I didn't sleep much after my debut.
Not from excitement exactly, it was more like my body couldn't figure out how to rest. Every time I shut my eyes, Morumbi came alive again: the noise, the weight of the crowd, the lights bouncing off wet grass. I could still hear the echo of that last whistle, still feel the air when the ball left my boot.
4-2.
My name on the scoreboard.
And the look on Papai's face when I spotted him in the stands, half proud, half stunned.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, my legs aching, my throat dry, my heart still playing the match long after it ended.
The next morning, the smell of Mamãe's coffee woke me before the alarm.
She was at the stove humming softly, sunlight crawling in through the window.
"Bom dia, campeão," she said, smiling without turning around.
Her voice was soft, not teasing, not formal, just proud.
Then, without warning, she added, "You made me cry last night."
"Don't cry everytime I score though, I don't want to see you cry after every match" I joked.
I sat down at the table, still half asleep. Digão came in next, hair sticking out like he'd fought with the pillow. He squinted at me.
"So you finally scored for the big boys," he said, grinning.
"Finally?" I repeated.
"Yeah. You've been talking about that since you were what, ten? About time you did it."
Mamãe shook her head but smiled. Digão wasn't teasing; he was glowing with pride.
Papai sat across from me and poured milk into his coffee like he was older than he really was. "They showed a replay this morning. You looked… calm."
"I was shaking," I admitted, laughing. "Just hiding it better."
He grinned wider. "You didn't look like it."
"Good work yesterday," he added on top of that.
That was all, short and certain, but somehow heavier than all the praise in the world.
By noon, I was already at Barra Funda again.
The air around the training ground always felt different after a win, lighter, but quieter too.
When the first team wins, no one talks too much. They just work.
Coach Mário Sérgio had taken over barely a few weeks ago, and everything about him felt unpredictable.
He didn't yell as much as Nelsinho, but when he did, it carried.
His sessions were sharper, shorter but harder, more game-like.
He didn't care for warm-ups that wasted time. "Football," he said, "is about rhythm. We train how we play."
That morning, I was still expecting a quick talk about my debut, maybe even a pat on the back. It never came.
We gathered around the midfield circle, and he said, "Good result. Good energy. But that's already gone. The next match is what matters. Yesterday's goals don't help us tomorrow."
Training under him was brutal, not because it was long, but because every drill had purpose.
He stopped the play constantly. "Freeze! Ball there, defender here, what are your options?"
He made us answer out loud, think faster, and decide under pressure.
It was football like chess played at sprinting speed.
He didn't call me garoto, or menino, just Kaká or Ricardo today. I liked that.
In the gym, the work was different.
Our fitness coach handled the physical side. He was built like an old-school strongman, veins and patience both equally visible.
He'd looked at my numbers, 180.2 centimeters, 71.5 kilos, 11.8% body fat, and clicked his tongue.
"Still a boy," he said. "We'll fix that."
I smiled nervously. "How?"
He tapped the whiteboard. "Breakfast first."
They had me on a new plan.
Six meals a day, nothing fancy but everything precise.
Breakfast: four egg whites, two yolks, fruit, oats.
Snack: banana and protein shake.
Lunch: chicken breast, beans, rice, salad, avocado.
Snack: yogurt and almonds.
Dinner: beef or pasta, vegetables.
Night: milk, honey, and nuts.
No soda. No brigadeiro. No excuses.
Mamãe nearly fainted when I brought the paper home.
"You're eating like three people!" she said.
"The trainer says I need energy," I said, pretending it was nothing.
"Energy, yes," Papai muttered from the corner. "But maybe not a feast's worth of meat."
Still, every night she made sure the portions were ready. Even when I came home exhausted and if she is not around, she'd leave notes: Don't forget your dinner, meu filho. You'll need it tomorrow.
The gym itself became my second home.
Weights, mirrors, chalk, and sweat, all of it part of the same sound: metal and breath.
Sérgio had me on a full-body rotation, legs on Monday and Thursday, upper body on
Tuesday and Friday, core and recovery work in between.
