There's a rhythm to being a substitute that no one teaches you.
You dress up, warm up, stretch like you might come on any second , and most days, you don't.
You learn to live halfway between calm and alert.
By late August, I'd memorized the feel of the Morumbi bench , the worn vinyl under my legs, the smell of liniment and grass rising from the touchline. From that close, football looks faster, sharper. Every pass seems heavier, every mistake louder.
I'd sit there, jacket zipped up, heartbeat steady, trying not to look like I was waiting.
The veterans joked that sitting built patience. França called it "bench fitness." he'd laugh, slapping my knee.
I laughed too, but deep down, the waiting had its own weight.
Training stayed the same: double sessions, weight room in the morning, tactical work in the afternoon. The matches stacked up , Campeonato Brasileiro every weekend, Copa Mercosur mid-week. São Paulo were inconsistent this year; one good win, then a draw that felt like defeat.
Nelsinho paced the sideline like a man wound too tight. He demanded details , "distance between lines!" "tempo!" "pressure, pressure!" , but the squad was heavy, tired, unsure.
Raí was nursing a knock, França scored but limped after, Denílson had already gone to Spain.
Something felt off, like the music of the team was missing its rhythm.
I watched, memorizing movements, the small things coaches notice.How Zé Teodoro adjusted his shoulders before pressing, how Serginho timed his runs. I'd try to copy those patterns in training. Sometimes it clicked, sometimes it just made me dizzy.
The gym became my anchor.
When matches frustrated me, I lifted.
When I couldn't lift, I ran.
Turíbio called it "controlling what you can."
He added new sessions , balance drills on a Bosu ball, resistance cords, and small weights strapped to ankles.
"Stabilizers," he said. "They make you bulletproof."
My muscles burned in places I didn't know existed.
He tracked everything. "One centimeter of growth here," he'd say, tapping my shoulder. "That's neuromuscular adaptation."
I didn't know what that meant exactly, but I liked the sound of it.
At night, when I stood shirtless in the mirror, I could see faint definition under the skin , not bulk, but shape. The arms of a footballer, not a schoolboy. Dad noticed.
"You're filling out," he said. "Still lean, but there's power now."
I smiled. "Slowly."
"That's how legacy is built, just like a lasting bridge" he said. "One beam at a time."
I swear, everything is engineering to him. You cannot go a day without hearing an engineering reference from this man.
Maybe that's what I sounded like in my past life as well? I would drop pop culture references, or dialogues from old movies. And now, it is football. He is that passionate about being an engineer, construction and building things.
Good for him!
Early September brought colder mornings. Breath turned to mist on the training pitch.
We did more tactical work indoors , video sessions in a dark room that smelled of coffee and marker ink.
Nelsinho would pause the tape mid-pass. "Freeze.
Look here. Look at spacing. You, Kaká , what do you see?"
I squinted at the screen. "Raí is… between the lines, open."
"And what's the full-back doing?"
"Watching the ball, not the man."
"Exactly. So when you get it, you attack the space before he turns. Football is time management."
He smiled a little, as if pleased that at least someone was listening.
Those sessions were gold. Still, results didn't come.
By mid-month, whispers started: board meetings, pressure, possible change.
On September 20 , a rainy Sunday , we lost 2–7 at home to Portuguesa.
The next morning, Nelsinho was gone.
The news spread quietly; no meeting, no announcement, just a notice pinned near the cafeteria.
The dressing room was tense.
França cursed under his breath. Raí sat silent, head down.
For me, it was the first time a coach I'd known was suddenly just… gone.
One day you take instructions; the next, his office is empty.
Edvaldo Pita, one of the assistants, took charge for the week.
He kept things simple , short sessions, no new tactics.
"We stabilize first," he said. "Then the club decides."
Players nodded, some relieved, some skeptical.
I focused on staying invisible. When the senior players are unsettled, you don't speak unless spoken to. You just work.
That week, the workouts intensified again. Turíbio believed in structure when chaos hit.
"Change above means discipline below," he said.
He increased my resistance runs , sled pulls, uphill sprints, 200-meter shuttles timed to the second.
After each rep, my lungs burned, legs quivering.
"Again," he'd call.
I lost count at eight, maybe nine.
