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Chapter 5 – The System
The pitch was empty.
No cones. No balls. No whistles.
Just the faded lines of a municipal futsal court and Tiago standing at the center, arms behind his back like he was guarding a crime scene.
João arrived at 5:56. He made sure of it. But Tiago didn't look up, didn't nod, didn't say "Good to see you."
He just waited until the clock on João's phone ticked over to 6:00.
Then, he spoke.
"Leave the boots."
João glanced down. "Why?"
"You don't need them to think."
João hesitated. His cleats were laced tight, perfect for sharp cuts. He'd cleaned them last night. But something about Tiago's tone made arguing feel like the slower move.
He pulled them off and stood barefoot on the court, gravel bits pricking the soles of his feet.
Tiago finally looked up. "You know where to run. You know how to pass. But you don't know when to disappear."
João folded his arms. "You said this was training."
"It is. Mental first. Physical later."
Tiago pulled a stopwatch from his pocket. Clicked it once.
"Walk. To the left sideline and back. Slow."
João stared at him. "Seriously?"
"Go."
He walked. One line to the other. The breeze scraped dust across the court. His bare feet burned slightly from the rubber surface.
Tiago clicked the watch again. "Six seconds too long. You drift. No urgency. Now again. But this time, don't just walk. Cut a passing lane."
"There's no ball."
"There's always a ball. You just don't see it."
João gritted his teeth and moved again, quicker this time, shoulders angled like he was shadowing an invisible pass. He imagined a pivot player to his right, a diagonal option forming left. He stepped across it, intercepting a phantom move.
He came back, breathing harder than he expected.
Tiago pointed at the far end of the court. "Midfielder gets the ball on the half-turn. You're between the lines. What's your first move?"
"Show short."
"Wrong. You kill space doing that. Your job is to stretch defenders, not comfort them. Try again."
João's lips tightened. He repeated the movement. This time, he burst five meters wide and diagonally into what looked like open space.
"Better," Tiago said. "But now imagine the full-back bites. Pressure's coming from your blindside."
João spun on his heel, instinct kicking in. A shoulder drop. A check run. He imagined flicking the ball into the path of a striker ghosting behind him.
Tiago was already nodding.
"Now you're listening."
João slowed. His legs twitched, his brain buzzing from the effort of solving problems that didn't exist. Not yet.
"You can dribble," Tiago said. "You can finish. But those are tools. The system I teach is vision. Position. Timing. Movement before motion. You learn this, João, and you'll be a shadow they can't catch."
João looked at the court again. The lines weren't markings anymore. They were triggers. Pressure points. Traps.
"No ball today?" he asked.
Tiago shook his head. "Next week. When you've earned it."
João exhaled through his nose. "You talk like a coach, but you act like a spy."
"I'm not here to motivate you," Tiago said. "I'm here to make you invisible. That takes more than talent."
João dropped onto the ground, stretching his calves. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. No sprinting, no shooting—but his body felt used in a way training never reached.
Tiago dropped the notebook beside him. "Study the last ten pages. Game tape from your final month at Porto. I've drawn every mistake."
João picked it up. Scanned the diagrams. One showed a freeze-frame—him standing five meters too close to the ball, collapsing the attacking lane before it formed.
Another: him checking in late, missing the vertical pass window by half a second.
They weren't technical errors. They were invisible flaws.
João looked up. "This system… who else knows it?"
Tiago turned away. "No one."
João looked down at the lines again.
For the first time, they looked like paths instead of boundaries.
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