We'd start with balance and flexibility, resistance bands, controlled squats, short sprints.
Then strength: squats, lunges, leg press, calf raises.
Then the "real" pain, the circuits.
Explosive work, 30 seconds each, no rest. Box jumps, sprints, pushups, burpees, rope pulls, planks until the world tilted.
"Strength," the trainer liked to say, "isn't about how much you lift. It's how much you can move without losing form."
By mid-October, matches came quickly.
I'd warm up by the sideline every game, stretching bands, jogging short circles, listening for the coach's voice.
Most weeks, I'd come in around the 75th minute.Sometimes earlier, sometimes not at all.I learned not to expect it, to stay ready instead.The veterans started talking to me more. Raí especially. He had this calm presence, like he knew the game's secrets but wouldn't tell you outright.
After one session, he said, "Don't try to impress every time you touch the ball. The best players make others better without needing applause."
At home, everything stayed almost the same, but not quite.
Neighbors would wave from the gate more often, some calling out, "Parabéns, garoto!"
Mamãe would smile and thank them, but she still reminded me to take out the trash before dinner.
One evening, Digão followed me to the backyard while I was doing stretches.
He kicked a ball toward me. "Teach me that turn you did before the assist," he said.
"It's simple," I said. "Here, plant your foot like this, "
He copied me, fell backward, and started frowning.
"Not that simple,eh?" I said, trying not to laugh.
He got up, brushing dust off his shorts. "You'll show me again tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I said.
That was the thing about family. No matter what happened at Morumbi, here I was just Ricardo again, the older brother who still owed him a rematch in the hallway.
Back at the club, Mário Sérgio had started tweaking things.
He didn't care much for statistics. He liked intuition.
"Football," he told us one day, pacing across the locker room, "isn't math. It's chaos with rules. You control the chaos, you win."
Some players loved him, others hated him.
He'd praise you one minute and tear you apart the next.
But he had an energy that made you want to try, that made you believe you could be bold.
I was quiet most of the time, but he noticed when I paid attention.
"You listen more than you talk," he told me once after training. "That's rare. Keep that."
For a sixteen-year-old trying to survive among grown men, that felt like the biggest compliment in the world.
November came, and the season turned into a grind.
Three matches a week. Travel, training, sleep, repeat.
I wasn't starting, not yet, but I was always on the list.
Always warming up, always ready to run.
Sometimes, I didn't even touch the ball after coming on. Sometimes I misread a play, lost my mark, or hit a pass too soft.
Every mistake stayed with me for days.
But then I'd walk into training again, and the same players who scolded me yesterday would help me the next morning.
That's how football works, you fail together, you grow together.
At night, I'd sit at my desk, notebook open, scribbling things I wanted to improve:
Shield better. Read faster. Don't hesitate before shooting.
Each week, I added one more line.
Each week, the page filled a little more.
The weight kept steady, 72 kilos, maybe closer to 73. My body fat dropped a little, around 11.5% now, but the coaches were clear:
"Don't rush. You're sixteen. Build slow. Stay healthy."
That was fine with me.
For the first time, I felt like I was building something real, not just skill, not just hope, but a body that could last.
Football isn't kind to those who grow too fast.
And I wasn't going to break before I bloomed.
I didn't realize how different it felt to sit on the bench after you played a game until I'd done it for three straight games.
From there, the pitch looked both close and far.
You could hear every shout, every boot against the ball, smell the grass, but still feel invisible.
It wasn't boredom, it was something harder to name.
You wanted to move, to be inside the huddle, but your legs just waited.
The veterans made it look easy.
Raí, Zetti, França, they could watch without losing focus.
Me? Every time the ball hit the post or the play opened up near our box, I'd lean forward like a fan.
The staff used to laugh about it. "You'll wear out the edge of that bench, garoto."
Even Mário Sérgio noticed once.
He walked past, muttered, "Patience, number twenty-two. You'll get tired before you play."
Then he smiled, barely.
