A poor father's dream

This isn’t fiction—though it often feels like something out of a novel. I am lucky to be living through a story that may someday become part of football folklore. It’s the story of Shahidul, a poor young man from a remote village in Bangladesh—who, with nothing but fire in his heart and football in his soul, is determined to turn his three-and-a-half-year-old son, Peter Dawn, into a world-class footballer.

His story begins not on a field, but on a day of heartbreak—the day Germany was eliminated from the
first round of the Qatar World Cup. While fans across the world were disappointed, Shahidul… collapsed. Emotionally. Spiritually. He disappeared from work for days. When I finally reached him on the phone, he could barely speak—just the sound of tears, of a soul shattered. That’s when I understood: this
wasn’t just passion. This was devotion, obsession… love.

Shahidul is not your average football fan. He is a walking, talking, breathing encyclopedia of the sport. Despite having little formal education and working a humble job as a messenger in Dhaka, his knowledge of world football is staggering. From Bundesliga to La Liga, UEFA Champions League to the Copa América—he follows them all. He can talk endlessly about legends like Lothar Matthäus, Miroslav Klose, and Philipp Lahm, and debate passionately about today’s stars like Musiala, Havertz, Kimmich, Sané, and Gündoğan. He even follows upcoming talents—Pavlović, Darvich, Moukoko—tracking their rise like a scout with a mission.

He doesn’t just memorize stats. He lives them. He studies match schedules, injury reports, coach ratings, transfer windows. He’s even a fierce critic of coaching strategies—analyzing formations and tactics as if he were standing on the sidelines himself. His football apps buzz all day, and every morning, he messages me highlights, analyses, and predictions. We bond over football every day. As a German football fan myself, our connection runs deep. But even I pale in comparison to the fire he carries inside.

Yet the most remarkable chapter of this story isn’t Shahidul’s encyclopedic knowledge. It’s his dream.

Shahidul never got to play football. Life didn’t give him that chance. But now he’s determined to live his dream through his son. Every day, come heat, rain, or winter fog, he pedals across Dhaka on his worn- out bicycle delivering parcels. Two shifts a day. His eyes are red, his body tired, but his spirit?
Unbreakable. Each push of the pedal carries a prayer. A vision. A silent whisper: “Peter will make it.”

Out of his meager salary, he manages to provide Peter with a diet fit for an athlete. He’s already bought him a tiny pair of cleats, practice cones, and a small football. Each evening, he trains Peter himself in a neighborhood corner, trying to teach his little boy balance, footwork, and vision. It might look like child’s play now—but to Shahidul, it’s the beginning of something much bigger.

His dream? To take Peter to Germany someday. To train him in world-class academies. To see him play for a Bundesliga club. To hear his name echo through stadiums, carried by the voice of an excited commentator shouting, “Peter! Peter again—what a strike!”

Yes, it sounds impossible. Even foolish. A poor man, thousands of miles from Europe, daring to dream so big? But history has been written by dreamers before. Why not Shahidul?

I often worry, though. He doesn’t believe much in luck, and sometimes I feel the universe hasn’t believed enough in him. But I do. I believe in his fire. I believe in his tears on that World Cup night. I believe in those sleepless evenings, coaching Peter under the faint streetlights of Dhaka. And I dream too—of seeing him one day in the stands of a roaring German stadium, watching his son dribble past defenders with the same grace as his heroes.

If that day comes, I’ll be in front of my TV, eyes wide, heart full. And maybe, just maybe, the commentator will cry out:

“Peter Dawn! The pride of Germany—born in Bangladesh, raised by love, fueled by his father’s dream!”

Mahmud Jalal: writer