Chapter 9 – A Name Begins to Echo
When Benfica returned from Madrid, the academy grounds felt different.
Not larger.
Not louder.
Just… more aware.
People looked at Jota longer in the hallways.
Teachers mentioned his name when discussing "focus" and "discipline."
Younger players whispered near the lockers.
The plaque from Madrid hung quietly inside the training facility's trophy cabinet, just beneath a small sign:
"PLAYER OF THE TOURNAMENT – JOÃO DIAS"
But Jota didn't let it cloud his steps.
If anything, he trained harder.
---
Coach Nuno had warned him:
> "Praise is a clever opponent. It flatters your ego while weakening your legs."
Jota took it seriously.
Each morning, while others hit snooze, he jogged alone around the empty pitch under the first blush of sunrise.
He started adding recovery sessions by himself.
Studied match footage of past Benfica legends—Rui Costa, João Félix, even Deco.
He wasn't chasing fame.
He was chasing form.
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In early December, an email came from the Portuguese Football Federation.
An invitation.
Jota had been selected for the Portugal U13 national development squad camp, to be held in Coimbra.
Fifty names on the list. Only twenty would be chosen for the spring international friendlies.
Leonel tackled him during warm-ups when he found out. "You! The quiet one!"
Jota smiled. "I guess they noticed."
Bruno grinned. "They'd be blind not to."
But beneath the joy, something deeper stirred.
This wasn't just recognition.
This was a door.
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The camp in Coimbra was different from club life.
Here, everyone was a "star" in their region.
Fast. Confident. Technical. Loud.
There were forwards from Porto who spoke like professionals. Midfielders from Braga who already had agents.
But Jota, as always, didn't try to stand out.
He tried to understand.
He observed movement. Positioning. Body language.
Then he adapted.
During the first inter-squad match, he was placed as a central attacking midfielder, just behind the striker.
It took him five minutes to adjust.
Then he ran the game like a conductor.
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By day three, the coaching staff began using his clips during group sessions.
"Notice how João doesn't rush," one said.
"Look at his vision. The weight of the pass," another added.
"He's quiet, but the game flows through him."
One night, after dinner, a boy from Porto asked him bluntly, "Who trained you?"
Jota answered, "A vineyard. A friend. And a goat field."
The boy blinked. Then laughed. "Whatever it was—it worked."
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Back at Benfica, the name "João Dias" began to spread beyond the dormitories.
A short article appeared on a youth football blog:
> "Remember this name. João Dias isn't flashy, but he's the kind of player who becomes inevitable."
Soon after, a reporter from a local sports paper requested an interview.
Jota declined.
He wasn't ready.
He didn't need attention. He needed space.
---
December ended with the Academy Winter Showcase—a high-level match for all age groups where directors, sponsors, and sometimes first-team staff came to watch.
Jota was assigned captain for the U13s.
Not because he talked the most.
But because he moved like a leader.
In the first half, he controlled tempo effortlessly.
In the second, he scored a long-range goal with his left foot—his weaker side.
The crowd applauded.
Not loudly. But meaningfully.
---
After the match, as players headed back to the locker room, Coach Nuno called him aside.
"There's something different in you," he said.
"I'm just learning."
"No," Nuno replied. "You're remembering."
Jota didn't answer.
But he understood.
---
January arrived with new challenges.
Tougher drills. Rainy days. Slippery pitches.
Injuries began creeping into the squad.
Leonel sprained his ankle. Bruno bruised his ribs.
Jota stayed healthy, though not by luck.
He had developed discipline in rest—early sleep, nutrition focus, post-training stretches.
Coach Sofia, the academy's physio, once told him, "You take care of your body like someone who's seen it break before."
Jota looked at her and said quietly, "Maybe I have."
---
Letters from home continued, one every two weeks.
Ana's handwriting had improved.
She often sent stick-figure drawings of "Super-Jota" scoring goals with fireworks behind him.
Miguel's letters were shorter now, but stronger.
> "I'm running every morning. Did 3 kilometers without stopping. You'd be proud."
> "Ana's arm healed. But she still wears the cast to school for sympathy."
> "The bakery oven is fixed. I used leftover coins from the old drawer."
> "We believe in you. Always."
Each time Jota read one, he folded it slowly and placed it next to his growing stack inside the locker.
He didn't need medals to prove anything.
The letters were his real trophies.
---
One night, unable to sleep, Jota walked to the main training pitch.
The sky above Lisbon was clear. Stars glittered faintly.
He sat near the center circle and whispered, as if to no one:
> "Am I doing it right?"
As if in answer, a soft wind brushed the grass.
Then a memory returned—of a snowy day in Penedono, Miguel and him kicking a half-flat ball between trees, laughing despite frozen fingers.
He smiled.
"Yes," he whispered again. "I think I am."
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Toward the end of January, a scout from Benfica's senior recruitment division approached Coach Nuno.
"We've been hearing his name," the scout said. "Not just from you—from Porto, from the federation. We'll be watching."
Nuno simply replied, "Watch closely. He doesn't shout for your attention. But he'll earn it."
Jota didn't know any of this yet.
But he could feel the shift.
When he stepped onto the pitch, defenders marked him tighter.
Midfielders gave him less space.
Coaches used his movement as a teaching model.
His name was beginning to echo.
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One Saturday, during a light match between U13 and U14 squads, the ball came to Jota near midfield.
Three players surrounded him.
He didn't panic.
He rolled his foot over the ball, took a deep breath, and cut through the smallest gap.
One passed.
Two slipped.
Three lunged too late.
He was gone, already laying off a perfect through-ball.
Even Coach Nuno stood and applauded.
Not for the flair.
But for the clarity.
---
After the match, Bruno approached him in the hallway.
"You're changing," he said.
Jota looked at him. "Am I?"
"You used to walk quiet. Now the floor listens when you move."
Jota gave a half-smile. "Let's hope it doesn't make me trip."
Bruno chuckled. "Don't worry. I'll be the first to pull you up."
---
Back in the dorm, Jota took out the first list he had written months ago.
He read it slowly.
Why I'm Here:
1. For Ana.
2. For Mãe.
3. For Miguel.
4. For my old self.
5. For the future I saw once—and lost.
He added one more line at the bottom:
6. For the boy I've yet to become.
Then he folded it, placed it next to Miguel's letters, and closed the locker with quiet reverence.
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