By late October, I'd been subbed in three times.
Five minutes here, ten there.
Just enough to touch the ball twice, make one run, feel the heat of the match before the whistle blew.
The first time, I overhit a pass.
The second, I lost the ball in midfield and got scolded by a senior.
Third, I tracked back and won it cleanly, and the bench clapped.
The fourth, I pressed the keeper into a bad clearance, and the crowd cheered.
Progress came in small breaths.
I was learning something that the youth tournaments never taught me:
Senior football wasn't about flair; it was about timing.
You couldn't force it, you had to find it.
Training felt like a test every day.
Not the drills, the eyes.
The constant, silent judgment of professionals who'd built their lives here.
They weren't cruel, but they could spot weakness faster than coaches could.
So, I learned to listen.
To the tone of instructions.
To the weight of silence after a bad touch.
When to joke and when to stay quiet.
Football at this level wasn't just about passing and running, it was social, political.
You earned your respect every day.
One Thursday session, it happened.
We were scrimmaging eleven-vs-eleven. I was on the reserve team.
França pressed high, we stole the ball, and I sprinted forward to offer support.
Raí found me with a simple pass, and suddenly I was through the middle.
A defender lunged, and I tried to lift the ball past him, but my touch was too heavy.
He intercepted, countered, and within seconds, the ball was in our net.
The whistle blew.
I stood there, frozen, lungs burning.
Coach Mário Sérgio walked across the pitch, slow steps, unreadable face.
He stopped next to me. "You know what you did wrong?"
"Yes, coach. The touch."
He shook his head once. "No. The hesitation before the touch. You had time, and you wasted it. Decision before technique. Always."
Then he turned and walked away.
It stung, but it was fair.
And that sentence, decision before technique, stuck in my head for days.
By November, I was used to the routine: train, wait, warm up, run the clock down.
I didn't mind it.
Every minute on that bench was a classroom.
The stands smelled like rain most evenings.
Morumbi lights burned against the fog.
I'd watch Zetti signal the defense, see how the fullbacks shaped their body when pressed, how França peeled off markers instead of charging through them.
Little things that didn't show up on television, but that made everything work.
During halftime talks, I stayed quiet.
But sometimes, someone would nudge me ,
"Hey, garoto, you see that overlap?"
"Yes, Raí."
"What should you do when the winger drags the fullback wide?"
"Run into the gap behind."
He'd grin. "Good."
Those conversations were worth more than goals.
One night, after a particularly rough match we drew 1–1, I came home and collapsed on the couch.
Mamãe had left food on the table; Papai was still out working.
The television replayed highlights from the day.
I watched myself warming up on the sidelines, a small blur of red and black jogging beside the corner flag.
Digão came in with a bowl of popcorn, sat beside me.
"You didn't play today."
"No."
"Coach doesn't like you?"
I laughed. "It's not like school, Digão. You don't get called on every day."
He shrugged. "If I were a coach, you'd play."
"That's why you're not a coach."
He grinned, proud of the comeback.
We watched in silence for a bit, the crowd noise filling the living room.
"You'll play again soon," he said finally.
"I hope so."
"You will. You always do."
He said it so simply, like it was a fact of nature.
Sometimes faith sounds like that, quiet, certain, easy to believe in because it's spoken by someone who loves you.
That same week, we had a gym session that nearly broke me.
Three sets of squats, clean pulls, and sled pushes, each followed by 200-meter sprints.
By the end, my legs felt like wood.
The trainer checked his clipboard. "You're stronger," he said.
I looked at him, barely breathing. "Really?"
He nodded. "Weight's still around 72, but you're moving like 75. That's progress."
I smiled weakly. "Can I walk tomorrow?"
"Maybe," he said. "But only if you stretch."
The soreness stayed for two days, but so did the satisfaction.
Strength doesn't always show in muscles, sometimes it's just in the way you stand after you fall.
Late in November, something started shifting.
We'd won a couple of matches in a row.
The coach rotated the lineup more.