In the mirror after showering, I looked taller , 180 centimeters now. He measured again. "You're still growing. No wonder your coordination's catching up."
He predicted I'd reach 186 or 188 by 2000.
On September 26, the new manager arrived , Mário Sérgio.
Ex-player, elegant, sharp tongue, expensive cologne.
He walked into the locker room with the air of someone who had already decided what he thought of everyone.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "Forget what you were. Show me what you are."
He didn't shout like Nelsinho. He observed.
Training that day was slower but stricter. Every drill timed, every pass judged on weight and angle.
He watched me for a while, then said quietly, "You play like someone who learned from books. Learn from scars too."
I wasn't sure if it was a compliment. França winked. "He insulted you politely."
That hit me like a truck. He was right. All this time, I have been playing from the book. This is what Xavi did. This is what Ronaldinho did. This is what KDB did. I adapted to all of these styles and plays and started implementing them. But where was I? Where's Kaká? I wanted to fix it. I want instincts to take over from now on.
I will earn my scars. I will play with my instincts, use my knowledge. Fall back on battle experience.
Under Mário, the energy shifted.
He encouraged flair but demanded intelligence. "Risk without thought is waste," he'd say.
We played more short-passing, more movement between lines.
I liked it , it suited my rhythm.
But he also had little patience. He'd stop a drill mid-play, whistle sharp. "Too slow. Start again."
No one argued.
He brought in new routines: rondos at absurd speed, 3-v-2 counter drills, positional rotations.
We finished every session with sprints, "because tired brains make bad decisions."
By the third week, the group looked sharper. The dressing room laughter returned, cautiously.
Mário even joked once. "If we play this well on Sunday, maybe I'll smile in public."
For me, it was still the bench.
But the bench had changed.
Mário rotated players, experimented with lineups.
"Stay ready," he told me once, tapping his watch. "Time doesn't warn you."
So I prepared quietly , extra stretching, and mental rehearsal.
During warm-ups, I watched the crowd swell, the sound growing from hum to roar.
Even sitting out felt like participating in something immense.
One Thursday, during recovery, Mário walked past the gym where I was finishing core work.
He stopped. "Still here?"
"Yes, coach"
He watched me hold a plank, elbows trembling.
"Discipline," he said. "Good. But remember , football's not a gym contest. Strength is the bridge between body and idea. Use it to think faster, not only run harder."
Then he left, just like that. Eh!?
His words lingered longer than the muscle ache. Why do they drop these truth bombs randomly?
September faded into October like a slow exhale.
My numbers stabilized: 180.2 cm, 71.4 kg, 11.8 % body fat.
The coaches were pleased. I felt lighter on my feet, quicker turning, steadier receiving passes under pressure.
Sometimes during training games, Mário would keep me with the starting group for ten minutes.
"Find the rhythm," he'd say.
Those ten minutes felt like entire matches , the pace, the contact, the noise.
Each time he subbed me out, I wanted more.
França noticed. "Your eyes change when you play with us," he said. "That's how it starts."
At home, Mamãe pretended not to count the matches I didn't play.
She'd ask softly, "Bench again?"
"Bench again."
Then she'd smile. "Benches are made of wood, but they build steel hearts."
I didn't know where she got that line, but it helped.
Even Digão joined in. "You'll score when you play. I'll bet my new ball."
"You'd lose it," I said.
"Nah! I believe in you," he grinned.
Their faith steadied me.
By mid-October, the mood around the club was different.
Results had improved, two wins in a row, morale back.
Training was lighter but more competitive.
We played small-sided games with punishment runs for losing teams , laughter mixed with exhaustion.
One afternoon, after a tight 3-v-3, Mário pulled me aside. "You're close," he said simply.
I nodded, heart hammering though I tried to stay calm.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I replayed every drill in my head , passes, turns, timing , until the city outside turned pale.
I'd waited since June. Trained, lifted, learned.
The body had changed; the game was slowing down in my eyes.
But I didn't chase destiny anymore. I just prepared.
Every stretch, every sprint, every silent evening felt like winding a spring tighter and tighter.
I didn't know when it would be released , maybe soon, maybe later.
