The draw against Iberia 1999 quickly became the biggest talking point in Georgian football.
For a few days, every sports channel replayed the same highlights.
Number 55.
The nutmeg.
The run.
The strike from distance.
The disguised assist.
Then, gradually, the excitement faded.
Another week of football arrived.
Another round of fixtures.
Another set of headlines.
For everyone else.
Not for Giorgi.
For him, life had changed.
Only two league matches remained.
The next obstacle stood tall.
**Dinamo Batumi.**
After that…
The final match of the season against FC Gagra.
There would be no more opportunities after those ninety minutes.
Every point mattered.
Every mistake mattered.
The title race was still mathematically alive, while second place remained firmly within reach.
The two-week break before facing Batumi became a blessing.
It allowed injured players to recover.
It gave the coaching staff time to prepare.
And it gave Dinamo Tbilisi something even more valuable.
Hope.
Training intensity reached another level.
It genuinely felt as though the squad was preparing for war.
Ferdinand Feldhofer tolerated no complacency.
Every drill carried consequences.
Every misplaced pass earned another repetition.
Every sprint had to be finished at full speed.
“If you’re tired in training,” he shouted one morning, “you’ll be exhausted in the ninety-fifth minute.”
“No shortcuts!”
The players responded.
No one wanted to be the weak link.
Least of all Giorgi.
His debut had changed how the senior players looked at him.
The polite distance was gone.
Now they joked with him.
Included him in rondos.
Called his name during small-sided games.
One afternoon, during a possession drill, Davit Iobashvili laughed as Giorgi slipped the ball between a defender’s legs.
“You really like doing that, don’t you?”
Giorgi shrugged.
“If it works…”
“It works too well.”
The surrounding players chuckled.
Even the coaches smiled.
Another day brought crossing practice.
Corner kicks.
Giorgi placed the ball carefully inside the corner arc.
The assistant coach folded his arms.
“Let’s see your delivery.”
He took three steps.
Wrapped his right foot around the ball.
It curled beautifully toward the penalty spot.
Vakhtang Salia—finally back in full training after a month-long injury—rose highest.
Header.
Goal.
The striker landed before pointing toward the youngster.
“Again.”
The next delivery was just as precise.
Then came free kicks.
Twenty-five meters.
Wall in place.
Whistle.
The ball dipped viciously over the wall before kissing the inside of the post.
The goalkeeper could only applaud.
One of the defenders laughed.
“Can you stop making us look bad?”
Giorgi smiled sheepishly.
“I’ll try.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
Dribbling drills became almost unfair.
Orange cones lined the grass.
Each player took turns weaving through them.
Most completed the exercise cleanly.
Giorgi…
Made it look effortless.
The ball barely left his boots.
His touches were so soft that it seemed connected to him by an invisible string.
An assistant coach quietly muttered to another.
“His close control…”
The other nodded.
“…is ridiculous.”
Training eventually ended.
Players began gathering their equipment.
Some discussed dinner plans.
Others rushed toward the parking lot.
Within minutes, the first-team pitch was almost empty.
Almost.
Giorgi remained.
As always.
He sat alone on one of the benches.
Not to rest.
Simply to catch his breath before another session.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
A notification caught his eye.
**Georgian Football Weekly**
*”Sixteen-Year-Old Changes the Title Race.”*
Another headline followed.
*”Who Is Dinamo’s Number 55?”*
Then another.
*”Dream Debut for Giorgi Loria.”*
He scrolled through the article.
It praised his goal.
His composure.
His intelligence.
His confidence.
Then one paragraph made him pause.
*”Following his remarkable debut against Iberia 1999, Giorgi Loria’s Instagram account exploded overnight, growing from fewer than ten followers to almost five thousand supporters.”*
“…What?”
He frowned.
Surely not.
He had never cared much about social media.
His Instagram contained…
Three photos.
One of him holding a football as a child.
One academy team picture.
One sunset after training.
That was it.
He opened the application.
The page loaded.
His eyes widened.
**Followers**
**5,378**
He blinked.
Then refreshed.
Still there.
Five thousand…
Three hundred…
Seventy-eight.
His inbox overflowed.
Friend requests.
Messages.
People tagging him in goal compilations.
Supporters wishing him luck.
Children asking for football advice.
Even a few verified accounts had started following him.
He stared at the screen.
For several moments…
He didn’t know how to feel.
Then…
A strange warmth spread through his chest.
The applause.
The headlines.
The followers.
The recognition.
It all returned at once.
The same intoxicating feeling he’d experienced after scoring against Iberia.
A voice whispered quietly inside him.
