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Chapter 255: 2015 Ballon d'Or Ceremony Part 3
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 01:46:21 +0000 UTCThe house lights dropped.
Silence spread through the ballroom. Then the screens lit up, gold waves pulsing behind a glowing FIFA crest, and the opening chords of the ceremony’s orchestral theme spilled out.
From stage left, Kate Abdo stepped into view wearing a glowing navy dress.
“Good evening, Zurich,” she said. “And good evening to everyone watching from around the world.”
Polite applause followed, restrained and proper.
“Welcome to the 2015 FIFA Ballon d’Or Ceremony where we honor the very best in football… and maybe test the patience of a few goalkeepers along the way.”
From the other wing came James Nesbitt, tux slightly rumpled like he dressed himself in the car. He adjusted his cuff mid-stride.
“What she said,” he nodded. “But with more vowels and fewer hair products.”
James scanned the room with playful reverence. “Legends. Future legends. A few players still hungover from their league wins. And Neymar’s eyebrows which may deserve a trophy of their own.”
Cut to Neymar. He gave the camera a wink late and a little stiff and shifted back in his chair. Next to him, Suárez chuckled. Iniesta raised one eyebrow, then shrugged.
Kate continued smoothly. “A special congratulations to FC Barcelona: La Liga champions, Copa del Rey winners… and, of course, UEFA Champions League winners.”
Applause broke out again. Cameras panned wide. Messi nodded once. Neymar adjusted his blazer sleeve.
James stepped in. “And now, your three finalists…”
Kate took over. “Two legends of the sports…”
“and one twenty year old ” James finished.
The camera swept the front row.
Ronaldo.
Tristan.
Messi.
“Cristiano Ronaldo,” Kate said. “Three-time Ballon d’Or winner. Sixty-three goals. Twenty assists. And yes, every ab still intact.”
James added, “And occasionally posted one at a time on Instagram.”
That earned the crowd’s laughter. Ronaldo smirked faintly.
“Lionel Messi,” Kate continued. “Sixty-nine goals. Five trophies. One treble. Zero public drama.”
James glanced over. “Unless you count Thiago learning to nutmeg the dog last week.”
Messi let out a small laugh.
Then the lights drifted toward the center.
“Tristan Hale,” Kate said. “Twenty years old. Second year on this stage.”
James added, “Last year’s ninth place. This year… maybe more.”
The room leaned in not physically, but you could feel it.
Kate continued. “43 goals. 41 assists. 57 matches played. 84 goal contributions.”
A pause.
“And across two professional seasons in the Premier League: 159 total goals and assists.”
Even coaches in the back adjusted forward slightly. Zidane raised an eyebrow. Suárez leaned into Iniesta with a comment. It’s always a hard thing to believe whenever someone brings up Tristan stats even with monsters like Messi and Ronaldo in the same era.
At the Leicester table, Vardy stood and pointed both hands at Tristan like a wrestling coach mid rant.
“That’s our lad!”
Then James turned toward the camera. “Three generations. Three playing styles. One golden ball.”
Kate added, “And one seat in history up for grabs.”
Another beat.
James grinned. “Unless Tristan sneaks it into his tux jacket and bolts.”
Tristan leaned slightly toward Messi, voice low.
“Would that count as a dribble or an interception?” Tristan asked in Spanish.
Messi chuckled, eyes on the stage. “Depends who’s chasing you.”
“You’d catch me?”
“Probably not.” Messi smiled. “But I’d pass you to someone who would.”
They both laughed under their breath. Ronaldo, hearing none of it, adjusted his cuff for the third time looking serious trying to hide his frown as everyone knew who the trophy was going to.
A few rows back, Neymar’s gaze didn’t move from the trio up front.
He wasn’t smiling anymore. The camera caught him just before he turned, his expression too tig just enough to notice.
He masked it in a blink.
But it was there. That flare of something.
Annoyance? No. It was heavier than that.
He sat between Suárez and Iniesta, both relaxed. Comfortable. Celebrated.
But he… wasn’t.
53 goals. 27 assists. 62 games. The numbers were there. The titles were there.
So why wasn’t he?
The crowd laughed again something Messi had just said, Tristan replying quick with a grin.
That was the moment it landed. Why it felt off. Why he felt behind.
Because Barcelona didn’t belong to him. It never would.