I started coming in earlier, the 70th minute, then the 65th.
That changed everything.
The first time, I picked up an assist.
A quick one-two down the right, low cross, França finished it clean.
I didn't even celebrate, just stood there grinning as he hugged me.
The second time, I nearly scored, a left-foot curler that brushed the post.
The coach clapped once, that was his version of praise.
It felt good, not lucky, not gifted, earned.
The following morning, the locker room was louder than usual.
Music, laughter, banter.
França yelled across the room, "Hey, garoto! You owe me that cross again next time!"
I smiled. "Only if you finish it again."
He laughed, threw me a towel.
Moments like that meant more than they should have.
When you're sixteen, surrounded by men who've played in Copa Libertadores, even a joke feels like an invitation into their world.
But football doesn't let you stay too high for long.
The next match, I misjudged a clearance in our half, just a small lapse, but it turned into a corner, and then a goal.
We still won, but I felt it like a bruise.
After the match, Coach Mário Sérgio came to me in the tunnel.
"You learn faster than most," he said. "But don't forget, small mistakes in big games have big prices."
He said it without anger. It sounded almost like advice from a future that already knew what was coming.
I nodded, heart pounding. "Yes, coach."
"Good. Now eat more protein" he added, walking away.
I didn't know whether to laugh or take notes.
At home, Papai watched the highlights and said, "You move differently now. Heavier. In a good way."
Mamãe just nodded, eyes soft, proud but calm.
She didn't say much about football anymore, maybe she'd run out of prayers, or maybe she finally trusted that I was growing where I needed to.
Digão still recorded every game on a VHS tape, labeling them in his uneven handwriting: Ricardo Game 1, Ricardo Game 2.Sometimes I'd catch him rewatching, mimicking my turns with a broomstick as if it were a rival defender.
He'd look up, see me watching, and freeze.
Then we'd both laugh, and he'd keep playing.
That was November.
Routine. Growth. Small steps.
No miracles. Just the steady hum of becoming.
The first hint of summer had started to creep into the mornings, that sticky kind of São Paulo heat that rises before the sun even clears the rooftops.
By late November, everyone looked tired. Matches, travel, weights, drills, the rhythm never stopped.
I didn't mind.
The soreness had become a friend.
You wake up stiff, stretch, and realize the ache means you're still here.
That Thursday, training started quietly.
Warm-up laps around the secondary pitch, then rondo work. Mário Sérgio stood by the halfway line, arms folded, talking with his assistant.
We were split into small groups, quick possession games, short touches, one-two passes under pressure.
I was in a circle with França, Serginho, and a few of the reserves.
We were laughing, joking, keeping the ball alive in tight spaces. The sun was behind the stands, making the grass shimmer.
Then the turnover came.
França poked the ball past me, teasing, and I tried to block it back.
Our boots tangled; my right ankle twisted under me.
Pain hit before I even touched the ground, fast, clean, bright.
It was like stepping on a live wire.
I hit the turf, teeth clenched, breath gone.
Someone shouted, "Stop! Bola fora!"(Ball out)
Boots thudded around me. The trainer jogged over.
And in the blur between pain and panic, everything froze.
A familiar faint chime, not out loud, but inside.
[Minor injury detected: right ankle sprain. Do you want to use a 1 × Minor Injury Protection Card?]
For a moment I didn't move. Sweat beaded cold on my neck.
I didn't want this. Not now. Not when things were finally going right.
[Activate? Y/N]
"Yes," I thought, or maybe whispered.
And instantly, warmth spread through my ankle, like blood rushing back into a numb limb.
The throbbing dulled. My heartbeat steadied.
The trainer knelt beside me.
"Can you move it?"
I rotated the joint carefully. It hurt, but not the stabbing kind. More like pressure.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Think it's okay."
He looked uncertain. "You sure? We'll check anyway."
They helped me to the bench near the sideline. The coach gave me a look from across the field, just evaluating.
After a minute of ice and tape, I stood up, tested a light jog. It felt almost normal.
