At London St. Andrew College, students had great ambitions. Many wished to be astronauts, engineers, doctors, physicists—but one stood out. His name was Ray Arlon, a student known for nothing groundbreaking: barely above-average grades, mediocre sports skills. But that didn't stop him from echoing his dreams.
"I will be the best striker ever, mark my words."
He always said those words at every career fair the school hosted, dressed up in a Chelsea No. 9 shirt. Since kindergarten, he had dressed like that, saying those same words in front of the class. He always got the usual responses from teachers:
"That's a nice thing to say, but let's all try to be grounded."
"You think I dreamed of being a teacher?"
"Remember not to put all your eggs in one basket. School is important too."
****
It was the night before the Chelsea Youth Academy trials. It was truly a miracle that Ray had finally been scouted. After three years on his high school football team, he had finally gotten some recognition. He was seventeen, and he wasn't getting any younger. He needed to act quickly if he was going to join Chelsea's U18 squad.
He held a Premier League ball in his hands, gripping it tightly, eyes fixed on it. The night was quiet. He could only hear his thoughts.
This is where I start. This is where I show them.
"What are you thinking about, son?" his father—Dr. Elias Arlon asked.
The door creaked a little as he tilted his head through the frame.
"Nothing much. Just thinking about the trial tomorrow morning," Ray replied. His head was lowered toward the ball, as if he were speaking to it.
"I see you're still holding on to that ball from our first ever Chelsea home game," Dr. Arlon observed.
"I promised myself that this would be the ball I'd use to play my first ever professional game. I know it sounds stupid, but... I believe it'll happen."
RayArlon gazed toward the ceiling, as if something up there was worth seeing. Moments later, tears began to run down his cheeks like a streamlined waterfall.
"I was only six. It was at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea against Aston Villa. Chelsea came out victorious with a score of eight to none. But it wasn't the score that made me love Chelsea or football—it was the players. The way Frank Lampard controlled the midfield, the prolific finishing of Fernando Torres, the impenetrable wall that was David Luiz, giving Chelsea its clean sheet... it was those things that made me fall in love with the game."
After hearing those words, Dr. Arlon quietly shut the door, praying for nothing more than his son finally achieving his dream.
Ray Arlon found it difficult to sleep.
He turned to his left, tucked his hands under the pillow. Minutes later, he shifted to his right, then flipped onto his back. Still nothing. His legs tangled in the sheets, his fingers twitched slightly, and he exhaled deeply with every passing second of silence.
His eyes finally locked on the Premier League ball he had recently held, the same one now resting quietly on top of his shelf.
Without thinking, he gently stepped down from his bed, his feet making soft taps against the floor. His hand shot up toward the ball, grabbing it with an odd urgency. At first, he wasn't sure why he'd rushed to it so late at night. Was it to train? Was it comfort? He couldn't quite tell.
His gaze drifted to the window frame.
The porch was dimly lit by the pale crescent moon. The late London grass swayed slightly in the breeze, silvered by the moonlight. Water puddles from the constant London rains were reflective of the night light on the stone pots that lined the porch like tiny mirrors to the sky.
Then it hit him.
He finally understood why he couldn't sleep—it was excitement.
Excitement for the trial. For the moment. For the dream.
The realization lit up his face, a grimmed smile curling at the edges of his lips, eyes bulging with intensity, fingers gripping the ball like it was a part of him.
He was excited.
Slipping into his trainers, he quietly opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The night air was crisp, a bit damp, but it didn't matter.
He began slowly—leg overs, shifting the ball from one foot to the other. Then he picked up the pace, adding quick touches, drags, and rolls. He jogged a few steps and launched a low ground shot toward an old bucket by the garden fence. It hit clean. He sprinted across the yard, circled back, and did another drill.
Then again.
Again.
And again.
By the time he stopped, his chest was heaving. He dropped onto the porch floor, back against the wall, drenched in sweat. His breathing was loud, heavy. But there was a fire in his eyes.
He clenched his fist, raised it into the air, and whispered to the night:
"Watch me soar for the skies."
Upstairs, his father watched through the lab window. His eyes weren't just watching, they were remembering. Smiling faintly, he turned back to his workstation, where a sleek metallic chip sat beneath a magnifying lens. He adjusted a few dials, tweaked a setting on the neural sync pad, and murmured softly:
"Everything I do... I do it for you, Ray."
****
The day came, That day.
The day of the year.
Ray had washed and dried his Chelsea jersey weeks ahead of the trial. Cleaned his boots until they shone. Matched his socks to the club's official white-and-blue.
He shot out of bed before the alarm could buzz. Bolted into the toilet, brushed his teeth, took his bath. Breakfast came next, toast, eggs, orange juice, though he barely tasted it. His stomach was swirling with anticipation.
Standing at the door, he met his parents. His mom straightened his collar. His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye.
"Whatever happens today... never forget that you gave it your all."
He nodded and replied, "don't worry Dad, I coming back as a Chelsea player, mark my words."
As the car drove through the city, Ray's eyes scanned everything—the streetlights, the buzzing stores, people walking dogs or sipping coffee. But none of it mattered. Not today.
This is it. No more dreaming. No more pretending. I'll show them. Show them that even if talent isn't born in me—something greater was built in me.
He sat up straighter, hands firm on the ball resting on his lap.
The cab slowed to a halt.
He leaned toward the window, heart racing as his eyes locked on the name etched in steel across the building before him.
"Chelsea Youth Academy."