Not with Messi there. Not with Suárez. Not with the press calling Tristan already the face of football. He couldn’t see himself breaking into the top three. Not while he was playing second fiddle to a legacy he didn’t build.
He didn’t just want to shine. He wanted to own the light.
And for that…
His own stage.
His own club.
Neymar looked back up toward the front row, posture straightening, expression smoothing into something cooler calculated now.
He’d smile later. He’d cheer like the rest of them. But the idea had already taken root.
Maybe it was time to leave.
.
The lights dimmed again, soft gold flooding the stage.
Kate stepped forward, her smile curling like she already knew this part was going to be fun.“Alright,” she said, “Let’s talk about something we all love…”
James leaned toward the mic like a gossiping uncle. “Goals.”
Laughter already started from a few rows.
“Not just goals,” James clarified. “Screaming, world-tilting, drink-spilling, neighbour-waking goals. The kind your mate won’t shut up about for six months.”
Kate gave him a look. “Speaking from experience?”
“My mate’s a Leciester fan,” James said solemnly. “It’s mostly screaming.”
The ballroom chuckled again.
Kate turned to the camera. “It’s time for the FIFA Puskás Award. Celebrating the most beautiful goal scored in 2015. And this year’s shortlist…”
Behind them, the giant screen flared to life — cue dramatic piano swell.
[1] Wendell Lira – Goianésia vs Atlético-GO
[2] Lionel Messi – Barcelona vs Athletic Club
[3] Tristan Hale – Leicester City vs Sunderland
(Honestly forget about this and forget to choose a goal for Tristan.)
The camera cut to each finalist in turn.
Messi offered a modest nod. Wendell Lira blinked at the screen, eyes wide like he still didn’t believe it. And Tristan… tilted his head slightly, lips twitching as the replay of his goal ran. He could hear Vardy from behind whisper, “Still not over that one.”
Next to him, Messi leaned over again.
“You’ve scored better than that,” he said in Spanish, eyes still forward.
Tristan muttered back, also in Spanish. “I forgot they picked the free kick. I’ve done that in training…”
“Exactly.” Messi answered, already used to the fact that Puskas' award was not exactly fair. “They don’t like to give the award to players like us.”
Kate held the envelope now, smiling wider than before. “And the winner of the 2015 FIFA Puskás Award is…”
A slow beat.
“…Wendell Lira.”
The applause erupted.
Wendell froze for a full second, his mouth falling open. Then stood, eyes already glassy. His hands trembled when he shook the nearest person’s hand, a FIFA staffer and again as he climbed the steps.
The spotlight followed him all the way.
Tristan clapped steadily, expression calm, but warm.
He leaned toward Messi. “Now I don’t feel bad. I forgot I even got nominated again.”
“You won it last year,” Messi reminded him. “They had to give someone else a chance.”
Tristan snorted. “I think I’ve scored dumber goals that look harder.”
“They picked the free kick,” Messi said, glancing sideways. “That was your least best goal.”
“Exactly. It was too normal. I should’ve bicycle-kicked it backward off the post or something.”
Behind them, Ronaldo raised an eyebrow. “Talk louder. I think people in the back didn’t hear your humility.”
On stage, Wendell finally reached the mic, voice trembling through the translator. He thanked his teammates, his coach, his family — his words halting but full of emotion.
Tristan kept his eyes on him.
“Honestly?” he said, more to himself now. “Good for him. He’ll never forget this.”
Messi nodded slowly beside him. “That’s the best kind of win.”
Tristan glanced up at the screen one more time watching Wendell hold the trophy like it might disappear.
Kate returned to the mic with a softer tone. “Next, we celebrate leadership. The minds behind the systems, the tactics… the chaos we love.”
James nodded, still playful but more composed.
“The ones who scream from the touchline, then pretend they were calm the whole time in the post-match interview.”
A few laughs mostly from the coaching row.
Kate glanced to the screen. “The FIFA Women’s Coach of the Year…”
The video rolled quickly a highlight reel of interviews, touchline moments, and lifting trophies.
“And the winner,” Kate said, envelope now in hand, “is… Jill Ellis.”
Applause thundered across the room.
Jill stepped up to the stage, composed and smiling. She kept it short thanked her players, staff, and everyone who believed in the U.S. Women’s National Team.
Then the lighting shifted again.
James stepped forward.
“Now… to the touchline warriors in the men’s game.”
Kate continued.
“Champions League-winning coaches. League title winners. Tacticians who turned matches upside down with a single change.”
