The morning sun cut through the thin curtains of Eshan's small bedroom, casting warm lines across the tatami mat floor. He blinked, stretching his arms, and felt the familiar thrill of a new day coursing through him. At nine years old, the world was suddenly full of possibilities. Every motion, every breath, every shadow on the ground felt charged, alive.
Today wasn't just any day. Today, he would step onto the football field for a full club practice match — his first real opportunity to test his abilities against other kids, some slightly older than him.
His mother's voice drifted up the stairs, soft but insistent.
"Eshan! Breakfast! Don't forget to eat, or you'll run out of energy before practice."
"I'm coming, Mom!" he called, already moving toward the small wooden staircase. Even as he descended, his mind was elsewhere, running through imagined plays, passes, and shots. Football wasn't just a game to him anymore — it was a challenge, a canvas, a world he could manipulate.
Breakfast was quick, but his mother noticed the fire in his eyes. She didn't need to say anything; she had watched him grow these past months, seen how intensely he trained in the small garden and shadow drills after school. She only smiled quietly, a mixture of pride and concern.
"You really love it, don't you?" she asked gently.
"I do," Eshan replied. "I want to see how far I can go. I want to score, win… feel the game."
His mother's smile widened. "Then go. Show them who you are."
By the time he arrived at the field, the other kids were already gathering. Some were taller, some older, some faster. But Eshan barely noticed them. His senses were alive, focused entirely on the ball. He bent down, rolling it lightly between his feet. The leather responded perfectly, as if it could read his intent.
Absolute Ball Feel. He had named it months ago after countless hours of practice, yet today it felt sharper, more precise than ever. Every touch was alive. Every roll, every flick, every subtle nudge could be controlled effortlessly.
Coach Tanaka's whistle pierced the air.
"Pair up! Dribble and pass! Accuracy counts!"
Eshan's partner, Hiroshi, was taller and slightly older. As Hiroshi passed the ball, Eshan felt it before it even left his teammate's foot. He nudged it lightly, slipping past Hiroshi's attempted block with a subtle angle, almost like the ball was bending around him. Hiroshi blinked, muttering, "How…?"
Eshan didn't answer. He had no need. Every movement was instinctual. Every decision was made in the milliseconds before his conscious mind could react. And yet, something was different today. There was a natural flow in his steps, a rhythm he hadn't fully felt before.
The team split into two for a short match. Eshan's side was smaller, less coordinated, but he barely noticed. The ball rolled toward him from midfield. Three defenders converged. Eshan smiled.
He read their shoulders, predicted their lunges, and moved the ball with an almost imperceptible flick of his toes, slipping past all three defenders.
A clear path to the goal opened. He didn't hesitate. He shot — but the goalkeeper, a quick boy a year older, dove and barely tipped the ball aside.
Eshan sank to his knees, laughing. Not from disappointment, but from exhilaration. The taste of the game, the thrill of outmaneuvering multiple defenders, the near-perfect execution — it was intoxicating.
This is just the beginning.
The next weeks were a blur of repetition and practice. Eshan trained after school, shadow dribbling, practicing flicks, passes, and feints. He began to understand not just how to control the ball, but how to anticipate teammates' movements and defenders' intentions.
Even at nine, his experience began showing advantages. He could manipulate the ball's motion to open spaces, create slight misdirections, or glide around defenders in ways they couldn't read. He wasn't scoring like a professional yet — his body was small, his shots not always perfect — but he dominated the flow of every game.
He started noticing subtle patterns. A defender's shoulder twitch, a teammate's glance, the way the ball bounced differently on worn patches of the field. He began using strategic touches — soft passes, controlled spins, tiny fakes — all designed to create scoring opportunities for himself. Every movement fed into his primary goal: to score.
His teammates were amazed. Even older kids couldn't predict him. Even when he passed, it was usually because he saw an opening to score later. Every decision was part of his striker mindset.
Despite all the football, Eshan's bond with his mother remained steady.
"Eshan," she said one evening, sitting beside him as he laced his cleats for practice. "You've been training a lot. Do you ever stop and just… be a kid?"
"I do, Mom," he said, eyes on the cleats. "But football… it's who I am now. It's how I test myself. How I grow."
She nodded. "I understand. Just… remember, you're my son first, champion later. Balance matters."
Eshan smiled faintly. She didn't need to understand Absolute Ball Feel or the instincts surging through him. All she needed to know was that he was alive, focused, and happy.
By the end of the month, small victories began stacking.
Eshan scored his first solo goal, a clean shot after a short dribble around two defenders. The goalkeeper could only watch.
He made several near-goal plays, flicks, and small tricks, showing how naturally he could manipulate the ball.
Opponents began whispering about him. Even kids slightly older started to adjust their play, instinctively recognizing his dominance.
He could predict small movements before they happened, slip the ball into impossible spaces, and see openings others didn't — all instinctive, subtle, and unremarkable to an outsider, but extraordinary for those who knew the game.
He had not yet realized the full extent of his abilities, but he knew enough to start dreaming:
One day, I'll score every time I want. One day, no one can stop me. This is just the start.
The sun dipped low over Yokohama, casting long shadows across the field. Eshan sat on the grass, knees drawn up, feeling the cool blades beneath his fingers.
His mother's voice floated from the nearby house:
"Dinner's ready, Eshan!"
He stood, brushing the sweat from his brow, clutching his ball. A small grin spread across his face.
I'm just nine. But this… this is how it begins.