Marseille wasn't the picturesque paradise you'd find on postcards—those charming images of the harbor, yachts bobbing gently, and sunsets warming the Mediterranean skies. No, Yanis Benali's world was up in Bellevue, on the city's gritty northern edge, where graffiti adorned the concrete blocks, elevators were more a memory than a function, and the air was thick with the scent of frying oil wafting from a neighbor's window.
Yanis lived on the third floor of Building 12, one among countless beige cuboids in the estate. With no elevator to offer a reprieve, the stairwell lights flickered lazily, if they worked at all. The hallway was a canvas for neglect, stained walls and a bold declaration of "LIBERTÉ POUR TOUS" scrawled in red marker—a claim no one bothered to erase.
Yet in all its grime, Bellevue pulsed with life. Kids played football on cracked pavement, the barbershop thrived late into the night, and the bakery downstairs generously handed out day-old bread to those in need. In this community, people watched each other's backs because, in a world that often turned away, they had no one else.
Yanis's day began as it always did: a splash of cold water from the sink, no comforting warmth of a hot shower, a quick prayer, and a toast for breakfast. But today, there was no toast to be had.
He grabbed his schoolbag, slung it over one shoulder, and cradled his well-loved football under his other arm, treating it like a treasure more valuable than gold.
His mom, Nora, already dressed in her hospital scrubs, tied her scarf and pressed two euros into his palm. "Get a sandwich. And don't skip class."
"I won't," he replied, though deep down, he knew he was lying.
His dad, Hakim, had already left for his early shift as a taxi driver. They barely crossed paths, often ghosting each other until the late evening. Lina, his little sister, still clad in her pajamas, sat on the floor with a coloring book, missing one of her crayons. "Are you gonna be on TV today?" she asked with wide eyes.
Yanis smiled. "Not yet."
The walk to Lycée Bellevue took twenty minutes, navigating through cracked pavements, once-bustling shops now shuttered, and balconies stacked one on top of the other like a game of Jenga. The school loomed ahead, a fortress of gray concrete, adorned with metal gates and staffed by security guards who looked as if they'd rather be anywhere else.
The only vibrance came from the students: oversized hoodies, backpacks with broken zippers, and shoes that were either brand new or had seen better days. Everyone had a story, even if few chose to share it.
Just as he pushed through the gate, the school bell rang, echoing through the hallways.
Inside, chaos reigned supreme. The noise ricocheted off the walls, punctuated by a Bluetooth speaker blasting the latest drill music. A girl was shouting at a boy who couldn't contain his laughter over her latest TikTok, while a group of second-years conspired to shake a vending machine into giving up its treasure.
But Yanis barely noticed. His thoughts were galaxies away, focused on a different field.
In Math classroom 203, where Madame Legrand, donned in gray and losing her spark, stood at the front—Yanis slipped into the back row beside Samir, his best friend since childhood. Samir was always the loud one, the jokester, but lately, attention had shifted toward Yanis.
"Late again?" Samir teased.
"Not late, just warming up," Yanis muttered.
"Warming up where? In your head?" Samir chuckled.
"In my dreams," Yanis shot back.
Yanis didn't linger on the banter. He gazed out the window, where the sun glinted off the metal fence surrounding the schoolyard, casting long shadows that felt like prison bars.
"Yanis, solve the equation on the screen!" Madame Legrand called.
He blinked, taken aback. "What screen?"
Laughter erupted in the room—his classmates, even Samir, couldn't hold back.
Eventually, Yanis stood up. "I didn't study, Madame. I was… working."
"Working on what?" she shot back.
"My future," he replied, a fire igniting in his chest.
Legrand sighed, waving him off, "Sit down before you embarrass yourself further."
With a clenched jaw, Yanis sunk back into his seat. He wasn't ignorant; he just couldn't care less about polynomials when he was busy plotting his moves on the football pitch.
Lunch came, and they gathered on the stone benches near the courtyard wall—Samir, Karim (the class clown), and Léo (the steadfast defender). Imène, who claimed she wasn't into football but never missed a game, joined them too.
They shared a half-eaten sandwich from the bakery, the meat dry and the bread hard.
"Check this out." Karim pulled out his phone, revealing a viral clip of a kid from Nice pulling off a beautiful rabona nutmeg in a street match. The online crowd was going wild over it.
"He's 17," Léo noted. "Already getting scouted."
Yanis took the phone and watched it twice. The kid's move was flawless—the balance, the flair, the space he had? Enormous.
"I could do that in a phone booth," Yanis said, handing back the phone.
