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Under the soft glow of Stadion Widzewa Łódź's floodlights, the German U-20 squad stood proudly along the vivid blue carpet that stretched to the podium. Each player wore a fresh white t-shirt emblazoned with "U-20 World Cup Champions 2019" in bold gold lettering, their smiles radiant, their fatigue forgotten amidst triumph. A respectful tunnel of applause awaited their English counterparts, who approached with sorrow etched across their youthful faces.
Lord Benedict Ravenscroft, the tournant's principal patron, stood tall and composed at the centre of the podium. Elegantly attired in a charcoal suit, the subtle gleam of his Ravenscroft family crest pin caught the stadium lights, exuding his natural authority. Beside him stood Arsène Wenger, who, a month earlier, had taken on the job as Chief of Global Football Developnt at FIFA. His kindly eyes surveyed the erging talents with paternal pride.
The English squad ascended first, their applause graciously echoed by the Germans, who knew exactly how narrowly victory had been achieved. The first in England's line, captain Declan Rice, mounted the rostrum with shoulders squared. Lord Ravenscroft t him with a firm handshake and a few solemn words that no microphone caught. Arsène Wenger slipped the silver dal over Rice's bowed head, it's satin ribbon pooling against a jersey still damp from ninety-plus minutes of effort.
One by one, the English players followed—Henderson, Saka, Foden, Bellingham—each acknowledged with respectful applause from the German contingent massed below. So managed faint smiles: others stared into the middle distance; eyes glassy. When Bukayo Saka stepped up, he paused long enough to bump fists with Rakim before walking up the steps to receive his silver dal.
A marshal raised his arm. "Deutschland, bitte."
A tremor of anticipation rippled through the German line. Rakim led the German line with Arl Bella-Kotchap, the official captain, making up the rear, ready to lift the trophy. Rakim inhaled, tasting the tallic tang of fireworks still drifting beneath the roof, then stepped onto the wide first tread of the carpet. The rumble that greeted him began deep in the German end, "Rakim...The Dream...Rakim Rakim..." and rolled around the bowl until even neutral sections joined in, clapping to the chant's driving beat.
Rakim inhaled, tasting the tallic tang of fireworks still drifting in the night air as he quickly alighted the 3 steps to the podium. Taking in the view that seed so much grander now that he was on the podium, causing a bright smile to creep onto his face. Raising his arms to spur the crowd on, prompting the cheers to rise to another level.
Rakim lowered his arms when the chants crescendo as he approached the well-dressed man, who stood imposingly in his charcoal grey suit. Lord Ravenscroft offered his hand. Up close, Rakim finally took in the man whose presence seed to have been pushed up for this award ceremony. He looked younger than the streaks of silver at his temples suggested, and with handso facial features for his age, the angles softened by a clean shave.
Thick, dark locs—taper-faded at the sides and swept neatly back—lent him an effortless, stylish edge beneath the stadium lights. But it was his eyes that caught Rakim off-guard: a startling, ice-green hue that seed almost luminous against the night.
Those eyes were almost as bright as his own, which caught him off guard for a mont, but he quickly snapped back to attention. "Congratulations, son, that was a ga worthy of a final." Rakim's fingers closed around a firm handshake without being overbearing. "Thanks' sir."
Ravenscroft's grip lingered half a beat, then released as Rakim moved on to stand in front of the legendary Arsenal coach Arsène Wenger. Wenger's familiar warm smile, he had only seen on TV during post-match interviews or his iconic retirent ceremony. Which, if he were being honest, is the only one he can rember, as most coaches never receive such a heartfelt sendoff by their clubs unless they are being exploited for promotion.
"Le Professeur," Rakim said, dipping his head with genuine respect.
Wenger's smile widened the fine lines at the corners of his eyes folding like well-worn pages. "I have been called worse," he chuckled in that soft Strasbourg lilt. "Your performance tonight reminded why I took this new role. " He slipped the gleaming gold dal over Rakim's neck and, with a conspiratorial wink, added, "And why defenders still lose sleep before facing true dribblers."
The tal was cool against Rakim's collarbone—heavy enough to make his pulse thrum louder in his ears. He stepped aside as Wirtz arrived next, then turned to watch the rest of the line file past Lord Ravenscroft and Wenger. Every new dal set off another roar from the German end.
Wirtz, cheeks still streaked with drying sweat, received his dal next. He pressed it to his lips before standing next to him, eyes gleaming in joy as they waited for the rest of their teammates to join them. Before long, the rest of the squad had joined them on the podium, including the coaching staff and were eagerly awaiting the individual accolades to be handed out.