But when it did, I wanted to be ready, not surprised. And so I kept working. Quietly. Faithfully.
Because sometimes the most important part of a dream is the waiting that builds the strength to carry it.
It's Friday night, the 10th of October, 1998.
Tomorrow, we play Santos at Morumbi.
I can feel the words hovering somewhere in my chest, even before anyone says them out loud.
Coach Mário Sérgio's voice breaks the quiet.
"All right, that's enough for today." He claps twice, the sound echoing through the locker room.
"Recovery tomorrow morning at eight. No weights, no running. Just ball work, stretching, tactics."
He pauses, eyes sweeping the room. He's got that kind of presence that fills space , not loud, not angry, just… certain. A different kind of certainty than Nelsinho had. Mário is more of an artist. He talks about football like its music , rhythm, harmony, tension.
"Ricardo," he says suddenly.
I look up, still holding my boots. "Yes, coach?"
He doesn't smile, not yet.
"Come to my office in ten minutes."
A few of the guys glance my way , França, Serginho, Rogério Ceni. Quiet looks, unreadable.
I nod, try to act normal, but I can feel my pulse drumming in my throat. It is like getting called to the principal's office in the middle of the class. What did I do?
By the time I finish changing and step into the corridor, the stadium was mostly empty. Evening light filters in through the high windows, turning the concrete hallways gold.
Somewhere outside, sprinklers hissed against the grass. I passed the tactical board , little red magnets frozen in formation.
When I knocked on the coach's door, his voice comes calm, "Enter."
He was sitting at the desk, one lamp on, a cup of coffee gone cold beside him. The board behind him is covered with scribbles , Santos' shape, lines, arrows, names.
"Sit down, garoto," he says.
I do.
He studies me for a second. I can never tell what he's thinking. His hair's silvering at the sides, his shirt sleeves rolled up, the look of a man who has seen every type of footballer walk through his door.
Then he says it.
"You'll be playing tomorrow."
I blink. "I am starting?"
He nods. "Not starting, Ricardo. I want you ready."
My heart lurches. "Ready?"
"Ready means ready," he says, leaning back. "I don't know if I'll use you. Depends on the game. But if I call your number, I want no surprise in your eyes. Understood?"
I nod too quickly. "Yes, coach."
He smiles slightly, the first time tonight.
"You've earned this. The last few months, your attitude , good. You're not the biggest, not the strongest, not yet. But you think fast. You see fast. Santos press hard in midfield. We might need your kind of a player."
My mouth's dry. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me, not yet" He waves a hand.
"Football thanks work. And you've done your share. Go home. Rest. No nerves, alright? Tomorrow, just play."
I get up, heart still hammering. "Yes, coach."
As I reach the door, he adds quietly, "You've been patient, Ricardo. Patience is part of maturity. Remember that when the whistle blows."
Outside, the hallway feels different. Lighter somehow, though my chest feels heavier.
I walk out to the sideline, boots in hand, and stand there for a minute. The grass looks darker under the floodlights. Tomorrow, I might be running here, not just watching.
I whisper it under my breath ,
"Tomorrow."
Dinner at home smelled heavenly. The smell hit before I even took off my jacket.
Mamae's in the kitchen, hair tied back, soft music playing on the radio. "Late, meu amor," she says without looking up. "You must be starving."
"A little," I admit, sitting down.
Digão's on the couch, pretending not to stare but clearly listening.
He's been waiting to ask.
"Did something happen?"
I glance at him, then at dad, who's fixing the chair leg at the table.
I don't want to make it sound bigger than it is.
"Coach called me to the office," I say casually, spooning rice.
Mamãe looks up. "Why?"
I smile, trying to keep it steady. "He said I might be playing tomorrow"
Her hand stops mid-motion, wooden spoon hanging in the air.
Dad straightens, screwdriver paused.
Digão grins. "You're starting?"
"No, I'll be on the bench. But the coach said that I should be ready in case he calls for me.."
For a second, nobody says anything. Then Mamãe lets out a small sound , halfway between a laugh and a breath.
"Oh, meu Deus." She sets down the spoon carefully, wipes her hands on the towel, and comes over to hug me.
Her arms are warm, smell faintly of soap and dinner. "I knew this day would come."
