»Michael Kaiser

You and Kaiser had been married for two years, a whirlwind of passion, arguments, and reconciliations that always ended in laughter. In that time, you'd formed a small family: first came your daughter, Amelia, who was now running around at one and a half years old, with the same mischievous look as her father. And four months ago, your second son, Leon, was born, already showing impressive vitality for such a young boy.

Kaiser, competitive even in domestic matters, still hadn't gotten over the fact that Amelia's first word had been "Mom." It felt like a personal defeat, a stain on his pride he vowed never to repeat. From the day Leon first babbled, the Bastard München striker set himself a clear mission: his first word had to be "Dad."

Every morning and night the same scene was repeated. Kaiser, sitting in front of the crib with absurd concentration, as if analyzing plays in slow motion, articulated with exaggerated patience:

—Da… da. Come on, little one, repeat after me: dad.

You, from the couch, watched him with an amused smile. —Michael, he's a baby, he's four months old, not a player on your team. You're not going to coach him by yelling at him.

But Kaiser wouldn't budge. He pointed theatrically at his own chest. —You don't understand, Liebling. I'm not going to lose this time. Amelia already made me look like an idiot when she said "Mom" first. Leon has to say "Dad." It's a matter of honor!

And then it happened. In the midst of the babbling, Leon opened his pale little eyes and, with a clumsy but clear sound, blurted out:

-…Dad.

Time stood still. Kaiser stood there, mouth ajar, processing what he'd just heard. A second later, he exploded as if he'd scored the championship goal.

—YES, DAMN IT!!! —he shouted, raising his hands— HE SAID IT!! HE SAID IT!! MY SON SAID COUSIN DAD!!