Dawit could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on him. The morning sun barely peeked through the gray Rotterdam sky, but inside him, there was nothing but light a burning excitement that he couldn't shake.
Yesterday had been a turning point. He had played one of the best matches of his life, his every pass crisp, his movement precise. And most importantly Coen Moulijn had been watching.
Moulijn wasn't just a scout. He was Feyenoord's greatest winger, its most iconic player. A champion who had lifted five league titles, conquered Europe, and helped the club become world champions in 1970. His name wasn't just remembered it was etched into history. Even now, at his age, he still held influence, helping Feyenoord find the stars of tomorrow.
Dawit had studied players like him legends who defined the game. And now, one of them had noticed him.
Now, Dawit stood on the pitch again, preparing for another day of relentless training. But this time, his legs felt different lighter, faster, hungrier. The air carried an energy he hadn't felt before, as if the future had already begun shifting around him.
"Not bad, kid."
Dawit turned, meeting Coach Jeroen's eyes, which carried something unfamiliar. Was it respect?
He had worked under Jeroen long enough to know he was tough, demanding, and not one to give praise easily. But today, there was pride.
"You made an impression," Jeroen said. "That man doesn't just show up for anyone."
Dawit felt his chest swell, but he forced himself to stay composed.
"Keep your head down and keep working," Jeroen added. "This could be just the beginning. But don't let it be the end."
Later that afternoon, Dawit felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Coen Moulijn standing before him, hands in his pockets, an unmistakable aura of experience surrounding him.
"Walk with me," Moulijn said simply.
Dawit fell into step beside the legendary winger. They moved away from the training ground, toward a quieter stretch of open field where the wind carried the faint echoes of football matches played long ago.
"I've been around this game a long time," Moulijn started. "Seen talent come and go. Some rise, some fall. Some never even get the chance."
Dawit remained silent, listening. The weight in Moulijn's voice wasn't just nostalgia it was experience hardened by time.
"But you," Moulijn continued, glancing at him with knowing eyes. "You have something different. I saw it yesterday."
Dawit swallowed, steadying his breath.
"Feyenoord will want to see more," Moulijn said. "We don't gamble on maybes. We invest in certainties."
A pause. Then the words Dawit had been waiting for.
"I want you to come train with us."
The world seemed to stop.
Dawit had dreamed of this his entire life playing for Feyenoord, wearing the crest, stepping onto De Kuip's hallowed ground.
Now, it was within reach.
But Moulijn wasn't finished.
"It's not just talent that makes a great player," he said. "It's consistency. It's hunger. It's knowing that every training session, every game, is a moment to prove something."
Dawit nodded, absorbing every word.
"This won't be easy," Moulijn added. "Feyenoord demands everything. And once you put on that shirt, you carry history with you."
Dawit had already known that. But hearing it from Moulijn made it feel different heavier, more real.
That night, Dawit sat at the kitchen table, staring at his parents. He had just told them everything the training, the scout, the words Coen Moulijn had spoken.
His father nodded slowly, pride gleaming in his eyes.
"This is what you've worked for," he said. "What you've prayed for."
His mother reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "It won't be easy," she said softly. "But nothing worthwhile ever is."
Dawit nodded. He knew that more than anyone.
Later that night, he stepped outside, breathing in the crisp Rotterdam air. The neighborhood streets were quiet, his breath forming small clouds in the cold.
For years, he had walked these same streets, picturing himself wearing Feyenoord's colors, wondering if that dream was too far away.
Now, it wasn't just a dream. It was happening.
Tomorrow, he would step onto Feyenoord's training grounds.
Tomorrow, he would take the first step toward greatness.
And he would never look back.
The night air was cool against Dawit's skin as he stepped onto the balcony of his family's apartment. The city hummed softly beneath him, distant car engines blending with the occasional laughter of pedestrians. This place had always been home his comfort, his foundation. But now, it felt different.
He gripped the railing, letting his thoughts run wild. Tomorrow, everything would change.
It wasn't just about stepping onto Feyenoord's training grounds. It was about proving himself, about becoming more than just another talented kid. Players had come and gone, many with potential, many with dreams as big as his. But few made it. Few carried the fire long enough to turn their dreams into reality.
His fingers tapped against the metal railing in rhythm with his thoughts. Coen Moulijn had chosen him. That alone should've been enough to make him confident but somehow, the weight of expectation pressed even harder on his chest.
Failure wasn't an option.
He turned back toward the window. Inside, his parents sat together on the couch, quietly talking. His mother's expression was a mixture of pride and worry, her eyes scanning an old photo of Dawit as a child holding a football almost as big as himself, his smile wide and full of unshakable belief.
His father's voice carried through the glass.
"Tomorrow, he starts something real."
His mother nodded, setting the photo down. "I just hope he doesn't lose himself in it."
Dawit swallowed. That wouldn't happen. It couldn't.
The pressure was heavy, but he embraced it. This was his moment.
As the clock on the wall crept toward midnight, Dawit finally pulled himself away from the balcony. He had a long day ahead a day that could define everything.
He climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, his life would begin.
He closed his eyes. Sleep would come eventually.
It had to.