The 39th minute felt like an ultimatum for Saint Augustin FC. The whistle had just broken a brief silence: PvP FC was leading 3–0, and the red-and-white team knew they had to react before the match slipped completely out of reach.
Rahim, Saint Augustin's right-back, was one of the few still holding on to hope. He whispered to himself:
— Come on… Show them we're not just here to take a beating.
Recovering the ball in a dangerous area, he launched a furious run. With heavy strides, he stormed up the right flank, heel-tapping the ball to keep it close at all times.
> "Rahim… he's one of their best weapons, offensively and defensively!" exclaimed Madi, the commentator.
"If he manages to cross…"
Near the touchline, he spotted Papala making a diagonal run. Without hesitation, Rahim whipped in a sharp low cross. The ball skimmed along the ground, accurate, rushing toward the heart of the box.
Papala, sprinting at full speed, appeared in front of Salomon, dodged a sliding tackle, and struck the ball cleanly with his foot. Amadou, PvP's central wall, charged toward him and shouted:
— Up top, Papala!
Papala lifted his head and sent a pass back toward the edge of the box. Space opened up, and tension surged.
> "Careful—danger!" warned Madi.
But Amadou, outstanding in his reading of the play, anticipated the pass. With a sliding tackle, he knocked the ball away from his lines without committing a foul. The turf cracked under his boot, and the crowd let out a relieved sigh.
> "What a tackle!" shouted a PvP supporter.
"Amadou, our defensive wall!"
Amadou, unfazed, launched a clearance. The ball reached Salou Keita, who had just moved up. With a few touches, Salou kept the momentum: a double contact to open the axis, then a toe-poke to Hussein. Hussein pierced the line, but a defender slid in and deflected the ball sideways. It rolled straight to Sabiti.
The young playmaker received it with the grace of a ballet dancer. He lifted his heel slightly to control the bounce, then planted his foot like a cat ready to pounce. He paused, toying with the defense like a kitten with a ball of yarn. Two midfielders closed in, tightening the space.
Sabiti didn't flinch. He sold a fake feint: a glance to the right, a subtle hip movement, and the ball appeared to roll out toward the sideline. The two midfielders backed off, fooled. That's when Sabiti unleashed a perfect elastico, snapping the ball one way then the other, sending their bodies stumbling outward.
— Wow… Madi gasped, impressed.
— Another technical gem!
The first defender froze. Eager to gain speed, Sabiti followed up with an inside cut. His foot hooked the ball, changing direction, and he bolted toward goal. He left a trail of gasping players in his wake, desperately trying to catch him.
From the side, Dalaso shouted:
— Keep going, little genius!
Pushing forward, Sabiti shifted the ball onto his left foot. Only one defender stood between him and the net. After so many dribbles, that defender was already at his limit.
Sabiti, the ball glued to his foot, paused. He looked at the goal, assessed the angle, and gathered all his speed. With a sudden move, he did a step-over to the left, then two more to the right, and a final one to seal the trick.
> "One… two… three!" Madi chanted, caught up in the tension.
"How many feints… how many strokes…"
Sabiti struck. The ball hissed through the air, aiming for the top corner. All eyes followed it, slower than usual, floating in the air.
— It's yours, Kujo! Papala shouted as he backed away.
The stands held their breath. Some fans closed their eyes. Seconds later, the ball bounced just above the bar, landed in front of the goal line, and rolled wide.
No goal.
Silence fell, as if the stadium had vanished. Then came a burst of shouts and laughter:
> "Unbelievable… the crossbar again!"
"That bar's on the same level as him."
"So close to the hat-trick—what a player!"
Sabiti, hands on hips, shrugged. A faint smile broke through his focused mask. He exchanged a glance with Khudhaïf, who gave him a thumbs-up.
— Can you feel the hat-trick coming? Khudhaïf whispered.
— That bar's got a long-term contract… Sabiti replied, amused.
On Saint Augustin's bench, players held their heads in disbelief:
— We had him… almost… I can't believe it.
— That kid's tearing us apart. We're going to have to change everything.
— He'll regret it—we won't take this lying down!
The referee, sensing the rising tension, whistled to restore order. The teams returned to their positions as the energy still buzzed through the stands.
— Shall we go again? Dalaso asked playfully.
— With you, anything's possible, Salou replied.
Sabiti returned to the center circle. He placed his foot on the ball, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again—ready to resume the fight. Behind him, Madi concluded:
> "Ladies and gentlemen, if you thought you'd seen it all… take a deep breath. Because Sabiti—just eight years old—has led a counterattack and struck the bar twice…
And this match is far from over."
