2025-03-05, 12:56 PM - Word count: 729
The sun had barely risen when Denis Mobek stirred from his slumber. It was 9 AM—a far cry from his usual 1 PM wake-up time—but the day ahead promised something different. He had decided it was time to stop coasting and take his professional career seriously. At least, a little more seriously.
Stretching in bed, Denis glanced at his phone. A message from his coach flashed on the screen: "Training starts at 10:30. Don't be late." He groaned, but the words stung a little less today. After all, he had made the effort to set an alarm.
Rubbing his eyes, Denis stumbled into the kitchen, a bit groggy but determined. He opened the fridge—no greasy fast food, no soda. Instead, he prepared a decent breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fruit. It wasn’t the junk food he used to indulge in, but it felt like a step forward.
By the time he finished eating, it was 10 AM. He threw on his team tracksuit, grabbed his gear bag, and headed out the door, feeling the crisp morning air hit his face. The drive to training was a bit faster than usual—no last-minute rushing, no time wasted. Denis was making progress.
When he arrived at the stadium, there was still a slight slouch in his posture, but he was there on time, a good sign. His teammates were warming up, and he joined them, stretching and jogging around the field. It was still a little hard for him to fully shake off his lazy habits, but he could feel the difference in his body. There was a new kind of energy, even if it wasn’t full-on motivation.
Training began, and as always, Denis was the last man in goal. He wasn't known for his perfect technique or dedication, but today was different. He actually worked on his positioning and footwork, his reflexes sharper than they had been in weeks. He still missed a few easy shots, and his laziness lingered in small moments, like when he took a break after every couple of drills. But when the ball came at him, he was no longer sluggish; he had some real agility.
The real test came during the scrimmage. Denis was in goal, and the opposing team launched a relentless series of attacks. He stood his ground better than he had in ages. There were moments when he wanted to let go, to give in to his old habits, but he resisted. He dove to the left, stretched to the right, and even managed to punch a powerful header out of the air. A few mistakes crept in, but he saved more than he missed.
By the end of the session, Denis was sweaty and tired, but for the first time in a long while, he felt... good. Not perfect, not the best, but better. The coach clapped him on the back as the team gathered around.
"Mobek," the coach said, a rare compliment in his voice, "you've improved. Keep this up, and you might actually make something of yourself."
Denis gave a half-smile, a subtle shift from his usual disinterest. He wasn’t at his best yet, but it felt like he was getting closer.
After training, instead of heading straight to the nearest fast food joint, Denis made a decision. He went to the gym for a quick session. It was a struggle—he wasn’t used to putting in the effort—but the more he pushed himself, the better it felt. It was uncomfortable, but his muscles were stronger than before.
Later, at home, he made a decent dinner—grilled chicken with vegetables, something simple but nutritious. As he ate, he thought about his day. He wasn’t ready to go full-on professional yet. He still liked his downtime, still craved some laziness. But he was learning how to balance it with something more—a little discipline, a little dedication.
He plopped down in front of the TV afterward, but instead of binge-watching his favorite show for hours, he decided to go to bed early. Tomorrow was another day, and he could already feel himself inching closer to the professional footballer he never thought he could be.
Not perfect yet, but better. And that, for Denis Mobek, was a start.
Stretching in bed, Denis glanced at his phone. A message from his coach flashed on the screen: "Training starts at 10:30. Don't be late." He groaned, but the words stung a little less today. After all, he had made the effort to set an alarm.
Rubbing his eyes, Denis stumbled into the kitchen, a bit groggy but determined. He opened the fridge—no greasy fast food, no soda. Instead, he prepared a decent breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of fruit. It wasn’t the junk food he used to indulge in, but it felt like a step forward.
By the time he finished eating, it was 10 AM. He threw on his team tracksuit, grabbed his gear bag, and headed out the door, feeling the crisp morning air hit his face. The drive to training was a bit faster than usual—no last-minute rushing, no time wasted. Denis was making progress.
When he arrived at the stadium, there was still a slight slouch in his posture, but he was there on time, a good sign. His teammates were warming up, and he joined them, stretching and jogging around the field. It was still a little hard for him to fully shake off his lazy habits, but he could feel the difference in his body. There was a new kind of energy, even if it wasn’t full-on motivation.
Training began, and as always, Denis was the last man in goal. He wasn't known for his perfect technique or dedication, but today was different. He actually worked on his positioning and footwork, his reflexes sharper than they had been in weeks. He still missed a few easy shots, and his laziness lingered in small moments, like when he took a break after every couple of drills. But when the ball came at him, he was no longer sluggish; he had some real agility.
The real test came during the scrimmage. Denis was in goal, and the opposing team launched a relentless series of attacks. He stood his ground better than he had in ages. There were moments when he wanted to let go, to give in to his old habits, but he resisted. He dove to the left, stretched to the right, and even managed to punch a powerful header out of the air. A few mistakes crept in, but he saved more than he missed.
By the end of the session, Denis was sweaty and tired, but for the first time in a long while, he felt... good. Not perfect, not the best, but better. The coach clapped him on the back as the team gathered around.
"Mobek," the coach said, a rare compliment in his voice, "you've improved. Keep this up, and you might actually make something of yourself."
Denis gave a half-smile, a subtle shift from his usual disinterest. He wasn’t at his best yet, but it felt like he was getting closer.
After training, instead of heading straight to the nearest fast food joint, Denis made a decision. He went to the gym for a quick session. It was a struggle—he wasn’t used to putting in the effort—but the more he pushed himself, the better it felt. It was uncomfortable, but his muscles were stronger than before.
Later, at home, he made a decent dinner—grilled chicken with vegetables, something simple but nutritious. As he ate, he thought about his day. He wasn’t ready to go full-on professional yet. He still liked his downtime, still craved some laziness. But he was learning how to balance it with something more—a little discipline, a little dedication.
He plopped down in front of the TV afterward, but instead of binge-watching his favorite show for hours, he decided to go to bed early. Tomorrow was another day, and he could already feel himself inching closer to the professional footballer he never thought he could be.
Not perfect yet, but better. And that, for Denis Mobek, was a start.
