PROLOGUE
“GOOOOOODDD MORNING BLOGGERS AND BLOGGIES. It’s Julie Goldwing back with another episode of BlogSportTV.” Inorganic claps and laugh tracks bellowed, announcing the arrival of everyone’s favorite mean girl with a mouth.
The cameras sprawled around the hall panned and flipped to simulate a live experience for the audience that couldn’t physically show up for the show. No matter, the seats were filled and the crowd bustling as she arrived and sat in the hall, a confident smirk across her face. It wasn’t a surprise however, since she was the host of a dedicated talk show that dove into the heavy and hearty backstage world of the sport known as Football. That was the essence of BlogSport TV, a semi-safe place to explore the world too complex for analysis shows to piece. A chance for the fans to connect with the lives of their most loved players and most importantly, to equip them with the gavel and un-blur the line, where anyone can be a hero and a villain.
“For today’s story, we track back to the most talked about event to occur in football history. The 2026 World Cup.” She announced, as chirps and murmurs whispered through the audience, each person giving their own take on what was known as a ‘Disastrous Tournament’.
Yet, it had been three months since Germany was crowned World Champions, and everything that was to be addressed had already been posted and reposted over several media fronts. Julie was never one to reproduce old stories.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the same stories from fans and pundits, but we’re not here for that are we?” She snickered, prompting the crowd to join in. “From a player’s side, we have a two-time Premier League winner, prolific defender for Ghana and an all-around nice guy—Goodluck Essien.” Claps echoed across the room, as Essien arrived with a gummy smile and a wave to the audience.
It was an unpleasant surprise waking up to a talk-show invitation from ‘The Julie Goldwing’ herself, yet Essien chose to ignore the controversy swimming around her name in hopes of simulating the events of the tournament from his side.
Every second prior to the live felt like a millennium, as he tried to convince himself that it was another pre-match interview, one where he could give pre-meditated responses and stay out of the media’s eyes.
“How are we tonight, Goodluck?” She waved him to a seat.
He sighed. “Well—”
“Could be better.” He forced a chuckle.
“I hope so, because you’re not what I would consider a household name in your country. Some fans think you deserve a name change.” A laugh track played, as Essien giggled nervously. “Anyways, sir—as one of the most talked about men after the tournament, how did it feel to play on such a big stage for your country?”
“Uh—” His chest became heavy, prompting a deep exhale. “It was wild, honestly. Everyone eh…played well. It was a difficult tournament. Lots of fighting spirit, skill and talent. No match was easy, every game was like a battlefield, no rest.”
“Thank you so much.” She bleakly replied, unamused. “And the ‘other’ comments? Surely, you’ve seen them.”
“I feel like every football fan needs to feel heard and every comment should have the same level of importance. Each fan deserves to be listened to.”
“You’re spot on Goodluck.” Her stare shifted behind Essien, nodding her head to approve of something. He noticed a brief glimmer in her eyes, a sparkle of excitement as her gaze returned to him. The sudden urge to turn was compelling, but he needed to retain his calm and stick to his media survival plan. Give vague answers, smile like a doll along with toning his voice to a plain and unreadable timber.
“Well, the ever so waited time has arrived, don’t you think Goodluck?”
“Time for what?” Essien huffed in panic, before disguising it as a snicker.
“To review the footage of your blun—” She simulated a cough, an excited giggle faintly heard from her exhale. “The terrible officiating that haunts your country to this day.”
“My country.” He scoffed, almost mockingly. Baffled by the disregard of how that single moment in his career derailed his life further than any average football fan. Nothing could compare to exile within your motherland.
His mouth became unbearably dry, every breath taken was an effort to quench his imaginary thirst. He wished to plead with Julie, bargain against displaying the worst of highlights of his career—or perhaps his entire life, but the stares from the cameras, the audience and the crew themselves clamped at his throat.
The screen beside them lit up and displayed a quarter finals match between England and Ghana. The score was 2-1, edging towards the 80th minute and Ghana were on the charge.
A textbook tackle from an English defender unleashed a quick counterattack for the Lions. They switched the ball to their right winger, while the Black Stars scurried back to defend their hopes of a comeback. Essien stood his ground, patiently reading the play from his own half and waited for the opportune time to strike. While the England winger flew past his marker, he got acquainted with the Three Lion’s marksman, Bruce Teller.
He was a danger wherever he stepped, his two goals in the match were evidence enough. The man, if you could even call him one, barely dropped a bead of sweat throughout the match, every single action of his was a nightmare to the Black Star’s defense. But Essien wasn’t fazed.
Sure, he scored two goals. Sure, he was the most dangerous man on field. But for his honor, his pride and his country, Essien refused to fall to the man mountain.
As a cross from the winger flew into the box, Bruce backed into Essien with the intention of staggering him, but the defender powered through his challenge. They both leapt to fish for the ball. However, Bruce was the victor with an expert touch using his forehead and a touchdown with his chest. After landing, the striker weaved right for a curled shot into the corner, yet Essien read it.