Wenger stepped back to the microphone mounted discreetly on a slim lectern. "The individual honours," he announced, his voice carrying easily across the cauldron of noise, "begin with the Golden Glove."
A graphic flashed on the stadium screens—Dean Henderson—and the English keeper jolted in surprise from below the stage. A ripple of genuine applause rose from both sets of supporters as he made the short walk back to Ravenscroft and Wenger. Henderson accepted the bronze-gold trophy, touched its curved surface once to his forehead in thanks, then moved to alight the stage quickly.
Henderson slipped back down the steps cradling his trophy, a shy wave acknowledging the cheers that rippled after him. Wenger waited until the applause ebbed, then tapped the microphone once more. "And now, the adidas Golden Boot—top scorer of the tournant with a record-breaking thirteen goals in one tournant…"
The stadium screens blood with a familiar image: RAKIM REX – 13 GOALS. The German end detonated. A few English supporters even joined the clapping, appreciation outweighing disappointnt. Rakim stepped forward with a bright smile, joining Lord Ravenscroft and Sir Arsene Wenger at the front of the stage.
"A predator's tally, may it be the first of many." Lord Ravenscroft voiced as he shook hands with both before accepting the golden boot-shaped statue. Haaland won the bronze boot, and Matteo took ho the Silver, but since neither of the two were still in the country, they couldn't take a picture with all 3. Rakim didn't mind, though, as he stood in the middle of the two n for a second to pose for the caras.
"Finally," the Alsatian intoned, voice carrying crisp and clear beneath the roof, "The Bronze Ball of the FIFA U-20 World Cup 2019 goes to..."
"Florian Wirtz," A joyous gasp burst from the German contingent. Wirtz's eyes shot wide; Not knowing what to do for a second, he was lightly shoved forward to receive his accolade. He quickly shook hands with the two n, smiling brightly as they took pictures for the press.
After he stepped to the side, the Alsatian continued with his job and announced the Silverball winner. The selection surprised everybody as he had barely played more than half an hour in the final, but his assist tally surpassed the second place by two. However, it was his key passes and dribbles that led to goals that really managed to put him ahead of Wirtz.
"The Adidas Silver Ball," he proclaid, "for the second-best player of the tournant, is awarded to… Jamal Musiala of England." He swiftly alighted the stage to receive his silver ball, taking pictures with the two n much like Wirtz did before.
Shortly, the announcer continued his job, announcing the tournant's overall MVP, "And the Adidas Golden Ball, recognising the best overall player of the FIFA U-20 World Cup 2019…" He paused, allowing the crowd a collective breath. "Rakim Rex—Germany!"
Then the German end erupted, a tidal wave of red-gold-black flags and voices chanting his na. Stepping up, he went through the motions with both n again, sharing a few words and another photo op. A second later, all three players took a picture together with Rakim front and centre.
[Ding:..]
dal presentations finished; a pair of attendants wheeled the U-20 World Cup itself to centre-stage. The attendants guided the velvet-lined cart to the podium's centre and drew back a silk cover, revealing the FIFA U-20 World Cup trophy in all its intricate glory.
Forged from mirror-bright sterling silver, the cup rose from a circular, midnight-black onyx base in three slender, twisting spires that seed to braid together as they climbed. At their apex, they cradled a polished gilt football, its pentagons and hexagons picked out by hair-thin etching that caught every wandering beam of light. The contrast of liquid silver and warm gold made the whole piece look as if moonlight itself were holding the sun aloft.
Delicate engravings—past champions' nas in fine serif script—spiralled up each ribbon of tal, and nearer the base, a faint opalescent sheen shimred like northern lights whenever the trophy turned beneath the floodlights. Up close, the spires were so precisely machined that they reflected the stadium in three perfect, serpentine mirrors: tiers of fans, volleys of flashbulbs, and the line of white-shirted German teenagers standing breathless in anticipation.
Arl Bella-Kotchap took 3 long strides, appearing in front of the trophy with a huge smile. The German contingent behind him animatedly lowered their upper body, starting a drum roll just as Arl grasped the trophy. He turned, facing his teammates, approaching them as he kept the trophy low.
Arl halted a tre short of the semicircle his teammates had ford, shoulders rolling once, twice. "Eins … zwei … drei!" The entire squad surged upward with a roar as he hoisted the trophy high. Silver caught floodlight, gold seams flared, and a snowstorm of white-and-gold confetti burst overhead in perfect sync with the chorus of Queen's We Are the Champions.
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To Be Continued...
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