The victory over Schalke changed the atmosphere around Werder Bremen, but inside the club’s training ground, life moved forward with its usual rhythm.
The newspapers had started talking.
The fans had started remembering his name.
The highlight clips of his first touch against Stambouli and Meyer were spreading across football pages faster than anyone expected.
But for Agastya Kaul, Tuesday morning was still Tuesday morning.
The same alarm.
The same breakfast.
The same walk into training with his headphones on, watching the city slowly wake up beneath the grey Bremen sky.
The difference was that his phone no longer stayed silent.
Messages had flooded in from places he had not expected.
Former academy teammates, school friends, coaches from his early days, and people he had not spoken to in years had all found a way to reach him.
He answered only a few.
Not because he did not appreciate them.
Because he knew himself.
Too much noise made him lose focus.
Football had always been the one place where everything became simple.
The ball.
The movement.
The next decision.
That evening, after recovery training, Agastya sat near the window of his room, watching the lights from the streets below reflect against the glass.
His phone vibrated.
The name on the screen made him smile instantly.
Subrata Chatterjee.
Before Germany, before Bremen, before Bundesliga nights under floodlights, Subrata sir had been one of the people who saw something special in him.
Not just his technique.
His mindset.
Agastya answered.
“Hello, Subrata sir.” A familiar voice immediately filled the room.
“So, Bundesliga player now?” Subrata laughed.
“Should I start calling you Mr.
Kaul or are you still the same boy who used to stay after training because he wanted to practice free-kicks?” Agastya smiled, leaning back against the chair.
“Please don’t remind me of those days, sir.
You used to make me take fifty extra attempts even when everyone else had already left.” “And you hated me for it.” “I didn’t hate you,” Agastya replied, laughing softly.
“I just thought you enjoyed making me tired.” “Maybe I did,” Subrata joked.
“But look where those extra shots took you.” For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
There was a comfortable silence.
The kind built through years of trust.
Subrata finally continued.
“I watched the Schalke match three times.” Agastya immediately became more serious.
“Three times?” “Yes.
The good moments and the mistakes.” That made Agastya smile.
“That sounds exactly like you.” “Because that is what you need now,” Subrata said.
“Everyone will talk about the assist.
They will talk about the touch.
They will talk about how you embarrassed two experienced Bundesliga players.” He paused.
“But the real test starts now.” Agastya looked toward his boots lying beside the door.
“The next teams will study me.” “Exactly.” Subrata’s voice became calmer.
“Your talent got you onto that pitch.
Your discipline will decide how long you stay there.” Agastya nodded, even though Subrata could not see him.
“I know.” “And remember something else,” Subrata added.
“Do not try to prove you belong every single minute.
Players who belong don’t play with fear.” That sentence stayed with him.
Because it was something Agastya had always struggled with.
Not confidence.
Responsibility.
He had spent years trying to repay the faith people had placed in him.
His grandparents.
His uncle and aunt.
His coaches.
The people who believed football could become more than just a dream.
Sometimes he forgot that he was allowed to enjoy the journey.
Later that night, a group video call connected.
The screen filled with familiar faces from India.
Friends from school.
Players from his early football days.
People who knew Agastya before his name appeared on Bundesliga broadcasts.
Rohan was the first to speak.
“Bro, I still cannot believe that guy on television is the same person who used to argue with referees in local tournaments.” Agastya immediately laughed.
“I never argued.” Everyone on the call burst into laughter.
“You absolutely did,” another friend replied.
“You once got a yellow card because you spent two minutes explaining why your teammate was fouled.” “I was making a logical argument.” “You were eleven.” “Age does not change logic.” The group laughed again.
That was the side of Agastya most people never saw.
On the pitch, he was calm, almost intimidating in his focus.
Away from it, he was much quieter.
He listened more than he spoke.
He preferred small conversations over large crowds.
But around people he trusted, his dry humour appeared naturally.
One of his friends looked at him seriously.
“Jokes aside, everyone here is proud of you.” Agastya looked away from the camera for a moment.
“Thank you.” It was a simple answer.
But everyone understood what it meant.
The Message From Home Before sleeping, Agastya checked one final message.
It was from his grandfather.
A simple photograph.
The old man standing outside the tea shop in India, holding a newspaper with Agastya’s debut mentioned on the sports page.
Below it was a message: “Your grandmother showed everyone the article today.
She is pretending she is calm, but she has been smiling since morning.” Agastya stared at the picture for a long time.
Then he replied.
“Tell Dadi I will call tomorrow.
And tell everyone not to make me famous before I actually achieve something.” A few seconds later, another message arrived.
“That humility is good.
But remember, confidence is also important.
Your parents would have wanted you to enjoy this moment.” The room became quiet.
Agastya placed the phone beside him.
For years, football had been his escape.
Now it was becoming his responsibility.
But maybe, slowly, it could become something else too.
A way of carrying forward everything the people before him had given.
The following morning, Werder Bremen returned to full preparation.
The Schalke victory was already becoming history.
The next opponent was waiting.
The Bundesliga did not care about debut stories.
It did not care about emotional moments.
Every weekend brought another test.
During training, Florian Kohfeldt watched from the sideline as Agastya moved between drills.
The manager noticed something different.
The teenager who had entered against Schalke carrying nerves was gone.
Not replaced by arrogance.
By belief.
After training, Kohfeldt called him over.
“Good debut.” Agastya nodded.
“Thank you, coach.” “But forget it.” Agastya looked slightly surprised.
Kohfeldt smiled.
“That is the Bundesliga.
Yesterday’s performance earns you nothing tomorrow.” Agastya understood immediately.
That was why he respected Kohfeldt.
The manager never allowed young players to become trapped by their own success.
“I won’t forget that,” Agastya replied.
Kohfeldt nodded.
“Good.
Because now they know your name.” He looked toward the training pitch.
“Now we find out what happens after that.” Agastya glanced back at the empty field.
The same grass.
The same ball.
The same game.
Only now, the world was watching a little closer.
And he was ready for the next chapter.
[are you ?]