The clubhouse at VV Dronen stood at the edge of a wide open field where the wind rolled in from the countryside and carried the smell of wet grass and mud. Its walls were chipped and faded, painted in blue and white years ago by the players' parents. Inside, laughter echoed through the narrow hallway, a blend of children's voices, clattering cleats, and the sharp whistle of the old coach, Mr. Verhagen, who had been with the club for as long as anyone could remember.
For Kellan, now eight years old, this place was more than a football field. It was a world of rhythm and repetition, of patterns and progress. Every day after school, he would walk down the path leading to the pitch with his ball tucked under one arm, his boots hanging over his shoulder. The other boys would run ahead, shouting, teasing, chasing one another. Kellan moved differently. He observed. He listened. His eyes seemed always fixed on something invisible, as though he were watching a match that only he could see.
When practice began, his focus would narrow to a point. While others swung their legs wildly at the ball, Kellan took small, deliberate touches. He adjusted his body each time, recalibrating like a scientist fine-tuning an experiment. His coach often said that the boy played with the patience of someone far older. During drills, Verhagen would stop the team and point at Kellan's movement. "See how he waits," he told the others. "He doesn't rush. The ball comes to him because he's ready before anyone else."
Not all the boys appreciated the praise. Some mocked him for his quietness or his pale hair that caught the sun like copper wire. They called him "the professor" because he always seemed to be thinking. Kellan never replied. He preferred the language of the game — the silence before a pass, the calmness after a perfect touch.
At home, the De Vries household revolved around balance. His father, Henrik, traveled often for work, sometimes spending weeks abroad managing logistics for an oil company. His mother, Alena, kept the rhythm steady in his absence. She encouraged Kellan's passion but made sure it never became arrogance. Every evening, after dinner, she would ask him what he learned that day. If he said "nothing," she would raise an eyebrow and remind him that learning never stopped. It became their ritual.
The family didn't have much money, but they had structure. Kellan learned early that discipline was a form of love. When he returned from training covered in mud, Alena would smile and tell him that true effort always leaves a mark. She patched his torn socks, cleaned his scuffed boots, and told him stories of her own childhood spent in faraway places where life was harder and simpler. She saw something in Kellan — a quiet fire, a purpose too big for his small frame.
As the seasons changed, his talent grew. He began to see football not as a sport but as a language — one he could use to express what he struggled to say aloud. The field became his notebook, the ball his pen. Each touch was a word, each pass a sentence. On days when Henrik was home, he would stand by the sideline during matches, a silent pillar of support. After one particular game, where Kellan assisted every goal in a 3–0 win, Henrik said quietly, "You don't need to talk much, son. You make people understand you in other ways."
By nine, whispers about him began to spread beyond Dronen. Scouts from nearby academies had started visiting, drawn by stories of the quiet boy with the golden hair who played like he was reading the future. Kellan remained unaware of the talk. He didn't play for attention or praise; he played to solve the game. The pitch was his laboratory, and every match was a chance to discover something new.
One chilly autumn afternoon, after a local tournament, a man approached Henrik near the sideline. His jacket bore the logo of Grenn Academy, one of the most respected youth systems in Beldora. "Your son," the man said, nodding toward the field, "has a mind for the game. We'd like to invite him for a trial." Henrik listened without interrupting. He knew this moment would come eventually, but seeing it arrive filled him with both pride and worry.
That night, Kellan sat at the kitchen table, tracing the edges of the academy letter with his fingers. The idea of leaving home made him uneasy. He glanced at his mother, who watched him with a soft smile. "You'll miss home," she said, "but you'll never lose it. Everything you've learned here goes with you." Henrik placed a hand on his son's shoulder and said, "Talent opens doors, but character keeps them open."
Kellan didn't answer. He just nodded and looked down at the letter again. It felt like a promise, heavy and important. Later that night, unable to sleep, he opened his small notebook and wrote: Think quicker. Work harder. Be calm when others rush. Then he looked out the window at the dim lights over Dronen's fields. Somewhere in that darkness lay the next step of his journey. He didn't know how far it would take him, only that he would follow it wherever it led.
A week later, he stood on the edge of the Grenn Academy's training ground, the grass perfectly trimmed, the lines sharp and bright against the morning sun. Around him, dozens of young players warmed up, their voices full of excitement and nerves. Kellan took a deep breath and stepped forward. His heart was steady, his thoughts clear. This was his first real test — the beginning of something far bigger than he could yet imagine.