"In your dreams," Karim laughed.
"In my future," Yanis replied, a hint of determination in his voice.
An uneasy silence enveloped the group. Samir chewed thoughtfully, exchanging sidelong glances with Yanis. Change was in the air, and they all sensed it. Yanis wasn't just good anymore—he was evolving, faster and sharper, and it was stirring something… strange.
After school, they didn't rush home. Instead, they headed to the court behind the lycée—an open concrete haven with crooked metal goals, one battered net, and cracks that threatened to twist ankles. But it was theirs, a sacred space.
The older boys were already there—louder, rowdier, and scrutinizing.
"You playin' today?" one of them called to Yanis.
He nodded as his heart was racing.
Teams were formed and bags were designated as goalposts—5v5, no referee, no mercy.
Yanis moved with grace, as though the ball were an extension of himself. Left foot, right foot, a flick and a drag. He made one defender stumble over his own feet, and the thrill surged through him. This was where he belonged, a warrior on the battlefield of concrete, fighting not just for victory, but for a dream that felt closer with each game.
On the sideline, Samir watched quietly with his arms folded.
The game got tied, and the next goal wins.
Yanis got the ball, everyone knew what was coming. He didn't sprint, he waited and drew them in. Two defenders came, he touched the ball once—twice—then cut inside with his body low and eyes calm.
He faked a step right, spun left, and left the defender chasing ghosts.
The last defender came off his line—way too early. Yanis slowed down like he was second-guessing. Then, with a flick of his toe, he chipped the ball gently over the guy's outstretched leg. It hit the back of the net with a satisfying clink. Someone whistled. The kind of whistle you get when a player just shuts everyone up.
"Yo… who is this guy?"
"Where'd he learn that?"
Yanis didn't smile, didn't flex. Just turned, picked up his bag, and walked off.
One of the older boys approached him. "You tryna go pro or something?"
Yanis stared at him. "I'm not trying. I'm training."
He walked home with sweat drying on his face and cement dust on his hoodie, the cheap kind with holes in the sleeves. The kind that said: this kid plays a lot. This kid doesn't have much—but he has this.
The apartment was on the third floor of a grey building that always smelled like cigarettes and bleach. His mom was out for a night shift at the hospital. His dad was probably driving his cab until midnight again. His little sister Lina had left her toys scattered everywhere.
Yanis stepped over a doll with no head and kicked off his sneakers. The TV was on, muted. A faded clip of last year's Ligue 1 final played in the background. He dropped his schoolbag, grabbed the laptop, and connected to the weak Wi-Fi that barely reached his bedroom.
He opened YouTube.
Search: "Messi tight control training"
Search: "Mbappé footwork drills"
Search: "First touch like Zidane"
He didn't just watch, he studied, paused and replayed. He got up and repeated the moves in the cramped space between his bed and the wall. Ball between his feet, and rolled-up socks when the ball wasn't allowed inside.
He trained like this every night, he had no club, no academy and no fancy boots. Just this room, his obsession, and a dream nobody else was taking seriously.
By 9 p.m., the apartment was dead quiet, the only sound that existed was the hum of the fridge and the tapping of his toe on the ball. He lay back on the bed, scrolling through Instagram.
StreetFootball.FR had posted a video of a kid from Paris nutmegging a pro in a charity game. The comments were full of fire emojis and "next Benzema" hype.
Yanis looked at the video again. The move? Easy. He'd done it a hundred times. The kid? Good—but not untouchable. He closed the app and stared at the ceiling.
"Next Benzema," he muttered. "Nah. I will be the first Yanis!" he smiled.
At 2:13 a.m., he got the message. Instagram DM from @inf_france_official
INF France Trials – Marseille Region – Open Call
Academy scouts will be present. Spots are limited.
Ages 15–17. Show what you've got.
Link to register.
He sat there, his heart thumping and mind buzzing. INF France. The same academy that trained Henry, Mbappé and so many legends. The real pipeline to the pros.
Yanis blinked and sat up. He clicked on the link. It was a legit site and a legit location. It was happening in two weeks—just across town. He got out of bed and paced the room.
This was it, this wasn't a comment section and this wasn't an Instagram reel. This was a shot.
He stared at the form and started filling it out.
Name: Yanis Benali
Age: 16
Position: Striker
Experience: "Street. School. Every day."
He paused, took a breath and then hit Submit. The screen froze for a second and then the registration was confirmed.
Yanis stared at it again, his mind still buzzing. This wasn't just a trial. This was the line between the kid from Bellevue… and the player he swore he'd become.