Chapter 54: The Golden Night awaits
The dust of El Clásico hadn’t even settled before the spotlight shifted again. On October 28th, football’s brightest stars would gather in Paris for the Ballon d’Or ceremony.
If the Bernabéu had been a gladiator’s coliseum, the Théâtre du Châtelet was the cathedral of recognition.
There were no sliding tackles here, no whistles or flares. Only velvet carpets, golden lights, and the weight of history pressing down on every nominee.
And at the center of the storm? Samuel Moses.
The Sam case was a peculiar one, literally, the footballing world was still counting his numbers.
A historic quadruple with Barcelona in his first season with the club, AFCON champion with Nigeria, ending a 10-year drought, and a World Cup finalist, winner of both the Golden Boot and Golden Ball awards.
He plundered 77 goals and 40 assists across all competitions! Yes, 77, not 47 or even 57.
He shredded records, obliterating peak year records that were set by absolute legends of the game and all-time greats.
Those were not numbers that were possible in reality, those were video-game numbers, and yet, one season, Sam actually did it.
Many believed he would never hit the same peak again. And as if to remind doubters, he scored a hat trick at the Bernabeu only two days before voting closed.
L’Equipe wrote. ["He’s not just the best player of the season," wrote L’Equipe. "He’s the best goal scorer, best provider, most impactful player across the season".
"He’s a phenomenon. A revolution, a God in boots, the Football God".
But the Ballon d’Or was never uncontested.
Kylian Mbappé, Madrid’s golden prince had a memorable season for Real Madrid on his résumé on an individual level. He still scored goals for fun in the double digits, and he had the aura of a man destined to win the coveted award one day.
Lionel Messi, despite fading in Miami, was nominated again after another memorable World Cup performance, his legacy alone enough to spark debates.
And Cristiano Ronaldo? Just like his eternal rival was nominated. Just like his eternal rival, he had his crowning moment at the twilight years of his career, when he was just a rotation player for the Portuguese national team.
But still, he led Portugal to its first World Cup trophy as the skipper, an achievement that rounded up and crowned his trophy-laden career.
His legacy was complete and with it, he was rewarded with one final balon d’Or nomination.
Erling Haaland, ever the goal machine for Manchester City also sat in the conversation with records in England. His numbers weren’t Sam’s, but his brutality was undeniable.
Jude Bellingham, young, elegant, Madrid’s heartbeat, was whispered about as the future heir of world football.
Sam’s teammates, Yamal, Raphinha, Pedri were all also in the debate after having memorable and unforgettable seasons last time out.
But everyone knew it. Deep down, they knew that this year belonged to only one man, and his name was Samuel Moses.
In Barcelona, fans flooded Plaça de Catalunya with Sam’s name painted on banners- ["Nuestro Dios"]. Murals of his overhead kick from El Clásico appeared overnight, glowing under neon lights.
In Madrid, debate churned. Some admitted respect. Others spat venom. "One season," they muttered. "Let’s see if he lasts."
In Nigeria, Lagos prepared a public screening of the ceremony, giant projectors set up in Tafawa Balewa Square.
Politicians and street kids alike would sit side by side, chanting his name. Abraka, his hometown, was already in festival mode.
On social media, the build-up was relentless.
*"IF Sam doesn’t win, cancel football".
*"Mbappe deserves it after so many years of consistently staying at the top, but the Bernabeu hat-trick sealed it".
*"This will be Africa’s third Balon d’Or after Weah and Salah. History".
...
For Sam, the days were strange.
Hansi Flick gave his players a day off after the grueling clash at the Santiago Bernabeu, legs still heavy from Clásico fire, but his nights were quiet.
Kayla sensed his restlessness. "You’re going to win," she told him, handing him a glass of water one evening.
He smiled faintly. "It’s not the winning. It’s... what it means. For me, for Abraka, for Africa".
Kayla squeezed his hand. "Then win it for them."
He nodded, but in his heart, Sam thought of the system, the strange digital hum that had shadowed his rise. Compared to when he just started, the system rarely revealed itself to him these days unless he personally asked for it.
He missed the days of matchday quests, the days when the system monitored his every step and game like a father looking after a toddler.
He chuckled. "I guess I’m no longer a toddler". For the first time, he wondered if even the system was surprised at how far he’d come.
...
In Paris, the media circus already started.
Reporters camped outside the Théâtre du Châtelet. Designers teased glimpses of the suits stars would wear.
Rumors swirled, would Messi attend to pass the torch? Would Ronaldo fly in? Would Mbappé accept finishing behind his rival?
Hansi Flick was asked if he’d travel with Sam.
"Yes," he said simply. "If he wins, it is the club’s victory too. If he loses, it changes nothing. He is already the best."
At Valdebebas, Alonso smirked when asked if Sam was the clear favorite.
"Favorites don’t matter. The Ballon d’Or is one night. The league is a season, we’ll see him again on the pitch."
Pundits filled hours with history lessons, from George Weah in 1995 to Samuel Eto’o’s near misses, to Didier Drogba’s heartbreaks, and to Yaya Touré’s dominance that never yielded the golden sphere.
Africa had waited decades before Salah, and now, just a year after the Egyptian King claimed it, Sam was about to replicate the same.
Now, Sam Moses was here. Twenty one years old, on the cusp of becoming the youngest Ballon d’Or winner since Messi and Ronaldo Nazario himself.
In one corner, skeptics still sneered. "It’s too soon, let him prove consistency". In another corner, voices thundered back: "Consistency? He just finished a year for the ages".
On the night before the ceremony, Sam and Kayla arrived in Paris quietly. No entourage, no spectacle.
They dined alone in their hotel suite, overlooking the Seine.
Kayla wore a simple black dress, while Sam wore a crisp shirt. For once, there were no chants, no whistles, and no stadiums. Just two young people sharing a quiet meal.
Kayla lifted her glass. "To tomorrow".
Sam clinked hers softly. "To legacy".
Outside, the Eiffel Tower glittered like gold. Inside, the world’s brightest football superstar tried to sleep.
But in the streets of Paris, in the plazas of Barcelona, in the bars of Lagos, and in the hearts of millions... nobody slept.
The world was waiting for the golden night.