Papai grins, a quiet, proud kind of grin. "It's only the beginning, filho. Remember that."
I nod. My throat feels tight.
We eat together, and the mood is light, but underneath everything, there's that hum , excitement and nerves tangled together.
After dinner, I help her with dishes, the warm water steaming against my fingers. She hums softly , an old church tune.
"Are you nervous?" she asks after a while.
"A little," I admit.
She smiles. "Don't be. We will be there with you and HE will be watching over you"
Later that night, I'm in my room, sitting on the edge of the bed with the training bag open. The São Paulo jersey hangs on the chair , white, red, black stripes across the chest. Number 22 stitched in clean black at the back.
My number.
It's strange. Just a few months ago, I was in youth camp dorms. Now, tomorrow, I might play under those lights.
I check my boots, polish them with a cloth, make sure the laces aren't frayed. It's habit now. Dad calls it "engineer's ritual." He says every job has one.
When I finish, I look at the Bible on my desk. It's open to Proverbs.
Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.
I read it twice.
There's something about that verse that steadies me. Not magic , just… truth.
I think about everything that led here , the Paulista tournament, the trip to France, the youth camp, the preseason mornings when I felt too tired to breathe, the bruises, the cold showers, the moments I thought maybe I wasn't ready.
And yet here I am.
Outside, I can hear papai moving in the living room, the faint sound of tools clicking. Mamãe's voice drifts from the kitchen , quiet, low, maybe praying.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, Morumbi will be full. Santos will come hungry. I'll be wearing number 22.
My heart races again, but this time, it feels good.
A prayer comes out of me without thinking:
"Thank you, Lord. For the chance. For the people who carried me here. Let me play with joy."
Then I close my eyes.
The last thing I hear before sleep is the soft sound of rain beginning outside , slow, gentle, like the world breathing with me.
Tomorrow, everything begins.
I didn't sleep much.
Not because of nerves , not exactly , but because my body wouldn't switch off. I kept waking up, checking the clock, counting the hours till morning. When dawn finally came, it felt like I'd been waiting years for it.
Papai was already in the kitchen, dressed in his usual neat shirt and slacks, reading the paper with his glasses halfway down his nose. He looked up when I walked in.
"Morning, champion," he said, smiling.
"Morning," I mumbled, trying to sound casual.
He folded the paper. "You sleep?"
"Somewhat."
"Eat," he said simply, pointing to the table.
Mamãe had been up too. She'd made scrambled eggs, fruit, and that thick coffee that could wake the dead. The smell filled the kitchen , home and nerves all at once.
She looked at me carefully, as if she could see the thoughts running behind my eyes.
"You'll be fine, meu amor," she said softly. "Just play like you always do."
"I will."
But I wasn't sure what "like I always do" meant anymore. This was different. This wasn't São Paulo youth. This wasn't a friendly or a scrimmage. This was Morumbi, the Brasileirão, and Santos.
Papai drove me to Barra Funda for the team meeting. The city was waking up , buses crowding the lanes, vendors setting up carts, early light brushing over glass buildings. I watched it all pass, fingers tapping my knee in rhythm with the hum of the car.
When we reached the gate, he parked and turned to me.
"You don't have to prove anything to anyone today," he said. "Just belong."
I looked at him and nodded. That word , belong , stayed with me all day.
The locker room buzzed with energy when I arrived. Some guys were joking, others already in headphones, lost in their own rituals.
Rogério was sitting near the corner, calm as always, adjusting his gloves. He gave me a nod. "Ready, garoto?"
"As ready as I can be."
He smiled faintly. "You'll know what to do when the time comes."
França tossed a towel at me as I walked by. "Don't forget to breathe when they call your name, okay?"
"Thanks for the reminder," I said, trying to sound light.
Training staff moved around briskly, handing out hydration packs, energy gels, schedules. Mário Sérgio came in right on time, carrying his small notebook.
"Listen up, everyone," he said, voice steady but charged with that quiet fire he carried. "We know Santos. Fast transitions, wide play, two forwards who like to pull defenders out of shape. We stay compact. We press together, not alone."
He pointed to the board , red magnets marking our positions.