The referee signaled to resume play. The 40th minute began, and the battle was now being fought on two fronts: Saint Augustin's will to narrow the gap, and PvP FC's determination to drive it home. But if the ball were to hit the crossbar again, it was in Sabiti's words that the final obstacle stood…
> "Try again, my friend—I'm not done making you dance."
In the 43rd minute, the Saint Augustin coach raised his arms and shouted:
— Saïd! Mahfouz! Man-mark him! Stick to him like glue!
The tactical change was crystal clear: Sabiti was no longer allowed to breathe.
Saint Augustin's staff had decided to shift to strict man-to-man marking. No more zonal coverage, no more collective shielding. Now, two defensive midfielders — Saleh and Mahfouz — were tasked with shadowing Sabiti alone. The objective: suffocate him before he could even touch the ball.
In the stands, this reorganization didn't go unnoticed.
— They're panicking now! shouted a PvP fan, face flushed with excitement.
— They're going to chop him down at this rate, I swear, added another.
— You think that's gonna stop him? I doubt it. Time will tell—just be patient, replied another supporter.
But Sabiti, the eight-year-old prodigy, wasn't the kind of boy to be boxed in.
The whistle blew — game resumed.
No sooner had the ball been played out from central defense than Sabiti dropped deep into his own half. He positioned himself next to Salou Keita to receive the ball between the lines.
Dalaso, his captain, calmly called out:
— Take your time, Sab'. Make them chase.
Sabiti looked up and—bam! With a pivoting touch, he snatched the ball and launched into a dazzling samba move against Mahfouz, who tried to anticipate but slipped slightly.
— Wooh! screamed the crowd.
He immediately followed with a reversed double touch, deceiving Saleh, who had cautiously approached while backpedaling.
— Don't get too close, Saleh! Mahfouz yelled as he scrambled back.
But it was too late.
Sabiti was accelerating.
He slid into the heart of the pitch with feline grace, locking mischievous eyes on defenders Frigence and Bosco, who hesitated — press or hold?
That's when he spotted Abou's perfect run, cutting through the center-right, between Ismael and Bosco.
Without rushing, Sabiti took two stutter-steps, raised his arms as if calling for a short option, then zipped a laser pass with his left foot — a grounded missile that sliced through the entire midfield.
Abou emerged, caressed the ball with the inside of his foot, then turned on the jets. He cut inside past Ismael with a tight feint and raised his head.
At the far post, Khudhaïf was arriving, slipping between the two center-backs.
— I want it! Khudhaïf shouted, already soaring in his mind.
Abou whipped in a low, powerful cross. The ball was perfect.
Khudhaïf rose, back to goal, and attempted an acrobatic finish — an improvised bicycle kick.
In the stands, time seemed to freeze. Everyone held their breath.
But Kujo, Saint Augustin's keeper, wasn't about to let that through. He launched off the ground in a feline leap and pulled off a miraculous reflex save with his fist!
> "OH MY GOD! KUUUUJO!" Madi screamed, voice cracking with emotion.
"What a save! He gets to that?! He gets to that?! This match is turning into pure madness!"
The ball soared back into the air and dropped for a second chance. Hussein went for it in the scramble, but Rahim managed to clear it at the last second.
In the chaos, Sabiti — who had stayed back — stepped up to Abou.
— Nice one, bro, he said, offering his hand.
— I thought it was going in, replied Abou, slightly frustrated.
— We'll go again, don't worry.
But tension was mounting on the Saint Augustin side.
Papala, the left winger, stormed over to Saleh.
— What are you doing out there?! He skinned you! There's two of you on him and he still does what he wants!
Saleh threw his arms up:
— You wanna come defend yourself? I'm not holding him alone if he's dropping that deep!
Mahfouz, red with anger, snapped:
— He's not a kid — he's a virus!
Insults were about to fly, but the referee whistled to calm things down.
On the PvP bench, Ndikumana crossed his arms, eyes fixed on Sabiti.
In his head, he thought:
> They've put two guard dogs on him, and he's still frolicking like he's in his backyard...
But he said nothing. Just gave a quiet nod. The crowd continued chanting Sabiti's name:
— Sa-bi-ti! Sa-bi-ti!
Frigence, the center-back, walked up to Bosco before the corner.
— If the ball goes to him again, I'm going through him.
— If you hit him, do it clean. Otherwise it's a penalty, Bosco whispered.
The match had shifted into a tactical tension. The duel between Sabiti and Saint Augustin's midfielders had turned into a technical showcase.
But on the scoreboard, PvP still led 3–0.
And Sabiti… was beginning to write a new page of his growing legend.
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