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Chapter 26: Round of 16 — Second Half, Kweku's Moment
The second half began with Japan immediately pressing high, determined to capitalise on Ghana's slight fatigue. Kweku sprinted back into position, his legs burning from constant movement, but his focus was razor-sharp. Every pass, every run, and every interception mattered.
Within the first five minutes, Japan's right winger broke free down the flank. Kweku tracked him relentlessly, matching pace for pace. The winger cut inside for a shot, but Kweku slid expertly, deflecting the ball just enough to send it wide. Ghana's goalkeeper gathered it quickly, and the counterattack began.
Kweku received a pass near midfield, one touch to control, the next to shift past a defender, then a sharp pass to Addo in the centre. Addo's eyes met Kweku's as he drove forward, but the Japanese defence closed in quickly. Kweku sprinted into the box, anticipating a rebound. Quartey controlled it poorly, and Benjamin reacted instantly, striking a low shot. The goalkeeper dived, but the ball ricocheted toward the far post — Kweku followed through, sliding to tap it in. Goal. Ghana 1–0.
The stadium erupted. Kweku's teammates swarmed him, but he quickly reset mentally. The match wasn't over. Japan's pace was still dangerous, and Ghana couldn't afford mistakes.
Japan responded aggressively. Quick passes and overlapping runs tested Ghana's defensive shape. In the 65th minute, a clever one-two split the backline, and the Japanese striker, Isao, shot from outside the box. Ghana's goalkeeper made a diving save, but the rebound bounced to the winger. Kweku sprinted back, intercepting the ball with a perfectly timed tackle. He immediately sent it upfield, triggering another counterattack.
As the clock ticked past the 75th minute, Kweku's energy wavered, but determination surged stronger. He had trained for this. He remembered telling himself: "Every move counts. Observe. Anticipate. Don't panic."
In the 80th minute, Ghana mounted a decisive attack. Kweku received the ball near the left corner, dribbled past one defender, then cut sharply to the middle, sending a precise through-ball to Benjamin running into the box. The striker was challenged by the goalkeeper, but Kweku was ready. He surged forward, winning the loose ball, and took a calm, low shot into the far corner. Goal. Ghana 2–0.
The crowd exploded. Ghana's morale soared, and Kweku felt a surge of pride. He had contributed decisively, controlling the pace, creating opportunities, and reading the opposition perfectly.
Japan pushed back furiously in the final ten minutes. A long-range shot by Isao grazed the crossbar, and a corner kick caused a scramble in Ghana's box. Kweku tracked every run, covering the near post, intercepting a dangerous header, and helping maintain the defensive line.
When the final whistle blew, Ghana had secured a 2–0 victory. Exhausted, Kweku sank to the grass, gasping for air, soaking in the cheers around him. His teammates lifted him briefly in celebration, acknowledging his crucial role in the win.
As they walked off the pitch, the Japanese striker asked to swap shirts with Kweku, who did with a large grin.
Later that evening, Kweku called his mom.
"Mom… we did it! We're through to the quarterfinals!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with exhaustion and excitement.
"I knew you could, Kweku," she replied warmly. "You stayed focused, trusted your instincts, and played with your heart. I'm so proud. Rest tonight, recover tomorrow, and prepare for the next challenge. Remember: bigger tests are coming, but you are ready."
Kweku hung up, feeling a mixture of relief, pride, and determination. He wrote in his notebook before bed:
Goal: Recover fully and analyse the next opponent. Maintain composure under increasing pressure.
Goal: Keep building trust and coordination with teammates. Every pass, every run, every interception matters.
He lay back, muscles sore but spirit strong. Ghana had overcome Japan, and Kweku had proven he could shine on the international stage. The knockout rounds were only getting harder, but for the first time, he truly felt that he belonged — as a player, as a teammate, and as a son carrying the lessons of home onto the world stage.
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The sun over Tunis was a pale disc in the morning haze, glinting off the Mediterranean and painting the city in shades of gold. It was the day of the quarterfinal — Ghana versus the United States — and the team hotel buzzed with nervous energy. Some players paced the corridors, others prayed in silence, and a few forced laughter that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Kweku sat on the small balcony of his room, phone pressed to his ear. The connection crackled for a moment before his mother's voice came through, soft and steady.
"Ma…" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We play today."
"I know, my son," she said. "You sound tired."
"Just thinking."
"Don't think too much," she replied. "Play your game. You've been kicking that ball since you could walk. No one can take that from you."
He smiled, eyes closing. "I wish you could see it."
"I see enough. The news says Ghana has gone further than anyone expected. That's also you, isn't it? The boy who used to chase goats off the pitch because they wouldn't let him train?"
He laughed quietly. "That was me."
"Then go and chase this one too," she said and hung up.
By noon, the team bus rolled through Tunis, police escorts clearing the way. The stadium loomed ahead — a bowl of steel and noise. The stands were filling fast, waves of colour washing across the seats. The U.S. fans were loud, organised, and chanting rhythmically. Ghana's supporters, fewer but fiercer, filled the air with drums and songs that vibrated in the chest.
In the tunnel, the players lined up. Kweku adjusted his armband, his pulse quickening. Ephraim stood beside him, eyes narrowed, lips murmuring a prayer. Across the tunnel, the Americans looked confident, towering, and focused.
The whistle blew — and chaos began.
The USA started strong, pressing high and fast. Their midfield three moved like a machine, switching play and testing Ghana's defence. In the 12th minute, a corner from the U.S. nearly found the net, but Aidoo, Ghana's keeper, leapt and palmed it away. The rebound fell dangerously, but Yaw cleared it with a desperate swing.
"Wake up!" Coach Ofori shouted from the sideline.
Gradually, Ghana began to settle. Kweku dropped deeper, linking passes, calming the rhythm. Atsutey, the recovered captain, found his stride — cutting inside and drawing fouls. The Americans were faster, but Ghana played with grit, every tackle followed by a roar from the bench.
In the 37th minute, Ghana struck. A quick one-two down the left, a cross from Atsutey, and Benjamin — the striker — rose above two defenders to head it home.
1–0.
The Ghanaian fans erupted, flags whipping through the air. Kweku didn't celebrate wildly; he pointed to the sky, then back to his teammates. "Stay sharp!" he shouted.
The USA equalised just before halftime. A slick move down the right caught Ghana flat-footed, and the ball was curled into the bottom corner.
1–1.
When the whistle blew, both teams trudged toward the tunnel, sweat and tension dripping from their faces. Inside the locker room, the air was thick. The players drank water in silence until Coach Ofori slammed a clipboard on the bench.
"They think they can run through you," he barked. "But they don't know what it means to play for your mother, your brothers, your people. Leave everything on that field."
He turned to Kweku. "Control the middle. They're afraid when you move the ball fast. Make them chase ghosts."
Kweku nodded, adrenaline building again.
When they returned to the pitch, the floodlights were on. The Tunisian night glowed electric.
The second half was a blur of tackles, saves, and counterattacks. Benjamin made two point-blank stops; Kweku threaded passes that split the defence, only for Quartey's shots to go wide. The Americans responded with power and pace, their winger smashing a shot off the crossbar.
By the 90th minute, the score was still 1–1. Both sides were exhausted, jerseys clinging to their backs, legs heavy.
Extra time.