*They know your name now.*
*You’re special.*
*Imagine when there are fifty thousand followers.*
*Five hundred thousand.*
*Millions.*
For one dangerous moment…
He liked those thoughts.
Too much.
His breathing slowed.
He closed his eyes.
Then another voice surfaced.
His father’s.
Not literally.
Just a memory.
*”The moment you think you’ve made it…”*
*”…is the moment you stop improving.”*
Giorgi locked his phone.
He looked down at the football resting beside the bench.
Five thousand followers…
Couldn’t complete a first touch.
Couldn’t improve his weaker foot.
Couldn’t win him another match.
He stood.
Picked up the ball.
And walked back toward the cones.
One touch.
Two touches.
Three.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time the academy lights switched on for the evening…
The brief spark of arrogance had disappeared.
Replaced by something far more familiar.
Hunger.
The following days blurred together.
School.
Training.
Homework.
Recovery.
Gym.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Lessons at school seemed shorter than ever.
Teachers spoke.
Pens scratched across notebooks.
The final bell rang.
Then he was back on the training pitch before he even realized the day had passed.
The same happened with football.
Monday became Tuesday.
Tuesday became Thursday.
Thursday became another weekend.
Time accelerated.
The date everyone had been waiting for arrived.
Matchday.
**Dinamo Tbilisi**
**vs**
**Dinamo Batumi**
The home stadium buzzed long before kickoff.
Supporters streamed through the turnstiles carrying blue-and-white scarves.
Children wore replica shirts.
Some had even arrived wearing homemade jerseys with one number painted crudely on the back.
**55**
Inside the television studio, the pre-match broadcast was already underway.
The league table filled the screen.
The presenter gestured toward it.
“Today’s fixture carries enormous significance.”
One analyst nodded.
“Absolutely.”
“Dinamo Tbilisi remain third.”
A graphic appeared.
**2nd – Torpedo Kutaisi – 58 pts**
**3rd – Dinamo Tbilisi – 58 pts**
“The only reason Torpedo currently occupy second place is goal difference.”
Another pundit leaned forward.
“So for Dinamo…”
“This is effectively a must-win.”
The presenter shifted the discussion.
“And what about Batumi?”
Another table appeared.
“Dinamo Batumi also need victory.”
“If they want any realistic chance of climbing into third place and securing UEFA Europa Conference League qualification, they simply cannot afford to lose today.”
“So neither side can settle for a draw.”
“Exactly.”
Attention turned toward team news.
The presenter smiled.
“Good news for Dinamo supporters.”
A photograph of Vakhtang Salia appeared.
“The veteran striker has recovered from the injury that kept him out for the last month.”
“That gives Ferdinand Feldhofer another genuine attacking option.”
The analyst nodded approvingly.
“His experience could be invaluable.”
Another picture appeared beside Salia’s.
Number **55**.
Giorgi Loria.
The presenter laughed softly.
“And of course…”
“The young man everyone has been talking about.”
One pundit smiled.
“I’m excited.”
“We’ve only seen him for around fifteen minutes.”
“But in those fifteen minutes…”
“He scored one.”
“He created another.”
“You can’t ask for a better debut.”
The presenter asked the obvious question.
“Do you think he’ll start?”
The panel exchanged glances.
One shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“But I certainly hope he plays.”
The discussion shifted toward the visitors.
“We shouldn’t forget…”
One analyst pointed toward Batumi’s tactical board.
“They possess plenty of quality.”
He circled one name.
“Vladimer Mamuchashvili.”
“The heartbeat of their midfield.”
“In the previous meeting with Dinamo, he completely controlled the tempo.”
Another image appeared.
Goalkeeper Ricardo Silva.
“Outstanding shot-stopper.”
“He kept a clean sheet the last time these teams met.”
The final graphic showed Batumi’s front three.
**Paata Ghudushauri**
**Jalen Blesa**
**Honore Gomis**
“Excellent movement.”
“Plenty of pace.”
“If Dinamo give these three space…”
“They’ll punish them.”
Back inside the stadium tunnel…
The roar of thousands of supporters echoed through the concrete walls.
Giorgi adjusted the collar of his shirt before looking down one last time.
The familiar number stared back at him.
**55.**
Only two weeks earlier…
Almost nobody knew who he was.
Now…
Supporters.
Journalists.
Pundits.
Even opposing teams were talking about him.
He smiled faintly.
Then shook his head.
None of that mattered now.
There was only one thing worth thinking about.
Winning.
The referee called both teams toward the tunnel entrance.
The stadium lights brightened.
The crowd’s roar grew louder.
Another ninety minutes awaited.
And this time…
Everyone would be watching number **55**.