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Chapter 42 – Semifinal: Ghana vs. Netherlands
The stadium roared like a wave breaking on rock. Red and orange banners rippled through the stands as the teams marched out. The anthem of Ghana filled the air — deep voices, trembling pride. Kweku felt his throat tighten, remembering his coach's words: "Play with discipline. Win with grace."
Kickoff.
The Dutch began as everyone expected — crisp passes, high press, moving the ball with mechanical precision. Ghana fell back into shape, with two tight lines of defence. For the first ten minutes, Kweku barely touched the ball, chasing shadows across the pitch.
At the twelfth minute, danger — a cross from the right. Their striker met it cleanly, and the ball thudded off the post. The rebound fell to another Dutch midfielder, but Kweku slid in, perfectly timed, clearing it before he could shoot. The crowd gasped; the referee's whistle stayed silent.
Coach Ofori shouted from the touchline, "Settle! Find rhythm!"
Gradually, they did. Kweku began dictating tempo, turning with one touch, finding Tetteh on the wing. A neat triangle with Quartey, then a shot — saved. The Ghanaian bench jumped anyway, shouting encouragement.
But at minute 36, a lapse. A Dutch corner, whipped in. The ball flicked off a Ghanaian head, then glanced perfectly for their centre-back, who nodded it in. 1–0. Orange flags flared across the stands.
Halftime came heavy. In the locker room, no one spoke for a moment. Then the coach said, calm but sharp, "You have 45 minutes to rewrite history. Play as if this is the only match you'll ever get."
The second half began differently. Ghana pressed higher. Addo chased down defenders; Atsutey cut inside. Kweku intercepted a pass, threaded a long diagonal to Benjamin — fouled right outside the box.
The stadium quieted.
Atsutey stood over the ball, breathed, and curled it toward the far post. The Dutch keeper flinched — too late. The ball ricocheted off the bar, dropped into the six-yard box. Kweku rose through two defenders and headed it back across the goal. Benjamin slammed it in. 1–1.
The Ghanaian fans erupted. Flags waved; drums beat from the upper stands.
The game turned fierce. The Dutch attacked relentlessly; Ghana countered in bursts. With ten minutes left, both sides exhausted, Kweku felt his calves tighten — but he kept running, intercepting one more pass, starting one more move.
Full-time: 1–1.
Extra time.
Rain began to mist over the pitch. In the 105th minute, the Netherlands nearly scored — their captain struck from 20 yards, the ball curving toward the top corner. Ghana's keeper tipped it wide with his fingertips.
Then came the 112th minute.
Kweku anticipated a pass near midfield, lunged in, and stole it clean. He turned, sprinted forward — the field opening up before him. Quartey was ahead, pointing, screaming. Kweku threaded it perfectly through two defenders. Quartey took one touch, then another, and slid it under the diving keeper.
Goal. 2–1 Ghana.
The team swarmed him, collapsing in a pile.
The final minutes dragged like eternity. Netherlands hit the post once more, then fired wide. When the whistle finally blew, the noise exploded — a mix of laughter, tears, disbelief.
Kweku dropped to his knees, chest heaving. He looked up at the rainy sky, the lights blurred above him. His teammates hugged him, Coach Ofori shouting, "You earned it, boys! You earned it!"
As they walked to the bus, Ephraim pulled his phone from his bag and showed it to Kweku, visibly displeased. One new message. From Ama:
"I watched every minute. I'm proud of you, Kweku. No matter what happens next."
He smiled, hands in his pockets, and whispered, "Finals, Ma. Finals."
The boy from the dusty schoolyard was now one match away from glory.
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The streets of Casablanca were louder than ever. Fireworks had started the night before and never seemed to stop. The city smelled of salt, smoke, and sugar — roasted nuts and street tea mixing with the ocean air. The U-18 World Cup final was the talk of every café and market, every taxi radio and balcony conversation. The mighty France had been edged out.
And in one of the hotel rooms facing the coast, Kweku lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His heart thudded slowly — not from nerves, but something heavier. He'd dreamt of this moment since barefoot games on the dusty schoolyard in Takoradi. But now that it was here, he didn't feel ready.
He rose quietly, pulling the curtain aside. The Atlantic shimmered beneath the moonlight. Somewhere across that water, his mother would be asleep, probably having prayed for him twice before bed. He whispered softly to the night, "Ma, I'll make you proud."
By morning, the world was noise. Reporters, officials, team staff — everyone moving at once. When the bus pulled out of the hotel lot, people waved flags along the road. "Go Ghana!" someone shouted in French-accented English. At this point, Ghana would hold the hopes of all of Africa. The players grinned nervously, singing a local chant that echoed through the aisles.
At Stade Mohammed V, the crowd was a sea of yellow and green, but here and there patches of red, gold, and green waved stubbornly. France was the favourite, unbeaten, dazzling, but Brazil got the better of them. Ghana was the surprise, not bad but definitely not this good,— the story everyone had fallen in love with.
In the tunnel, Kweku's breath came slow and steady. Ahead, the Brazilian captain bounced the ball casually between his knees. Kweku caught his own reflection on the metallic tunnel wall — the Ghana badge on his chest, sweat already beading on his forehead. He remembered Ama's words: "Show them how we play in Ghana."
The whistle blew.
Kickoff.
Brazil began like a storm — slick one-twos, lightning-quick passing. Within minutes, Kweku was chasing midfielders who seemed to move on instinct. But he didn't flinch. Every time they advanced, he adjusted, intercepting, pressing, talking to his back line.
At the 15th minute, Ghana found rhythm. Addo switched play to Quartey, who cut inside, beat a man, and forced a corner. The crowd roared. Kweku jogged upfield, hand raised. The corner swung in perfectly — he rose, met it — just over the bar. Gasps everywhere.
Brazil responded ruthlessly. At minute 28, their left winger spun past two defenders, curling a cross in. Their striker — tall, calm — flicked it into the bottom corner. 1–0.
For a second, time froze. Then came the roar, half the stadium exploding in yellow joy.
Kweku stood, hands on his knees. The reality hit — they were behind. But when he glanced at his teammates, he saw no panic, only grit.
"Let's fight!" he shouted, clapping his hands. "We're not done!"
The rest of the half was survival. Boateng made two massive saves. Kweku blocked a long shot with his chest. The referee's whistle came almost as a mercy.
In the locker room, the air was thick with silence. Sweat dripped. Breaths were ragged. Coach Ofori stood before them, his voice low:
"This is the final. Nobody promised it would be fair. But you've earned this pitch. So go out there, and remind them who you are."
Kweku closed his eyes, replaying his mother's smile, Yaw's voice, his first worn-out ball. This is why I started, he thought. Not for glory. For the game itself.
As the second half loomed, he whispered to himself, "We fight till the end."