But his prediction didn’t fall into action, his leg reacted slower than himself, and he was caught flat-footed by the striker. Bruce’s cut into the right was sudden and sharp, an extraordinary movement from a striker of his size. While he aimed to challenge for the ball, Essien’s foot mistakenly tapped Bruce on the shin, evident contact that fortunately wasn’t enough to take the striker down.
Or so he thought, for when he turned to his goal, expecting his defensive partners to have possession of the ball, he saw Bruce rolling on the ground while clutching his leg. The striker flailed and held his leg in phantom pain, attracting sour screams from the crowd and the players all together.
Essien cursed at the striker, head pointed down with a face bleeding with rage, but the nightmarish noise of the referee’s whistle extinguished it. His head jerked away from the box, eyes landing on the referee’s arm pointing at the spot, with a whistle fixed in his mouth.
“No, no, no—” He frantically waved his hand, mimicking the action that Bruce performed to insinuate a dive, but the official was rather unconvinced. He waved away the panicked defender, despite his protests and debates. The Ghanaian crowd spat and growled, every person involved in the play was an outlet for their anger.
“He dived, he dived—” Essien’s mouth raced, even pulling Bruce over to explain what he did, yet the striker only shrugged and waited for the commotion to end and his penalty to be awarded. After what was a third wave of attempts to deescalate the decision, the referee blew on his whistle once more and turned Essien’s nightmare into a hellish retreat.
The defender was relieved for a moment, assuming that the official was announcing a check with VAR. Yet after the official reached into his pocket, he dropped to his knees. A hoisted red slip beamed before his eyes, announcing the end of his game and Ghana’s hopes of a turnaround.
Teammates rushed into action and surrounded the referee, trying to convince him to take back the booking and leave with just the penalty decision. But the official backed away, threatening them with disciplinary action if the bombardment proceeded further.
“Just the penalty, no red card, please—”
“He didn’t touch him. He didn’t touch him.”
“The striker fell. Come on man!”
Each of them presented their own case to the supposed ‘foul’, gathering words to steer their country out of disaster rather than in defense of Essien. The defender could only stare back at the crowd with apologetic eyes. He raised his arms and waved at the supporters, thanking them while begging for forgiveness. A defender as respected as he was, as loved and as adored, couldn’t commit such a blunder. It was an insult to the years of support and effort that their country made for such a moment. And the fans thought the same.
With militaristic coordination, each fan wearing his jersey tore it off their bodies and threw it onto the pitch, while some preferred words rather than actions and hurled insults at the defender.
There were a few however, those who supported his journey from the Swansea reserve team to Premier League pedigree, whose eyes were glazed with despair upon the man walking away. They wished to see his face, to believe that this wasn’t the defender’s first break, that he would lead their nation even from the bench.
But their ‘hero’ averted his eyes away from them. They were insignificant to him; his country was insignificant to him. All were lies and delusions that fueled their frustrations, yet Essien couldn’t convince them otherwise. He slumped past his manager and left the stadium, while they chanted a word he never imagined would be associated with his name.
“Coward.”
The screen went dark, ending Essien’s nightmare. His head sunk into his hands, something he should’ve done while his blunder was being screened, yet he was compelled to remember. As if trying to soothe the sting and convince himself that he was done wrong.
“Apologies for making you relive that moment.” She frowned insincerely, as Essien’s mind returned to the present. If he had somehow forgotten about the match, the replay made sure it was permanently engraved within his mind.
“It doesn’t bother me anymore.” His mouth twitched into a withering smile. “Times pass, we will be back stronger next—”
“But what if there isn’t one?” Julie interjected.
“Pardon?” Essien’s expression churned in anger rather than confusion to Julie’s comment.
“What if Ghana doesn’t qualify for the next World Cup?” She leaned closer, hands crossed and eyes daggering at Essien.
“I’m sure we will. I have no doubts.” He said with fabricated confidence, cursing himself for having the audacity to make such a statement.
“With you retaining captaincy? So many fans are calling for your head.” She prodded on, trying to get a reaction from the defender, poking and pricking at him until he inevitably cracked.
“Like I said, it doesn’t bother me.” He lied again, the cold air in the room stretching his skin, trying to sieve the truth under the cracked armor that the defender kept on.
“Do you feel like you’ve failed your country? Don’t you want to retaliate? To fight for what was taken from you. Is that why your nation is calling you a cowa—”
“It’s a disgrace.” He mumbled.
“Excuse me?” Julie failed to hide her triumphant smile.
“My kids can’t go to school anymore. I can’t even walk outside my house without having trash thrown at me. And you ask me if I wish to play again?” He roared, practically drooling from rage.
“I apologize if my quest—”
“That penalty, this game, this sport. Football. It’s all a disgrace. IT’S A FUCKING DISGRACE.” Essien exploded off his seat, as security quickly arrived to escort Julie and to restrain the livid defender.
The audience’s mouth and eyes were a gape, watching a player who was so composed on the pitch, lose every sense of their calm in a flash. Some took to their phones and recorded him, at how a single moment made the man react as he did. They asked themselves how a single moment of dishonesty led to the implosion of a man. His legacy forgotten and disrespected, all from one moment of deceit. Where there existed cracks and doubts on the sport, the Ghanaian defender’s meltdown made them see for what their football has come to—A disgrace. One to be abandoned before it worsens.
