Her Son, the Prodigy
Cologne – April 2019.
The apartment was still the same. Small, two rooms, one shared kitchen. The couch had a rip on the side from years ago when Karl slipped doing Ronaldo stepovers in socks. The television was old, the kind with delayed sound. But on it, Karl had watched every Champions League night with his mother.
His sanctuary wasn't marble floors or silverware.
It was this.
Her.
"Ma," he said, standing near the kitchen doorway with the letter in hand. "It's official.
I'm in."
His mother turned from the stove, wiping her hands with a towel, her eyes already glossing with tears. "Senior team?"
He nodded.
For a moment, there was just silence. Then she moved toward him and held his face like he was still seven years old and learning how to pass.
"I told your father you'd make it," she whispered. "Even if he never stayed to see it."
Karl didn't reply. He never needed to.
Everything she gave — the second jobs, the late trains to away matches, the packed sandwiches wrapped in foil — it had all built this moment.
"You always told me not to act like I was better than the rest," he said.
"I didn't say don't act," she smiled. "I said — show them. Let your football say it first."
He grinned.
"I will."
Borussia Dortmund Training Ground – May 2019.
The ride from Cologne to Dortmund was two hours, but it felt like two minutes. Karl watched the fields go by, earbuds in, but no music. Just focus.
When he arrived, a club staff member greeted him.
"You'll be training with the first team starting today, Karl."
As they walked through the pristine halls of the Dortmund complex, he passed murals of club legends — Sammer, Ricken, Reus.
There was history on every wall, in every grain of wood. But Karl didn't get distracted.
He had always studied the present more than the past.
Outside the dressing room, the staff member knocked once and opened the door.
The air inside was tense but warm. Jadon Sancho was juggling a ball, Achraf Hakimi was laughing with Julian Brandt. Mats Hummels sat lacing his boots — the silent general. And standing near the lockers, in full training kit, was the captain: Marco Reus.
Reus approached with a light nod. "You must be Schneider."
Karl nodded respectfully. "It's an honor."
"You're here because you earned it. But up here — it's faster. Sharper. No pity. Just standards."
"I wouldn't want it any other way."
Reus cracked a small grin. "Good."
He turned to the room.
"Boys — meet Karl Heinz Schneider. Newest from the academy. Keep an eye on him — or he'll dance through you before lunch."
Light chuckles rippled through the squad.
Brandt whispered to Delaney, "Look at the kid's eyes. He's serious."
Training Pitch – Moments Later
Manager Lucien Favre watched from the sideline, arms crossed, stopwatch ticking. Karl wore a neutral black bib.
He was paired in a mini-match drill alongside Hazard, Sancho, and Piszczek, against Hummels, Zagadou, and Dahoud.
The first few minutes were quiet. Until a loose ball dropped near the center circle.
Karl pounced.
He spun out of Dahoud's press, slipped past Zagadou with a quick double-touch, and clipped a left-footed through-ball between the lines for Sancho to finish.
The entire session paused. Even Hakimi turned his head.
Favre whispered to his assistant, "This boy doesn't play like he's trying to fit in. He plays like he belongs."
And that's what Karl had always known.
From the cold streets of Cologne to Dortmund's golden ground — this wasn't a leap.
This was his arrival.