Chapter 1: The Last Kick
The evening in Kathmandu buzzed with energy scooters honked as they weaved through traffic, street vendors called out over the sound of sizzling momo, and the soft ringing of temple bells echoed through the narrow alleys. Dust swirled in the humid air, catching the orange glow of streetlights as Nelen knelt on the sidelines of a cracked concrete futsal court, tightening the laces of his battered boots. At 38, his body wasn't what it used to be. His knees creaked, his lower back stiffened from endless hours hunched over a keyboard at his IT job, and his eyes burned from debugging code under fluorescent lights. But when his foot touched a ball, none of that mattered. The court was his sanctuary, the one place where the weight of a life half-lived lifted.
"Yo, Nelen, you playing or napping?" Ramesh called, his lanky frame bouncing a ball on his knee like a kid showing off. The futsal court buzzed with energy. Players stretched, joked, and their sneakers squeaked against the worn surface. A small crowd packed the makeshift bleachers: friends nursing beers, kids kicking pebbles, and a few girls snapping selfies under flickering floodlights. Nelen's younger sister, Anju, sat among them, her nurse's scrubs peeking out from under a jacket. She'd come straight from a double shift, her tired smile a quiet cheer for her brother.
Nelen caught the water bottle Ramesh tossed, grinning. "Dreaming of embarrassing you again, bro." He stood, rolling his shoulders, feeling the twinge of old scars from his teenage days at the All Nepal Football Association academy(ANFA). Back then, he was fast and skillful, slipping past defenders with ease, his name a whisper among scouts in Kathmandu's football circles. At 16, he'd scored a screamer in a youth tournament, the ball curling into the net like it was guided by fate. The crowd had roared, chanting "Nelen! Nelen!" as if he were already a star. But in Nepal, talent was cheap currency. Corruption ran the game. Coaches took bribes, officials favored their nephews, and Nelen, a middle-class kid from a family of shopkeepers, had no one to pull strings. By 20, his parents' voices, his father's gruff pragmatism and his mother's gentle worry, had drowned out his dreams. "Football won't feed you, son," they'd said. "Get a real job." So he did, trading his boots for a cubicle, his passion for a paycheck.
He shook off the memory, the ache in his chest sharper than the stiffness in his legs. The futsal court was his rebellion, a weekly ritual where he could pretend the years hadn't slipped away. His team, a motley crew of old friends and coworkers, faced a squad of younger players, all cocky, lean, and dripping with swagger. They wore knockoff Neymar jerseys, their hair gelled, their smirks screaming confidence. Nelen sized them up, his pulse quickening. He might be pushing 40, but he still had it.
The whistle pierced the air, sharp as a blade. The game exploded into motion, the ball zipping across the concrete like a live wire. Nelen moved on instinct, his body remembering what his mind tried to forget. He intercepted a lazy pass, nudging the ball past a defender with a quick shimmy. The crowd let out a cheer, a spark that lit him up inside. "Go, Nelen!" Anju's voice cut through the noise, her hands cupped around her mouth. He didn't look back, his eyes locked on the play unfolding.
"Over here, Nelen!" Ramesh shouted, sprinting down the left. Nelen feinted right, drawing two defenders, then flicked the ball to Ramesh with a precise pass. The move felt like poetry, like the old days when coaches scribbled his name in notebooks. Ramesh flubbed the shot, the ball sailing over the crossbar, and Nelen laughed, clapping his hands. "Come on, dai, my grandma could've buried that!"
The game surged back and forth, fast and unforgiving. The young team pressed hard, their star player, a wiry kid with a shaved head and too much attitude, taunting Nelen with quick step-overs. Nelen read him like a book, watching the kid's hips, not his feet. When the kid tried to nutmeg him, Nelen stole the ball clean, earning a whoop from the crowd. He drove forward, weaving through a tangle of legs, the ball glued to his foot. His lungs burned, sweat stung his eyes, but he felt alive, every step a defiance of the life that had caged him.
The score tied at 3-3, the clock ticking down to the final two minutes. Nelen's team pushed up, desperate for the win. Ramesh fed him the ball near the penalty area, and Nelen saw it, a sliver of space, a chance at glory. The keeper was off his line, leaning slightly left. Nelen's body knew what to do. He planted his foot, curled his toes around the ball, and struck it with everything he had. The ball soared, bending toward the top corner like a comet chasing the stars.
The net rippled. The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of cheers and whistles. Ramesh tackled him in a sweaty hug, nearly knocking him over. "You're a bloody wizard, Nelen!" he roared, ruffling Nelen's hair. Anju was on her feet, clapping wildly, her tired eyes bright with pride. For a fleeting moment, Nelen was 18 again, the kid who'd dreamed of hoisting trophies, of hearing his name chanted in stadiums across the world. The kid who'd never gotten the chance.
The game restarted, the young team charging like wolves. Their star player came at Nelen again, faster this time, his eyes glinting with vengeance. Nelen matched him step for step, their boots clashing in a frantic duel. He stole the ball again, his legs screaming, his breath ragged. The clock showed 30 seconds. One last push. He sprinted up the court, the crowd's roar a heartbeat in his ears. He saw the goal, saw the keeper shift, saw the perfect angle for another screamer.
A white-hot pain erupted in his chest, a vice crushing his ribs. His vision blurred, the ball slipping from his control, rolling into the wall. Nelen stumbled, clutching his shirt. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the concrete. The world tilted, sounds warping into a distant hum. "Nelen!" Anju's scream sliced through the fog, raw with panic. Hands grabbed him, Ramesh or a teammate, lowering him to the cold futsal court.
He lay there, gasping, the rough surface biting into his back. The smell of rubber and sweat filled his nose, the crowd's shouts fading to a dull roar. Faces hovered above him, blurred and frantic, but his mind was elsewhere, on the ANFA pitches where he'd dazzled, on the dreams he'd buried under years of code and coffee. Regret clawed at him, sharper than the pain in his chest. He could've been great. He should've fought harder, for himself, for Anju, for everyone who believed. His sister's face swam into view, her eyes wet, her voice begging him to hold on.
He couldn't. The world shrank to a pinprick, his final thought a desperate plea: One more chance. Please, just one more chance to make it right.
Darkness took him, and Nelen's heart stopped beating.