The shortlist appeared, Luis Enrique, Pep Guardiola, and Massimiliano Allegri.
“And the FIFA Men’s Coach of the Year is…”
Kate opened the envelope.
“Luis Enrique.”
The Barcelona players broke into applause as everyone stood up once more.
Luis Enrique walked up with cool confidence, gave a short nod toward the players’ row, then accepted the award with quiet grace.
As he stepped offstage, James leaned into the mic again.
“Managers. Can’t live with ’em, can’t keep a clean sheet without ’em.”
Polite laughter rolled through the crowd.
And with that, the lights shifted once again — already building toward the night’s centerpiece.
Kate turned toward the screen.
“Next… the FIFA/FIFPro World XI.”
The stage dimmed again.
A glassy, geometric animation shimmered across the big screen — names flickering in gold. No music this time, just rising applause and the subtle hum of importance.
Kate stepped forward.
“And now… the FIFA FIFPro World XI. Voted by over 25,000 professional footballers across the globe. This is the team of the year.”
A few players sat forward. You could feel it — the edge in the air.
James adjusted his mic with flair.
“One by one, we welcome the eleven players the football world has chosen… to stand above the rest.”
The names began.
“Goalkeeper: Manuel Neuer.”
The German stood tall in a sharp, matte-black suit.
“Right back: Dani Alves.”
Flashing his usual grin, Alves jogged toward the stage with a hop in his step, blowing a kiss to someone in the third row. (Fuck this dude)
“Center back: Sergio Ramos.”
He nodded toward the Madrid table, gave a brief look toward Tristan before he kept walking.
“Center back: Thiago Silva.”
“Left back: Marcelo.”
A cheer from the back. Marcelo’s hair bounced with every step. He bumped Ramos as he passed.
“Midfield: Luka Modrić.”
The applause rose a notch. Modrić looked humble as ever. He adjusted his cuffs, nodded toward a few old teammates, and headed up.
“Midfield: Andrés Iniesta.”
Messi clapped hard beside Tristan. They bumped shoulders lightly as Iniesta was announced. A familiar name. A familiar genius.
Then
“Midfield: Tristan Hale.”
A beat.
Then cheers.
Loud oness. A punch of applause from the Leicester table. Vardy stood up again.
“That’s our lad!”
Tristan exhaled once. Straightened his jacket. And rose.
This wasn’t his first time up there. But it still felt like a new weight.
As he passed the players’ row, he felt eyes follow him before he stepped into the line shaking hands with the previous names called.
The forward line followed.
“Forward: Neymar Jr.”
“Forward: Lionel Messi.”
“Forward: Cristiano Ronaldo.”
Eleven men. Eleven awards.
The camera panned slowly. Their trophies, clear glass, about the size of a bottle — caught the light and threw it in arcs across the gold backdrop.
The photographer motioned.
They angled in. Messi between Neymar and Dani Alves. Ronaldo with Modrić and Ramos at his sides. Marcelo slightly crouched. Neuer front and center. Tristan… standing just between Iniesta and Messi.
He looked forward. He could get used to this every year. Last time he was too nervous to enjoy the moments.
Click. Flash. Flash.
The official photo was done. Eleven players, eleven trophies — each one a glass silhouette catching the stage lights like diamonds. The World XI for 2015.
Marcelo stayed crouched. Neuer shifted his weight. Alves fixed his lapel.
And then Kate stepped forward again.
She smiled at the lineup. “Before we let them sit down,” she said lightly, “let’s hear from a few of them.”
She held the mic up.
“Cristiano,” she began, “you’ve now made the World XI—what is it—nine times?”
Ronaldo smiled as he answered. “I like the number. Let’s keep going.”
Laughter.
She turned slightly. “Andrés… one of the most beloved midfielders of this generation. What does it mean to be back up here?”
Iniesta gave a humble shrug. “It means I had help,” he said. “These two, especially.” He nodded toward Messi and Neymar.
Then Kate stepped down the line.
“Tristan. Second appearance in the World XI. Still only twenty. What’s changed since last year?”
Tristan lifted his trophy a little, brow raised. “I don’t get lost backstage anymore.”
More chuckles from the room. He added, after a pause:
“Honestly, though… last year I stood here just happy to be invited. This year… it’s more impactful to me if that makes sense cause I’m not only one just winning at Leicester. It means a lot to have some of my mates here.”