"França, you drop when they counter. Serginho, overlap only when secure. Carlos Miguel, wide, but track back. And Ricardo,"
My head jerked up.
He didn't look at me long, just enough to make sure I was listening. "Keep your warm-up sharp. I'll tell you more later."
That was it. No promise, no build-up. Just a quiet thread left hanging.
The meeting ended, and the bus to Morumbi felt louder than usual. Laughter mixed with music , pagode playing from the back row. I sat near the window, watching the city roll by, my reflection flickering over it.
Every bump, every stoplight felt like a countdown.
By the time we reached the stadium, fans were already lining the streets , waving flags, banging drums, shouting names. Some even knew mine, though most were probably just curious.
"Olha o menino novo!" someone yelled as we got off.
I smiled and waved before following the group into the tunnel.
Inside, the locker room was all sound and motion , boots thudding, tape ripping, the smell of liniment and turf. The physios were setting up elastic bands for activation drills.
I went through my routine quietly , resistance bands, lunges, short sprints in place, then a round of plank holds.
The team sheet went up on the board.
Rogério in goal. Belletti, Zé Teodoro, França up front.
And then, at the bottom, substitutes.
Number 22: Ricardo Kaka.
Seeing it printed made it real.
"Parabéns, garoto," Serginho said, clapping my shoulder. "It's a start."
"Obrigado," I murmured.
Outside, the first chants started echoing.
They rolled down from the stands like waves, filling the tunnels.
When we walked out for warm-up, the sound hit me , full, alive, like the entire stadium was breathing in rhythm. Morumbi stretched endlessly upward, seats glowing red and white under afternoon light.
I jogged behind the group, the air cool against my face, the grass springy underfoot. Every touch, every pass in the rondo felt sharper.
Carlos called out, "Don't trip, rookie!"
"Only if you give me a bad pass!" I shot back.
Laughter rippled through the circle.
It helped. The nerves softened.
We finished drills and went back inside. My heart was calm now, a steady beat.
Kickoff approached fast. The locker room emptied of noise again, the quiet before the storm. Mário gave his final words.
"This club is about work, not names. Whoever steps on that field, you run for the shirt and for each other."
He looked around once more. "Ricardo."
I looked up.
"Enjoy it. You'll only have one first."
From the bench, everything looks different. The grass feels brighter, the crowd louder, the world sharper.
Kickoff. The whistle cuts through the air.
Santos start strong, pressing high. They've got pace, two quick wingers slicing down the flanks. Rogério's already shouting instructions from the goal.
The first ten minutes are chaos, fast, tight, breathless. From the bench, I follow every play, knees bouncing.
Mário stands near the touchline, arms crossed, studying everything. He glances back once. "Stay warm, Ricardo."
I nod and start jogging along the sideline, legs light.
We took the lead early, França, a low drive off a through ball from Serginho. The crowd erupts. The bench leaps up, clapping, yelling. I can feel the vibration under my feet.
1–0.
But Santos answer back quick. A header from a corner, unstoppable. Rogério dives but can't reach it.
1–1.
I sit again, towel over my lap, eyes fixed on the field. Every minute feels stretched.
Half-time arrives at 1–1. In the locker room, everyone's sweaty, breathing hard. Mário talks fast, sketching adjustments on the board. "We're losing rhythm in transition. Keep possession cleaner. Think faster."
His eyes flick to me briefly, then move on.
No promises yet.
Second half starts, and Santos push again. By the 60th minute, they scored a deflected shot that wrong-footed Rogério.
1–2.
The stadium groans. I grip the towel tighter.
"Ricardo," Mário says suddenly.
My head snaps up.
"Warm up. You might go in soon."
My pulse spikes. "Yes, coach."
I start jogging again, stretching hamstrings, rotating shoulders, breathing deep. The air smells of grass, sweat, and adrenaline.
França equalizes in the 70th minute, a curling free kick, top corner. The stadium explodes. 2–2.
Mário turns to the bench, confers with his assistant, then looks at me.
"Ricardo!"
I freeze.
He gestures me over. "Five minutes more. Get ready."
I nod, heart pounding so hard it feels like the entire stadium could hear it.
I peel off my training jacket, slip on the white shirt with 22 across the back.
