Return of the Failed Football Prodigy

"Woah! Sanders goes down just outside the penalty area! Foul! This would be a damn golden opportunity for England to snatch a winner!"

"Yeah, all of England has to be glued to their screens right now with cautious anticipation on what might come next!"

"It's the 92nd minute of the World Cup Final now, and this may very well be the final kick!"

The whole football world was glued to this particular moment of time. It was the culmination of the four year international football cycle. The very peak. The greatest moment a footballer could ever imagine to be in.

This was the moment where dreams were made. Where heroes are born. Where fates collide. This was the pinnacle of football.

And oh, what time it is for a free kick specialist.

"There's movement on the England side. There'll be a substitution, most likely... and it's the final one too."

"Oh? Who's that?" One of the three commentators revealed a surprised expression. "They're actually putting him on! It's Blaise Atkinson!"

"Wow, the injury replacement, Blaise Atkinson, who hadn't played a single minute this whole tournament comes on for what could be its biggest moment!"

"He could do wonders, since he's the best free kick taker I've ever seen. He had 11 of those goals last year alone!"

"If you're here seeing this live, you'd feel the immense tension, the unbearable pressure, and the insane amount of passion. You aren't a footballer or a fan of you can't feel this seeping to your bones!"

"He's still very young right now, just 22. He might've consistently done it in the Premier League, but can he do it here, under the brightest of lights, of football's biggest stage?"

"Here he goes… he runs up... he hits it..."

The world seemed to slow as the ball continued its ascent. Everyone's eyes panned into a single young brown-haired footballer, with his bizarre neon green spikes. The minds of more than two billion people tuned in slowed to almost a halt.

Their screams ceased, their heart beats slowed, their eyes stopped blinking, and their minds went blank.

The ball bent the six man wall, beat the outstretched hands of the star French goalkeeper, and nestled at the back of the net like it's finally found its way home.

Then there was pandemonium.

"Football has finally come home!"

"Blaise Atkinson! You beautiful, beautiful man!"

"Holy! England won! England won! Oh my God!"

"That was absolutely sublime! Stupendous!"

"What a cracking effort!"

"England beats France, 2-1! The referee's blown for full time! We had won the World Cup!"

The lady sitting beside a hospital bed shut the 60 inch television off after the replay telecast was over. On the other side of the bed, a red-cheeked eight year old kid was jumping up and down in ecstasy.

"That game just makes the blood boil!" The young boy's cheeks turned even redder as if wanting to say something he's having trouble to say. "Uhm… Daddy, is that free kick taker there at the end really you?"

The wide-eyed kid was talking to his father— the same brown haired man, albeit older— lying on the bed, with barely any discernible movements.

"Guess… Blaine." The man said in a hoarse voice in between coughs.

"Hmmm… they said it's Blaise Atkinson…" Blaine chewed on his nails while thinking what to say next. "Is Daddy really a legend?"

"Of course he is, baby. There's a lot of matters that happened in his career, but for at least that World Cup? Nobody can say he isn't." The beautiful lady with fiery red hair said with a smile to his rowdy son. "Daddy's real awesome, no?"

"Mn! Daddy's so awesome! I wanna be as awesome as him one day!"

"Go on… Blaine… be better… than me." Blaise labored to finish his statement, just to make his son happy.

"Honey, your daddy's still weak, okay? Don't make him speak a lot."

"Mn! I'm gonna be more awesome than daddy!" The innocent laughter of a child illuminated the hospital room.

The man in the bed was lulled into a deep sleep by his son's laughter…

***

"What in the world are you doing, Atkinson? Fucking pass the ball!" A drenched footballer closed in on Atkinson with balled fists. "That was a glorious fucking chance to equalize and you wasted it by being selfish!"

In the next instant, an old man with a white beard appeared in his view.

"I'm sorry, Blaise. We thought you can help us to reach the top. We thought you could handle the pressure, and thrive in it the same way you handled a World Cup winning free kick. We thought you'd be able to lead the club… but sigh… Your contract with us will not be renewed. Thank you for giving the club 10 years of your service, Blaise Atkinson. Good luck on your future endeavors." As he motioned the stunned Blaise in front of him to go out, he turned, and added coldly. "If there's any."

His dreamscape then became the interior of a car, with him on the wheel.

It was a wet June night, and the now 32 year old Blaise threw a can of beer to the backseat of his car. It clanged onto several other cans behind him.

"Shit! What am I gonna do now!" He slammed his hands into the steering wheel. "I can't go out like this! I have to get back stronger for that old bastard to see!"

His hands were trembling, either from the alcohol, emotion, or maybe both.

"But I'm 32 now… I can't fail anymore…" He closed his eyes for a single instant.

A flash of light appeared, along with the deafening sounds of a truck horn.

The dream ended there.

***

"Doctor! My husband is having a seizure!" A frantic looking woman cried out in alarm, as his husband trembled in the bed and fought for his life. "Please, save my Blaise! I beg you!"

"We'll do what we can, Madam Serra. For now, please go outside."