Kate nodded. “Well said.”
But behind the smiles, behind the lights…
Paul Pogba sat stiff in his chair. Staring at the stage like he expected his name to be called instead.
Champions League final. One of the best seasons of his career. Dragged Juventus through half their big nights.
He should’ve been up there. The midfield line was Modrić. Iniesta. Tristan.
And Tristan…
Tristan was twenty. In his second season. From Leicester.
Not Madrid. Not Juve. Not a European powerhouse.
Pogba didn’t clap.He just sat there. Staring.
And for the first time all night…
He understood exactly how Neymar felt.
Kate stepped forward again as the players left the stage.
“And now… the FIFA Women’s World Player of the Year,” she said, voice lifted. “The best in the world. On the biggest stage.”
A highlight reel began playing across the screen tight cuts of tackles, goals, celebrations, gold medals, and packed stadiums. Abby Wambach. Carli Lloyd. Célia Šašić. Each frame sharper than the last.
James glanced up as it ended.
“I’d say let’s get them into the Premier League,” he muttered. “Might sort a few things out.”
Laughter from the crowd.
Kate smiled.
“These three finalists changed the game in 2015. And tonight, we celebrate that.”
She held up the envelope.
A pause.
Then…
“The 2015 FIFA Women’s World Player of the Year is… Carli Lloyd.”
Applause cracked across the room, swift and strong.
On stage, Carli Lloyd spoke cool, composed, just like her game. She thanked her teammates, her family, her coaches.
.
Kate stepped forward once more. This was it.
"And finally," she said, the lights dimming behind her, "the FIFA Ballon d'Or."
The room hushed. The camera zoomed out, catching the sea of tuxedos and sequins all turned toward the center. On the big screen behind her, the golden orb rotated slowly in its frame. It looked less like a trophy and more like something ancient and sacred. A myth.
"Your top ten rankings," James added, now holding the envelope. "A year of brilliance. Of records broken. Of moments we won’t forget."
The screen behind them changed again, counting down:
10. Eden Hazard 9. Robert Lewandowski 8. Alexis Sánchez 7. Zlatan Ibrahimović 6. Thomas Muller 5. Luis Suárez 4. Neymar Jr.
A brief pause.
3. Tristan Hale.
Gasps rippled across the room. Applause followed.
Barbara clutched Julia's arm to stop herself from shouting. Anita being no better.
On screen, Tristan’s photo lingered for a second longer than the others. Twenty years old. Leicester City. A goal contribution machine. The youngest player on that list by nearly a decade.
2. Cristiano Ronaldo.
The applause was respectful. Strong, but expected.
Ronaldo adjusted his cuff again, and behind the calm expression was a storm just barely tethered.
And then it came.
1. Lionel Messi.
Applause erupted. Standing ovation. Neymar was the first from the Barcelona table to rise. Iniesta soon after. Enrique clapped, then turned and shook hands with someone two rows back.
Messi stood slowly. He didn’t smile big. He rarely did. But there was a quiet ease in his shoulders as he hugged Antonella and made his way toward the stage.
Tristan clapped just like everyone else as he watched Messi in front of the podium with the Ballon d’Or on it.
"Thank you," he began. "To my teammates, to Barcelona, to the staff and fans. This year was incredible."
He paused.
Then looked slightly across the crowd.
"I feel lucky. Very lucky. To have been part of so many special teams."
Another pause. He looked toward the front row. Tristan. Neymar. Pogba.
"And I feel lucky again," he added, "because I can see what's coming. The next generation is already here. They're fast. They're creative. They're fearless. They're going to do things none of us could even imagine."
His gaze lingered just briefly on Tristan.
"So when people ask, 'What happens when we retire?' I think the answer is simple."
Messi smiled. A little more now.
"You keep watching. Because football doesn't stop. It gets better."
.
Finally done with this little mini arc. This season should be ending soon, most likely in 10-20 chapters hopefully as I don’t feel like dragging it as we pretty much reached the halfpoint.
Comments
Yerbol Aidarkhan
I translate by google chrome browser translation on phone
noname
What do u mean you should be able to access it
Britanna
I keep getting a pop up saying its a protected file and I can't open it
Dafydd Jenkins
Just wondering, what the change to this format instead of posting on here??
Ursine
uhh nevermind copilot did it AI man ❤️
Ursine
ahh what an annoying thing I tried everything to translate this even extensions and it doesnt let me 🥲
