timeout on the deal they wished to seal before the competition. The contract would have made Zaïre the most costly transfer to date for the club, but that was before they negotiated for a discount.

Coach Laplace gave his last sermon and dismissed the players. Zaïre headed straight to his car. He had nothing to say to the other players who snubbed him.

"Yo."

Zaïre turned to find Anatole, one of the replacement players who spent the Euro on the bench.

"Don't listen to them, Zaïre. They won't admit it, but we know you did your best. I mean, I would have shit myself on the spot. Don't be too hard on yourself. I know it might sound pretentious coming from a guy who spent the Euro on the bench," Anatole grasped the back of his neck," you're still one of the greats."

"Anatole."

"Sorry, I won't bother you any longer," Anatole ran off like a shy groupie.

Zaïre had a hard time handling fans; having some on the team was a little nerve-racking for the man who felt trapped to perform.

He got in his car and drove back to his Parisian loft; he passed a massive graffiti of the words traitor and sprayed in white on his gate portal when he arrived. The underground private parking lot allowed him to escape the more stubborn paparazzi.

"Bonjour, Mr. Wozniak," Christophe, the concierge, said as he crossed the player.

"Bonjour, Mr. Gauvin," Zaïre walked by without asking whether there were any messages. The man didn't want any more noise to cloud his mind.

Mr. Gauvin did not follow up with any news. Part of his job consisted in knowing when to shut up, and there he guessed Zaïre wished to be alone and unbothered.

The player entered his loft, dropped his rollbag, and immediately switched the music on from his phone Zuukou Maysie rap seeped through the walls of every room.

He fell back on his couch and let the tears he fought to retain since the Euro slide down to their final resting space.