January 4th, 2005
Marco arrived at the training ground at 5:45 AM, fifteen minutes later than his usual routine. The extra sleep his body had demanded after two weeks of proper rest.
The pitch was dark, frost-covered, and occupied.
But someone was already training.
A figure moved through the pre-dawn shadows, ball at his feet, executing drills with mechanical precision.
As Marco's eyes adjusted, he recognized the build, the movement pattern.
Sebastian Kurz. The other left winger. The one currently rated at 62/100—the player Marco had already surpassed.
He's training early too.
Sebastian noticed Marco approaching, paused his drill, and straightened. Even in the dim light, Marco could see the hard set of his jaw.
"Reus." No greeting. Just acknowledgment.
"Kurz."
An awkward silence stretched between them. Sebastian was seventeen, a year and a half older than Marco, and had been the undisputed backup left winger until Marco's meteoric rise through October and November.
"Saw your tournament performances," Sebastian said finally, tone carefully neutral. "Two assists against Leverkusen. I saw scouts from other clubs taking notes."
"Thanks."
"I wasn't complementing you." Sebastian picked up his ball. "You know what they're saying, right? That I'm being phased out. That the fifteen-year-old has taken my spot."
Marco met his gaze steadily. A few months ago, he would have apologized, deflected, tried to smooth things over. But that person was gone. In his place was someone who'd worked relentlessly for four months, who'd earned every percentage point, who had no intention of apologizing for being better.
"Then train harder," Marco said simply. "That's what I did."
Sebastian's face flushed. "You think it's that easy? Some of us don't have whatever natural gift you suddenly discovered. Some of us have been grinding for years and we're still—" He caught himself, jaw clenching. "Forget it."
He turned to leave, but Marco spoke again.
"You don't need to just dismiss it as a natural talent. Also I train regularly at this time. And it's my first time seeing you here. "
Sebastian looked back. "This hour? Every day?"
"Every day."
"That's..." Sebastian shook his head. "That's insane."
"Maybe. But I am sure I will make it to the professional stage like this" Marco moved past him toward his usual training area. "The spot's there for anyone who wants to take it. You just have to want it more than I do."
He didn't look back to see Sebastian's reaction. Didn't need to. The message was delivered.
Competition makes you sharper. Let him push me. Let me push him.
Marco set up his morning routine—sixty left-foot finishing repetitions, the weakness he'd been hammering at for six weeks. His form was clean now, efficient. The cold didn't bother him as much. His body had adapted.
Behind him, he heard Sebastian resume training. Harder than before. More intense.
Good.
The morning team session revealed the shift immediately. Coach Werner gathered the squad in the frigid air, breath misting, and made an announcement.
"Gentlemen, we're three weeks from the regional tournament semifinals. This is showcase time. Bundesliga scouts, national team scouts, everyone will be watching." He paused, scanning the group.
"Starting positions are not guaranteed. Everyone competes for their spot. Every training session is an evaluation."
Around Marco, players shifted nervously. But Marco felt only calm focus. He'd been treating every session as an evaluation since August.
"Small-sided games. Four teams of five. Winners stay on. Losers run."
The academy's oldest motivator—compete or suffer.
Marco's team: him, Leon, Henrik, Lars, and a young striker named Patrick. Sebastian's team included Dennis, Tobias, and two other solid players.
First game: Marco's team against Sebastian's.
Sebastian marked Marco personally from the kickoff, pressing tight, physical, determined. Every time Marco received the ball, Sebastian was there—shoulder to shoulder, forcing him wide, cutting off angles.
He's motivated. Desperate.
But desperation made players predictable.
Third minute: Marco received the ball on the left, Sebastian immediately pressing. Instead of his usual cut inside—which Sebastian was clearly expecting—Marco played a quick one-two with Leon, using Sebastian's aggressive positioning against him. The return pass came behind Sebastian. Marco was through.
Cross. Goal.
Sebastian's frustration was visible. He pressed even harder, more aggressively.
Seventh minute: Same situation, but this time when Sebastian overcommitted, Marco simply passed around him—a simple ball to Lars overlapping, who crossed for Leon to finish.
2-0.
The game ended 4-1. Marco had one goal, two assists. Sebastian had been beat repeatedly, his aggressive marking making him vulnerable.
Marco's team stayed on. Sebastian's team ran sprints.
As Sebastian jogged past toward the punishment laps, Marco caught his eye. No gloating. No celebration. Just acknowledgment.
This is the standard. Meet it or don't.
* * * *
The advanced tactical training that afternoon brought a new dynamic. Coach Hoffmann had set up a complex positional rotation drill, and for the first time, Marco found himself directing others.
"Dennis, when I drop deep, you push high," Marco called out during the exercise. "Leon, if I'm central, you drift right. Create the overload."
Dennis raised an eyebrow but complied. The movement pattern worked—Marco dropping deep pulled an opponent midfielder out of position, creating space for Dennis to exploit.
"Good read, Reus," Hoffmann called from the sideline. "You're seeing it. Now execute faster."
They ran it again. This time Marco's drop and pass were simultaneous—one fluid motion that split the defense before it could adjust.
Leon jogged over afterward. "Marco,you're playing with more confidence, I see."
"I am just seeing the game more clearly," Marco replied.
"It's more than that. In October, you were good but tentative. Now you just... know." Leon shrugged.
"It's the difference between talent and belief, I think."
Belief.
Leon was right. Somewhere between August's desperation and January's clarity, Marco had stopped questioning whether he belonged. The four months of relentless work, the measurable improvement, the tournament performances—they'd built something more valuable than skill points.
They'd built certainty.
That evening's individual training session brought an unexpected visitor. Marco was working on his dipping shots—a skill that had climbed to the top over four months, but still needed refinement for match reliability.