As I stand there, near the sideline, waiting for the referee's signal, the sound changes, it becomes a hum, then a roar.
The board goes up:
OUT , Serginho.
IN , 22, Ricardo.
My feet hit the pitch.
The crowd noise swells , part cheer, part curiosity.
My first touch of Morumbi grass.
It's softer than I imagined.
The grass felt alive under my boots.
Not like in training , not even close.
This was Morumbi, and every blade seemed to hum with sound.
The moment I stepped across that white line, the noise hit me like wind. A deep, rolling roar that didn't stop. I heard my name somewhere in it , faint at first, then louder. "Kaká! Kaká!" It wasn't everyone. Just a few voices scattered in the crowd. But that was enough.
I didn't look up to find them. I couldn't. If I did, I'd freeze.
"Vai, garoto!" someone shouted behind me , one of the veterans, I think Serginho from the bench. I nodded, eyes on the ball.
We were 2–2. Ten minutes left.
The scoreboard glowed red against the dusk sky, and the smell of grass mixed with sweat and fireworks.
My heart raced like I'd run a full match already.
The first touch came quickly, a short pass from Belletti. I played it safe, one touch back to him. The ball felt heavier than usual. The pitch seemed longer. Every sound, the shouts, the whistles, the referee's voice, echoed louder than it should.
I kept running, trying to settle into rhythm. My legs weren't heavy, but they weren't mine yet either. It takes time to belong on a field.
França gave me a quick nod. "Move closer, garoto. We play short now."
I followed him, finding pockets between their midfielders. Santos had tightened lines, trying to kill momentum. I could see their right-back barking orders, marking Carlos tight.
My second touch came a minute later , a throw-in toward me. I cushioned it off my thigh, turned, and tried to slip it wide. Intercepted. The ball pinged away.
Don't force it, I told myself. Just play.
Mário Sérgio's voice cut through the sideline noise. "Stay patient! Stay open!"
I raised a hand in acknowledgment.
The match flowed fast , transitions back and forth. Santos almost broke through in the 78th minute , a looping cross that Rogério caught with perfect calm. He looked up immediately and rolled it long toward the right flank.
The ball found me halfway.
For the first time, space opened up ahead.
I touched once, twice , then felt the rhythm click. The noise dimmed, the field widened, and suddenly it was just me and the ball.
I turned inside, gliding past one marker. His shoulder brushed mine, but I stayed balanced. Another defender stepped up. I feinted left, cut right, slipped between them , clean.
It felt like oxygen filled my lungs again.
França called for it near the top of the box. I waited half a heartbeat , enough to draw the last man , then slid the pass perfectly into his stride.
He didn't miss.
Low drive, bottom corner.
3–2.
The stadium exploded.
I froze for a second, then realized what had just happened. My feet carried me forward, arms outstretched, running toward França. He turned, laughing, and pulled me into a hug.
"You see that, garoto?" he shouted over the noise. "That's your first assist!"
I couldn't even answer. My throat felt tight, my chest lighter than air.
The others joined, slapping my back, shouting things I couldn't even catch. All I could hear was the crowd. The colors. The sound.
When play restarted, I still had to breathe through it. Every second on the pitch mattered now.
Santos tried to respond , long balls, crosses, anything. Rogério kept shouting, directing everyone. I tracked back, pressed, recovered, ran. My lungs burned, but I didn't care.
Mário yelled from the sideline, "Good work, Kaká! Keep running!"
Two minutes later, a break on our side again. Carlos Miguel darted down the left, dribbling past two. He cut inside, fired , and it was blocked. The rebound spun high, floating awkwardly near the penalty spot.
It felt like everything slowed.
The ball dropped just in front of me.
Instinct took over. I stepped forward, met it cleanly with the inside of my right foot. One touch, low and sharp.
The keeper dove, fingertips brushing air.
The net rippled.
Goal.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent. I just stood there, eyes wide. Then the sound hit , an avalanche of noise, chants crashing down from the stands. "Kaká! Kaká!"
França sprinted toward me first, grabbing my shoulders. "Meu garoto! You did it!"
The others piled on. Carlos jumped on my back, laughing. Rogério was clapping from the box. Even Mário on the sideline had this small, rare smile.
