Trials Day – Bellevue(Marseille)
Yanis didn't need the alarm because he opened his eyes three minutes before it rang; his heart was already moving like a drumroll under his hoodie. His room was dim—only the glow of the streetlamp outside lit the wall where his calendar still read:
"INF Regional Trials– Stade Parsemain – 8:30 a.m."
Today was the line between everything he had been and everything he might become.
The house was already awake. His mother was in the kitchen making tea and preparing a sandwich to pack for after the session. She kept the lights low and the house quiet.
Lina shuffled out of her room, still half asleep, wearing a hoodie down to her knees and holding a drawing. She pressed it into his hand.
"It's me, you, and the ball. I put stars around your boots."
He unfolded the paper. They were stick figures, a goal, and little yellow stars drawn around his cleats.
"I love it," he said. "I'll put it in my bag."
His father was already dressed and ready, checking the weather forecast again on his phone.
"Clear skies. 14°C. Light wind."
His father had pre-packed a small duffel for emergencies—extra gear, pain cream, grip spray and spare studs. He even printed a copy of the field layout, check-in process, and warm-up schedule based on previous INF sessions.
His mother handed him a sandwich, wrapped in foil. "For later. You'll be starving by noon."
She kissed his forehead gently. "Play smart."
Lina gave a thumbs-up from the couch, cartoon music playing quietly behind her. His father opened the door. "Let's go."
Yanis stepped out onto the street with his boots in his bag and his entire world in his chest.
They pulled out of Bellevue just after sunrise, the sky still a soft gray. The streets were empty except for a few delivery vans and old men setting up chairs outside cafés.
Yanis leaned back in the passenger seat with his bag on his lap. The city slipped past—bus stops, graffiti walls and that bakery with the posters of Payet on the window. It was all familiar. But today, it looked different.
His father didn't speak much. The GPS buzzed occasionally: "Continue on D9 toward Fos-sur-Mer."
Yanis kept silent as there was a weight in his chest, but not the kind that made it hard to breathe. It was solid and controlled like a fire tucked deep inside, waiting for the right moment to rise.
They merged onto the A55, heading west. The city fell away fast: the buildings thinning out and the roads becoming wider, To the right, the sea shimmered faintly under the fog, invisible behind a wall of warehouses and cranes near the port. To the left, low hills rolled in the distance.
Yanis glanced out the window, seeing places he'd only ever passed by on bus rides—industrial zones, forgotten exits and fuel depots.
His thoughts weren't racing and they were deliberate. He visualized; lining up at check-in, hearing his name called, warmimg–up with kids he didn't know. He imagined the short-sided games. He wasn't chasing perfection but he was chasing impact.
His father broke the silence first. "You feeling it?"
Yanis nodded, "Yeah."
The road curved, revealing an open stretch flanked by windbreak trees. The GPS voice echoed softly: "Continue straight for 31 kilometers."
His father glanced over. "You nervous?" "A little but I'm not scared, I'm just ready."
His father nodded. "Good. You're supposed to feel something. If you didn't, I'd be worried."
They drove a bit more in silence. Then— "You remember what I told you about your first ten minutes?"
Yanis nodded again. "Fast touches, stay involved, communicate and make yourself visible."
"Exactly, first impressions. But don't chase them, earn them."
Yanis turned to look out the window again. The sun was breaking through now, cutting across the fields in golden streaks.
They passed signs for Martigues, then Istres. Fos-sur-Mer was next and the GPS counted down in slow, steady ticks. Yanis could feel the shift. The buzz in his body was stronger now—not fear, not excitement. Just readiness.
He unzipped his bag slightly to check if he had his items in.
As the last curve broke open, the stadium appeared ahead: Stade Parsemain. It wasn't massive, but it was sharp—white steel beams, low stands and three full-sized pitches behind the main gate.
Cars were parked in rows. Boys in cleats and jackets stood near the registration tent as FFF staff in navy tracksuits clipped papers to clipboards and waved others forward. It looked official, controlled and real.
His father pulled into the lot and parked under the shade of a pine tree. The engine clicked as it cooled.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then his father spoke. "Don't wait for the game to come to you." Yanis looked over and nodded.
After a short prayer with his dad, Yanis stepped through the front gate of Stade Parsemain with his gear bag over one shoulder and his heartbeat steady in his chest.
The light had changed now as a soft, golden sun cut across the grass, casting long shadows from the goalposts. The stadium wasn't loud, but it was alive. The kind of buzz that hummed low, like a match before kickoff.
A line of players already stretched out near the check-in table. Some had parents nearby and others stood alone. Most were dressed in dark base layers or club kits from smaller academies.
A few were already warming up off to the side; some were juggling, passing or sprinting while others were showing off loud touches, flashy moves and stepovers.
They were good, you could tell. They had sharp bodies, fast feet and real presence. These weren't playground kids. These were players.
He tightened the strap of his bag and stepped forward.
He passed a small tent marked "Accueil", where FFF staff in navy jackets sat behind a table with clipboards and stacks of player forms.
Each name was called out as bibs were handed over. Some boys smiled nervously and others looked like they'd been here before. Yanis caught one kid doing sprint drills in cleats on the edge of the field between cones. Another was hitting passes against the fence. A third was juggling non-stop with his eyes closed.
His father stepped beside him briefly. "You see what I mean now?" he said, voice low. "Plenty of skill. But maybe only five will get noticed."
Yanis nodded. "They'll have to see me."
His father gave him a final look, hand on his shoulder. "Go do what you came to do."
Yanis joined the line. His stomach didn't twist and his legs didn't shake.
This was it. A pitch full of talent and a clipboard full of names but only a few would survive the list. And he planned to be one of them.