Hello Steemians I'm @mhsnrasel from Bangladesh. Assalamualaikum alaikum, everyone. Welcome to my another blog. In today's blog I am going to share with you and extraordinary Friday of my life. ![White Grey Nature Background Winter Photo Collage_20250628_130206_0000.png](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmaw9pQ4vyXnHW2vEqyX6T6YH3GxfoG8jADinZEdrqqsuF/White%20Grey%20Nature%20Background%20Winter%20Photo%20Collage_20250628_130206_0000.png) Those days when the author of a melo-drama film sits to pen, and 27 June 2025 was one of them. It was a Friday here in my village, where roosters think they are doing rehearsals for the concert of a rock band and the air is filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. And thus, a typical day—that was fueled by black coffee, Jummah prayer, and live match to watch like it was World Cup final—was forever engraved in memory. Buckle up for football, food, and family rollercoaster with a dash of humor as luck. ### Morning: Coffee Kickstart ![IMG_20250627_102717.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmXeVkqVGwVUpJUWe8sZg9tZ257iyh1KNd6znvm9VaXVoL/IMG_20250627_102717.jpg) I woke up to June golden yellow morning light as if I had won the jackpot of good sleep. I cleaned up and rolled into black coffee habit. No messing about with milk and sugar -- pure, straightforward, no-holds-barred, soul-warming stuff. It is as if a person somewhere in the world is quietly whispering a combination of a humongous colossal word, "You've got this, buddy." My coffee had disappeared before all the noise moved into the village. There were children playing in the back yard, and my little brother and nephews were all hammering away on their next masterpiece. We just hang around early afternoon laughing and joking about my little brother's disastrous rooster impressions. Let's face facts, he is never going to give up his day job and turn professional farmyard crooner singer. ### Midday: Brotherhood and Jummah ![IMG_20250627_102611.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmU2Fbk6DsbBn7yBec8LL1Hr2GTaSnKLzBjfbh8jWV5bqZ/IMG_20250627_102611.jpg) Friday afternoons in my village were spent doing one thing and one thing only: Jummah. At 12:30, the adhan was shouted out on the streets and the throngs irresistibly made their way towards the mosque. I myself was pushed out neat with my little brother, my good kurta on—though his dirty socks were the curse of the day. We were both pushed by the crowds towards the mosque, and he was skating on thin ice. Jummah's not prayer to him, it's a way of life. The quiet, the crowd, the sermon—a distant universe.

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My scrawny puppy little brother held on to my elbow and moaned, "Bhai, I'm famished!" He needed a Drinko too from the off-licence. If you have no clue what Drinko is, picture glow-in-the-dark-cola yelling "sugar high." I was the cool older brother (office I provided) and bought him a. He sipped the entire thing swallow by swallow as if he'd just finished a marathon, smiled goofy-toothy, and zoomed off in a home.Mission Accomplished: Happy Kid. ### Afternoon: The Never-to-Be Nap I came home with steely determination to sleep off for a nap. It takes Olympic training to possess the energy of my little brother. I jumped onto the sofa, daydreaming coffee and still cocks, but I was stopped short and shattered immediately by bellowing and bouncy ball. I went out into the back yard, and there they were: village boys kicking football in a match that could have packed arenas. My camera is the strange device to learn how to reach my shoulder. All right, all right, maybe so, but in our little world yesterday was Super Bowl. ### The Headliner: Football Mania ![IMG_20250627_181007.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmawJsbQkfojVJPaz6UadnJfjHytJXhoYFhB91qYaHPunC/IMG_20250627_181007.jpg) And then, finally, to the headliner proper: football. Football is, in a pretty comprehensible way, a game, as one would expect, but world phenomenon it most assuredly is. A record 4 billion watched the 2022 FIFA World Cup, and you can be sure to have half of them screaming at the TV set as if their lives depend on it. The great thing about the football is that it's actually so simple—ball, open space, and dreams. On the emerald English grass, in Brazil's favela, on more than 200 nations, and bringing human beings together around this earth for it. Mud rather than grass is what our team makes an argument for, the posts are in the air. and the ball something worth fighting for.

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But passion. Champions League, proper Champions League. I'd taken my uncles' team, kids, and a goat who thought he was the mascot. The score was 1-1 for ever and a day. My little brother was dashing about over here like he was at Arsenal trials. It was hang-in-the-air tension like my coffee this morning. Little lad Asif attempted a bicycle acrobatic kick, kicked the ball a mile and face-planted in the mud. ![IMG_20250627_180923.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmSQ2A42VRCMkSTMvd1EZZgMocBTk1sxQV5Q541ELYwU8t/IMG_20250627_180923.jpg) The whole team burst out laughing, and Asif just stood up with a grin like he'd just won the league. Village soccer sportsmanship—no attitude, plenty of passion. Got out of hand towards the end. One of theirs threw a cannonball spin, and crowd (and goat) lost it. But my little bro's team still had some magic left in them. They sneaked in a header, one that managed to deflect the line around. 2-2. It was drawn, but victory for my village. They were all high-fiving one another, the whole bunch of them, yelling out all the big ones at the top of their lungs, and my little brother comes over to me, dirty and beaming, bragging about himself as the "match hero." I did not call him out on the header being an accident. Let the kid enjoy his five minutes.

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The world football madness is all about the beautiful game—and a good deal about what the beautiful game is about. It's kids like my brother learning how to con each other, graft, and how to curse a linesman's bloody mistake. It's the way that a village ground in the middle of nowhere is raised up to Wembley Stadium. The game had not been played with the aim of winning; the game was my village's heritage. ### Night: Burgers and Bonding ![IMG_20250627_215058.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmX7j1fkbkGBPGYBgg4EMLerPxywq37MDpQxhi1AUxoqKC/IMG_20250627_215058.jpg) When day became night and the hue of the sky had changed to blazing orange, my nephews and I thought that the bash was not yet over.

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We wandered around the market area, where day food spices and fried food are on top. We strolled back and forth nervously for a bit—dinners with kids are world hunger-solving, trust me—until we noticed this small food restaurant-stall. They served the chaat in street food fashion and "haute cuisine" there as well, but the three of us yearned for those chicken burgers. Three of us, three burgers, and believe me, those burgers were a masterpiece. Spicy, juicy, crisped lettuce just right. We sat and munched on them, chuckling at Asif's incompetence's downfall and our little brother as a "hero." ![SGCAM_20250627_213756964.NIGHT.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmT7xJEKiBGsJY69tqbEi7YTTqEafKVcXfX56YJsyr7EkT/SGCAM_20250627_213756964.NIGHT.jpg) The icing on the cake of the ideal day. ### Night: Home Sweet Home We came home at 10:00 PM, full and happier still. The village was quiet, the stillness of having been awarded a prize for a good day. I was in bed, going over the game in my mind. Not the win or tie—laughs, friendship, the way this little game brings us together and makes us whole. The ball might be largest at the top of the world, but here on our village, it is us. That's my brother's grin, ear-splitting plug-the-ears tune, and that goat probably seeding Premier League. ### Final conclusion ![IMG_20250627_102445.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmUR65cyYCjnt1gC72wopBiqHxaUTb5FJVvSCAHMQJTh4E/IMG_20250627_102445.jpg) It started with coffee, experienced the adrenaline rush in Jummah, lost in sunbeams through football, and ended on burgers and smiles. To all such Fridays—a aforenoon for which there is no script but a ball, wonderful friends, and a Drinko or two to draw more sweetness from it.