I couldn't think. Couldn't talk. I just laughed. I laughed because it didn't feel real.
I looked up into the crowd , and there, in the lower stand, near the halfway line, I saw them. Mamãe, Papai, and Digão.
Mamãe had both hands over her mouth. Papai was standing, clapping, shouting something I couldn't hear. Digão was bouncing beside them, waving both arms wildly.
I waved back before the others dragged me into another hug.
4–2.
Morumbi roared like the sky itself was singing.
We held the line for the last few minutes.
Santos threw everything forward, but Rogério and the back line stayed sharp. Every clearance drew cheers. Every second ticked slower than the last.
Then , the whistle.
Full time.
The scoreboard glowed bright:
São Paulo 4 – 2 Santos.
I just stood there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath. The others hugged, swapped shirts, clapped the fans. I walked slowly toward the center circle and knelt, hands pressed together, head down.
"Thank You, Lord," I whispered. "For this moment. For the dream You allowed me to live tonight."
The grass was cool under my fingers. I could feel the hum of the stadium through it.
When I stood, the sound washed over me again , my name echoing from the stands. "Kaká! Kaká!"
I jogged toward the tunnel, waving once more toward my family. Mamãe's eyes were bright even from far away.
Inside the locker room, it was chaos , music, shouts, laughter. Someone sprayed water, someone else sang off-key. França pulled me into another hug.
"Your first game, first assist, first goal. That's not bad for a rookie."
I smiled, shaking my head. "It's surreal."
Mário Sérgio walked in then, clapping once to quiet the room. "Good win. Hard-earned. Remember , moments like this come because of work. Enjoy it tonight. Tomorrow, we train."
Then he looked at me. "You did well, garoto. You brought calm when we needed spark. Don't let it change you."
I nodded, still catching my breath. "Thank you, coach."
He smiled faintly, then turned away.
The rest of the night blurred in pieces ,
reporters outside, flashes of cameras, the bus ride back through São Paulo. I sat by the window again, forehead against the glass, still half-lost in the sound of the crowd.
When we reached Barra Funda, my family was waiting by the entrance , Mamãe waving, Papai beside her, and Digão bouncing on his toes.
The moment I stepped off the bus, Mamãe hugged me tight. "Meu filho, you were wonderful!"
I laughed into her shoulder. "I almost forgot to breathe."
"You scored," Papai said proudly. "And not just any goal , your first!"
He held my shoulders, eyes glistening. "Remember this, son. Moments like these show what faith and work can do together."
"I know, Papai," I said quietly. "I know."
Digão grinned up at me. "Now everyone in school's going to talk about you!"
We drove home together through the quiet streets. The city lights blurred past the window , soft golds and whites against the night. I leaned back, exhaustion finally settling in.
At home, Mamãe insisted I eat something before sleeping. Papai opened a bottle of Guaraná. Digão replayed imaginary commentary in the kitchen, shouting, "Kaká enters! Kaká scores!" until we all burst out laughing.
When the noise faded and the house went still, I stood for a while by the window of my room. The lights of Morumbi were still faintly visible in the distance, glowing through the night haze.
I touched the small cross on my necklace and closed my eyes.
"Thank You," I whispered again. "For everything. For them."
It wasn't a grand prayer, just honest.
Then I slipped the match shirt , number 22 , onto the back of my chair, the grass stains still fresh, and finally lay down.
Sleep came slow, but peaceful.
The sound of the crowd still echoed somewhere deep inside me , not as noise, but as warmth.
And I knew, as I drifted off, that this was only the beginning.
Author's Notes:
Two chapters? Woah!
Sorry for missing for the past week. A series of unfortunate incidents happened. I wouldn't bore you with the details. But, I am back. Daily uploads will resume.
I updated the stats, he is 180cm, 71kg now. I updated his goal scoring stats from U17 as well.
In Paulista, Played 14, Scored 13, Assisted 17.
Still they're insane numbers.
In Copa, Played 6, Scored 7, Assisted 9.
He will not be achieving those numbers again soon. It will be some time before he reaches that level.
I lowered his passing and shooting stats a bit. His overall rating is at 75 now.
Let me know your thoughts.
Thanks for supporting! Hope you like it.