The Greatest of all Time-Novel

Zachary had taken long without touching the ball. So, he found himself curiously eager, carried away by the tide of excitement to perform.

He didn't let the ball bounce—but instead brought it down gently, like he had a magnet in his boots that could attract rubber. His ball control had always ranked among his best skills from childhood. He had been juggling tins and balls woven from banana fibers since he was five, honing his ability to manipulate the ball.

However, the Riga players didn't allow him anytime to deliberate. One of the center-backs, marking him, crushed into his back within a second of his controlling the ball. He applied physical pressure with his body, denying him an opportunity to turn with the ball.

Zachary protected the ball with his body, using his strength graded at A- by the system to keep the defender at bay. Meanwhile, he looked up and noticed that the other Riga players who had been attacking his box were closing-in on him very quickly.

Zachary was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He was surrounded by opponents on all sides—like an island amid an endless sea. The Riga players had him where they wanted him. They would soon box him in, win possession, and resume their relentless attacks on NF academy's box. That was unless he found a way out of his predicament.

Zachary reached within himself—and an instinctual awareness took over, forcing his body to function on muscle memory and reflexive motions. Adrenaline flooded his system. The movement of the players around him seemed to slow to a crawl. His awareness heightened—and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Magnus racing towards him, shouting his name.

Zachary smirked and planted his right leg between the ball and the Riga defender—who was increasing the physical pressure to make him lose possession, by the second. Zachary's body was not following any logical thinking—but a set of pre-programmed motions that were stored somewhere deep within his brain.

He drew back his left foot and feinted a pass back down the pitch—towards the approaching Magnus. At that instant, he felt the physical pressure from the defender subside, meaning that his feint had worked.

But instead of passing, Zachary let his foot stop over the ball—and drew it back behind his standing right leg. He then pivoted at the hip, toward his marker, spinning 180 degrees—and shifting his weight to his left foot.

"The Cruyff Turn!" Some of the fans in the stands yelled at the top of their lungs, more or less in unison.

Zachary completed the whole set of motions swiftly and seamlessly, like a fish navigating in water. His mark followed the feint and lost a few yards in-the-time it took him to recover from his slip-up.

Zachary found himself with a yard of space and accelerated towards the left-wing. The other center-back quickly closed him down, trying to bar his path to the Riga team's box.

Zachary continued working by instinct, letting his body flow with the ball instead of thinking about his moves.

He pushed the ball away from himself with the outside of his right boot. He intended to dupe the defender into believing that he was going towards the inside of the pitch. Once the center-back bought the dummy, Zachary immediately wrapped his foot around the ball and then sped off in the opposite direction.

The Riga defender sat down as if in respect for his dribble.

"An Elastico," Some of the fans shouted. They were on their feet with their necks craned to get a better look at Zachary circumventing the Riga center-back.

Zachary's unexpected elastico dribble took him past his final mark—and all that remained was open space between him and the box. What followed was a race as Zachary shrugged off the chasing players and bolted towards Riga's goal.

He turned the match into a parody of a 100-meter race. The Riga players chased after him with their fists pumping, trying their best to catch up. But Zachary's A+ agility was no joke at the youth level. He left them all in the dust and soon approached the goalkeeper that had come out to greet him.

Zachary expertly flicked the ball around the helpless goalkeeper who remained crawling on the ground after a fruitless attempt to block his advance. Zachary found himself in space before the empty net and unleashed a simple strike towards the goal.

A shadow rushed by him: and it was Riga's defensive midfielder. Zachary was surprised by his speed as he was only a second behind him. He judged that the player's speed must be close to his own.

The defensive midfielder tried his best to slide in and save the ball—but instead, he pushed the ball further into the back of the net.

Zachary had scored his third goal in the 90th minute, completing a hat-trick for the day. He had helped his team regain a two-goal advantage over the Riga team.

4:2.

The stadium instantly went quiet—as if a ghost had passed through the ranks of the home fans. But as Zachary rushed to celebrate with his teammates, the crowds in the stands stood up and gave him a standing ovation. It didn't seem to matter to them that he had scored against their team. They just applauded the skills of a phenomenal player who had done some jaw-dropping dribbling before whipping the ball into the back of the net.

Intense waves of happiness flooded Zachary's entire being like focused beams of light, piercing through to his soul as he celebrated with his teammates. He lay down on the artificial grass and let the joy soak right into his bones, without bothering about the weight of the other players piling above him.

For the first time in a long while, his mind and body relaxed completely. At that moment, he felt the joy of scoring in a highly contested match. He had never felt such delight in his previous life. He'd made it—he was a winner, on his way to becoming a professional soccer player. His only wish was to have plenty more happy moments in his career.

*FWEEEEEEE!*

The referee's whistle interrupted the NF academy celebration. They had to complete the match first before continuing their festivities. But, Zachary was already sure that they would win the game.

**** ****

Jimmy Edwards was an English scout who hated wasting his time. His bosses had forced him to travel with Tottenham's youth team for the trip to Riga. Although he obeyed, he wasn't happy to spend his February in Latvia. He was jealous of some of his colleagues who had traveled to South America—a continent flooding with talents and—of course, the fine weather.

He lamented the bad luck that had gotten him assigned to the Baltic Region—where he couldn't possibly find talents for the agency. He had already been to some tournaments in Northern and Eastern Europe and failed to find worthwhile players. He had expected the Riga Cup to follow the same trend.

So, he had downloaded three UB-40 albums to his digital Sony Walkman before the opening match. Listening to the music of the legendary British band would get him through what he expected to be a boring opening match. Maybe—probably! To make sure he wasn't disturbed by the noise, he had purchased a set of Sony bass headphones before heading into the indoor stadium to earn his travel allowance.

However, 30 minutes into the game, he had already discarded the headphones—and was busy asking for the name of the player wearing the number-8 shirt of the NF academy team. He no longer looked like a scout that had been forced to the Baltic Region by his agency.

For the entire match, he had watched the highly clinical player take on defenders and score goals. He was mesmerized by his talent—something that hadn't happened to him in a decade. The player was quick on his feet and very clinical. Only his footwork required a bit of work to turn him into another Ryan Giggs or better.

However, his vision and ball control made his conventional footwork seem unnecessary. He could feint, run around defenders, and pass like a Maestro. What if he received training aimed at improving his dribbling skills to match up to the level of his game vision? Jimmy could not help but wonder. He resolved to get his hands on the player by all means.

He turned towards his colleague—an intern who had traveled with him. The intern was a beautiful brunette with hair that tumbled over her shoulders. However, Jimmy found himself stealing more glances at the pitch—than at his gorgeous companion. The game had captured all his attention. He did not wish to miss even a second of the match.

"Can you manage to make contact with him?" He asked. "We need to get to him before the other agencies notice him."

"You're finally taking your work seriously," said Emily Anderson. She did not turn around but continued recording the match with her Nikon Camera. She only managed a response when the game ended with a score of 4:2 in favor of the NF academy.

"I'll try to make contact," she said while straightening her dark brown hair. "But I can't make any promises. Players that talented often have their own agencies even while still in academies. Plus, have you forgotten that you're here as a Tottenham scout, not a representative of the agency?"

Jimmy frowned, mopping a gloved hand through his scruffy brown hair. "Intern," he intoned. "Don't try to explain this to me. I've been in the football industry for the past fifteen years. Every player, agency, or team usually has a price. Your role is to find out that price. Just do your job and get in touch with him. If he has no agent, the better for us."

Emily Anderson flashed his colleague a soft smile before replying: "I'll get right to it."

**** ****