He set the ball twenty-five yards from goal, took four steps back, and struck.
The ball rose, dipped sharply, and crashed against the crossbar.
"Close." A voice from behind.
Marco turned. Sebastian stood at the pitch's edge, ball under his arm.
"Came back for extra work?" Marco asked.
"Like you said. Train harder." Sebastian dropped his ball. "Mind if I use the other goal?"
"It's a free pitch."
They trained in parallel silence for twenty minutes. Marco on free kicks, Sebastian on close control drills. Neither spoke. Neither acknowledged the other directly.
But both trained with ferocious intensity.
Finally, Sebastian broke the silence. "Why do you do it? The extra hours. You're already ahead of me, ahead of most of the squad. You've got scouts interested. Why keep grinding?"
Marco considered the question.
"Because, for me being good enough isn't enough," Marco said instead. "I want to be better than everybody else. And greatness requires more than talent. It requires work nobody else is willing to do."
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. "You really think you can be great? Bundesliga level? National team?"
"I know I can." No hesitation. No doubt. "And you could too, if you wanted it badly enough."
"But I'm not as talented as you."
"Talent is overrated. There are players with less talent than you make it because they outworked everyone. And I've seen incredibly talented players waste it because they thought talent was enough." Marco struck another free kick—this one dipped perfectly into the top corner.
Sebastian didn't answer immediately. He just picked up his ball and moved to the free-kick position Marco had vacated.
"Show me the technique," he said finally. "The dipping shot. I can never get it right."
And Marco did.
For the next thirty minutes, he broke down the mechanics—the valve contact point, the follow-through, the body positioning. Sebastian's attempts were rough at first, but gradually improved.
"There," Marco said after Sebastian's seventh attempt produced a decent dip. "That's the foundation. Now you just need a thousand more reps."
Sebastian laughed—a sound without humor. "A thousand more reps. Of course." But there was something else in his expression. Not quite gratitude, but acknowledgment. Respect, maybe.
As they packed up to leave, Sebastian spoke one more time. "I still want that starting spot. I'm not giving up."
"That's good," Marco replied. "Exactly what I wanted. I'd be disappointed if you did. Competition makes both of us better."
They walked back toward the dorms in companionable silence. Not friends, exactly. But no longer simply rivals.
He needed this, Marco realized. Needed someone to show him that the gap isn't talent—it's work. If he applies that lesson, he might actually catch up.
And if he does, I'll just work harder.
* * * *
Friday, January 7th, 2005
The week's final training session was intense. Coach Werner pushed the advanced tactical group through complex positional rotations, demanding precision and speed.
Marco moved through the drills with calm efficiency, his through balls finding teammates in space, his movement creating problems for the defense.
Marco was sharp—two assists in the small-sided game, one spectacular through ball that bisected three defenders and set up Phillipe for an easy finish.
Coach Hoffmann blew his whistle. "Excellent, Reus! That's Bundesliga-quality vision!"
After training, as players filtered toward the locker room, Coach Werner called out. "Reus. A moment."
Marco jogged over, curious. Werner's expression was carefully neutral—the look of a coach about to have a serious conversation.
"Walk with me," Werner said.
They moved away from the other players, toward the edge of the training pitch. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the frost-covered grass.
"You've made significant progress," Werner began. "Four months ago, you were borderline. Now you're training with our best prospects and holding your own. Better than holding your own—you're excelling."
"Thank you, Coach."
"Don't thank me yet. I'm about to give you advice you may not want to hear." Werner stopped, turning to face Marco directly. "You're attracting attention. Other clubs are starting to ask questions. I've had calls from scouts at Bayern, Schalke, even clubs outside Germany."
Marco's pulse quickened but his expression remained calm. "What kind of questions?"
"The usual. How's his development? Is he available? Would Dortmund consider a transfer?" Werner's eyes were sharp, assessing. "I tell them all the same thing: Marco Reus is Dortmund's player. He's under contract. And he's focused on proving himself here first."
"That's correct, Coach."
"Good. Because I need you to understand something, Marco." Werner's tone grew serious. "You're fifteen years old. You have no agent. Your parents are good people but they don't understand the football business. And there are people out there who would take advantage of that."
Marco nodded slowly. "You're warning me about agents."
"I'm warning you to be careful. When word gets out that a young player has potential—real potential—the sharks come circling. Agents promising the world. Clubs making offers that sound incredible. All of it designed to destabilize you, to pull you away from your development path."
Werner placed a hand on Marco's shoulder. "My advice? Don't even think about agents until after March. Secure your position here first. Prove you belong at Dortmund. Once that's done, once you have a solid foundation, then you can think about representation. But if you start entertaining offers now, while you're still establishing yourself..." He shook his head. "It's a distraction you don't need."
Marco understood the subtext. Werner wasn't just giving fatherly advice—he was protecting Dortmund's interests too. If Marco signed with an agent, that agent would immediately start shopping him around to bigger clubs. Dortmund could lose a promising prospect before he ever played for the first team.
But Werner's advice was also genuinely good. Distractions were the last thing Marco needed with seven weeks until the final evaluation.
"I understand, Coach. No agents until after March. My focus is on proving I belong here."
Werner's expression relaxed slightly. "Good. Because you do belong here, Marco. You've earned your place. Just don't lose sight of that by getting caught up in outside noise."
"I won't, Coach."
"One more thing." Werner's voice dropped lower. "If anyone—and I mean anyone—approaches you with offers, promises, or pressure, you come to me immediately. Don't handle it yourself. Don't let your parents handle it alone. We have people who deal with these situations properly. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Excellent. Now get to the showers. And Marco?" Werner almost smiled. "Keep up the work. You're on track for something special."