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Chapter 28 – One Team, One Dream
The first half of extra time began like a storm. The Americans pressed again, trying to finish it early. But Ghana's defence held firm — Ephraim blocking a shot with his chest, grimacing but refusing to fall.
Kweku felt his lungs burn. Every touch was heavier, every sprint slower, but his mind stayed clear. In the 97th minute, he intercepted a pass, spun away from two markers, and slipped it to Atsutey on the wing. The cross came curling in — Mensah's header missed by inches.
The crowd groaned.
"Keep going!" Kweku shouted. His voice cracked but carried.
Minutes later, disaster nearly struck. A misjudged back pass forced Aidoo into a desperate clearance that fell to an American midfielder. He shot instantly — but it skimmed wide.
As the clock passed 105 minutes, the referee blew for a short break. The players gathered in a tight circle, gasping for air. Coach Ofori didn't shout this time. He looked at them and said, "One goal, boys. That's all. Who wants it more?"
The second half of extra time began. Every second was agony. The tempo slowed, passes became shorter, safer. Then, in the 113th minute, it happened.
Kweku received the ball just inside his own half. He turned and threaded a perfect pass between two defenders. Ofori sprinted after it, cutting inside, but instead of shooting, he squared it across the box. Quartey dummied. Behind him, Yaw — of all people — arrived late and struck it first-time.
The ball sailed low, past the keeper, into the net.
2–1 Ghana.
The bench exploded. Players leapt, coaches hugged, substitutes sprinted down the touchline. Kweku dropped to his knees, smiling through tears. He hadn't scored, but the play had been pure harmony — everything they had worked for coming together in one heartbeat.
The last minutes were pure survival. The USA threw bodies forward, launching crosses. Aidoo punched one away, then caught another. Kweku tackled until his legs trembled. When the final whistle blew, he fell backwards onto the grass, staring up at the Tunisian sky.
They had done it.
Ghana — the underdogs — were through to the semifinals.
Ephraim collapsed beside him, laughing and coughing. "You see, small man? We're not done yet."
Kweku grinned weakly. "Not yet."
Later that night, back at the hotel, Kweku called his mom again. The line crackled before she answered.
"You won," she said immediately.
He laughed softly. "We did, Ma. We did."
"I told you. Play your game."
"I did," he whispered, his voice shaking. "And it worked."
Outside, Tunis still buzzed with life — horns, drums, and chants echoing through the streets. But in that quiet corner of the hotel, Kweku just sat by the window, phone in hand, feeling the warmth of victory and the promise of something greater waiting beyond the horizon.
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Casablanca shimmered in gold that evening — the call to prayer floating between narrow streets and white-walled buildings. The Ghana U-18 bus crawled through traffic, boys pressed against the windows, watching the North African city roll by. Some laughed, pointing at merchants juggling oranges; others leaned back, half-asleep from travel and nerves.
Kweku sat near the back, his forehead resting on the cool glass. The tournament had thinned out — only four nations remained. He whispered the names under his breath: Ghana. Netherlands. Brazil. France. His heart jumped every time he reached Ghana's.
After dinner, the team was allowed to stretch their legs. They wandered through the Old Medina, where the air was filled with the scent of spices and sea salt. Vendors called out in Arabic and French, offering scarves and wooden carvings. Kweku bought a small keychain shaped like a soccer boot — a token for luck.
At the Hassan II Mosque, they stood in silence as the tide crashed against the seawall below. The minaret towered above them, half of it reaching out over the Atlantic. Coach Ofori told them quietly, "Tomorrow, you play for the dream. No one hands it to you. You must take it."
That night, the city glowed silver from the hotel rooftop. Kweku found a quiet bench by the garden, with Ephraim who suddenly got a call. After looking to see who it was he handed the phone to Kweku who took it gingerly
"Hello?"
"Finally," came a soft voice. "You never check your messages."
He froze. "Ama?"
"I'm using Yaw's phone. Mine got confiscated again," she said with a small laugh. Then quieter, "I watched your match. You played well. The commentators kept mentioning your name."
Kweku smiled, staring at the moonlit pool. "I didn't even start that match. But thanks."
"Still," she said. "You've come far, Kweku. I just… don't forget the people who cheered for you before the world noticed."
Her voice cracked slightly, then steadied.
"I couldn't even if I tried," he said. "And Ama… we're playing the Netherlands tomorrow."
"I know," she replied. "Then go show them how we play in Ghana."
The call ended with static, but the warmth stayed. Kweku gave the phone back, breathed deeply, and whispered, "For you. For Mom. For us."
Ephraim shook his head," I thought we were forgetting about this bipolar girl". All Kweku could do was smile sheepishly
The next morning, the bus rolled toward Stade Mohammed V. The city blurred by — minarets, markets, and the distant shimmer of the sea. Kweku stared ahead, earbuds in, pulse steadying with every beat of the song. The storm was coming.