A team keeps missing by inches—until a coach teaches them to aim for something smaller than victory.
**Hook:** The town’s football team lost not dramatically but precisely—shots kissing the post, courage shivering off-target.
**Rise:** The new coach brought tiny ribbons. He tied one to a fence post behind the goal and said, “Forget winning. Hit the ribbon.” Practice turned into science: angle, breath, ankle, silence. Boys learned to shoot through whispers, not through roars. The first time a ball kissed the ribbon, the field went greedy. Aim shrank; accuracy grew; goals happened as side effects of better questions.
Parents noticed the boys stopped blaming grass, wind, or cousins. They blamed their own toes politely and tried again. By tournament week, the ribbon was frayed to honesty.
**Finish:** The team won by one because it aimed for less. The coach cut the ribbon into keepsakes. Each boy tied a shred to a shoelace, a reminder that big dreams travel best in small steps. **Moral:** Victory is a by-product of precision.
