LIVING ROOM – DAY
The living room is cozy, the kind of place where dust motes dance in the beams of sunlight. TICK-TICK-TICK, tiny footsteps echo as a 2-year-old boy comes down the stairs, carefully clutching a pair of socks that he’s folded into a ball, his tiny hands clenched around them like they’re the most precious thing in the world.
BOY (excitedly) Daddy! Come check out my samba moves!
He tosses the sock-ball onto the cracked, low-quality laminate floor, and without hesitation, he drops into a surprisingly coordinated stance. His tiny feet start shuffling, spinning, and tapping—like he’s channeling some world-class footballer.
DAD
(leaning on the couch, not looking at first) Uh-huh, okay, sport. That’s… cute.
But then he looks up.
His eyes widen in shock. The boy, barely two years old, is out there doing a series of ridiculously impressive tricks with that sock-ball—stepovers, flicks, and even a little toe-tap pirouette. It’s like watching a mini Messi.
The dad’s face turns from confusion to awe in a matter of seconds. He’s not really a football fan—sure, he watches the World Cup when everyone’s talking about it, maybe tunes into a Champions League final if it’s on while he’s flipping channels—but this? This is next-level stuff.
DAD
(to himself, utterly baffled) How does he even…?
His mind races—How does he know about football? Where did he pick up these moves? And, more importantly, why is he so good? Is there some toddler league that I missed out on?
The boy finishes his impromptu performance with a proud little grin, and without missing a beat, he runs up the stairs, leaving his dad standing there with his jaw halfway to the floor.
The dad, still trying to piece it together, takes a slow breath and stands up.
DAD
(under his breath) What just happened?
UPSTAIRS HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER
The dad quietly ascends the stairs, still scratching his head. He gets to the top and hears muffled sounds from the boy’s room. He peeks inside, curious.
DAD
(surprised) What are you up to now?
The boy is sitting cross-legged on the floor, glued to the TV, eyes wide with excitement. On the screen is Super Strikers, the only cartoon the boy loves more than any other, and the only one he can watch in German because, for reasons unknown, that’s how the TV gods have decided to bless him.
DAD
(squinting at the screen) Is that… football?
The boy doesn’t look up. He’s too busy mimicking the moves of his animated heroes—shuffling his feet, tapping the ground, and throwing in a couple of spins, just like the characters on screen.
DAD
(astonished) Wait a minute… he’s copying them?
The dad, utterly flabbergasted, watches as his son nails each move. It’s like a tiny prodigy is rising before his very eyes, learning football from… a cartoon?
DAD
(voice cracking with disbelief) I don’t even… I can’t… how?
He watches for a moment longer, then exhales deeply, trying to come to terms with the fact that his son just taught himself football from a German-language kids’ show and, somehow, is killing it.
A grin slowly spreads across his face.
DAD
(laughing in disbelief) Well… I’m impressed, buddy. I’m seriously impressed.
The boy pauses his moves, looks up at his dad with those wide, innocent eyes, and grins.
BOY
(innocently) I’m gonna be a football star, Daddy.
The dad, in that moment, doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry—so he does both. The kid might have just turned their world upside down, and somehow, he knows this is only the beginning.
DAD
(teasing) You might want to start with a pair of shoes first.
The boy just nods seriously, then goes right back into his routine, twisting and turning, like he’s already on the pitch.