"Maybe just a scare," the trainer said.
I nodded, forcing a smile.
Inside, I knew better, something had happened, and something had healed that shouldn't have, at least not that fast.
After training, the coach called me into his office.
He was sitting at his desk, an old notepad in front of him, pen tapping the edge.
"Sit," he said.
I did.
He studied me for a while. "You're young. You'll get knocks. Learn to listen to your body. Don't try to be the hero."
"Yes, coach."
He leaned back, chair creaking. "When I was your age, I played through pain until I couldn't walk. Don't make that mistake. We need you in December, not in the hospital."
"I understand."
"Good. Now go stretch."
That was the whole talk, no shouting, no lecture, just quiet sense.
He was rough around the edges, but I liked him for that.
At home that night, I iced the ankle again, more out of habit than need.
Mamãe noticed immediately.
"You got hurt?"
"Just twisted it. I'm fine."
She frowned, bringing another towel anyway. "You boys think you're made of steel."
Papai looked up from his newspaper. "Steel bends too."
"Exactly," she said. "Listen to your father."
I smiled, hiding the truth.
If I told them the pain had already vanished, they'd just think that I am lying.
After dinner, I sat by the window, ankle propped up, watching the streetlights blink on.
I still felt that faint warmth under the skin, not heat, but a hum, like the muscles remembered something the brain couldn't explain.
The system had saved me.
It didn't feel like magic. More like medicine.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking: What if I hadn't had that card?
Football careers can vanish in one bad twist. I'd seen it happen in youth tournaments, a knee gone, a dream gone with it.
At sixteen, the idea terrified me.
I whispered a short prayer under my breath, not out of fear, but gratitude.
"For this mercy, for this path, thank You."
Two days later, I was back on the pitch.
No limp, no wrap, no tape.
The coaches were cautious, though. They kept me out of contact drills.
"Light work," Sérgio the fitness coach said. "Understood."
We focused on core balance, single-leg squats, plank holds, and stability board.
He adjusted my meal plan again, bumping up carbs. "You burn too fast," he said. "Eat before you faint."
My weight held steady at 72 kilos, but I could feel my legs getting denser, stronger under pressure.
Still not where I needed to be, maybe 73 eventually, but the progress felt real.
When I asked about body fat, he checked the log.
"Eleven point four," he said. "Perfect. Don't get leaner yet. You need fuel."
I nodded. "I get it."
He smirked. "Most kids your age want abs. You need endurance. Remember that."
That weekend, I was back on the bench for the home match.
Morumbi buzzed again, the air thick with the smell of popcorn and rain.
The scoreboard lights flickered in red and white.
As we warmed up, one of the older players nudged me. "So, you survived training, huh?"
"Barely," I said.
He laughed. "You'll collect bruises like stamps."
When the whistle blew, I watched the opening minutes like I always did, studying shape, rhythm, spaces.
Every substitution felt like a heartbeat waiting to happen.
At the 75th minute, coach turned around, motioned toward me.
I jogged up, adrenaline rushing. "Where?"
"Right mid. Help us press high."
"Yes, coach."
As I pulled off the warm-up vest, the crowd roared from somewhere above.
Even now, I couldn't tell if they were cheering for me or just the change itself, but it didn't matter.
The grass felt alive under my boots again.
For fifteen minutes, everything blurred, the sound, the sweat, the rhythm.
My ankle held perfectly.
No pain, no fear.
When the whistle blew for full time, I looked at the scoreboard, 1–1.
We didn't win, but I was back.
That was enough.
After the game, in the locker room, the older players joked.
"You bounce like rubber, garoto."
"Next time try not to scare the physio."
I laughed along, relief still humming in my veins.
Coach passed by, slapped my shoulder lightly. "Good movement. You look fine."
"Thank you, coach."
He leaned in a little. "Still, next time, we will be cautious. Do not play thorough pain."
"Yes, sir."
When he walked away, I exhaled, letting the noise of the room swallow me.
Later that night, at home, Digão burst into my room holding one of those glossy sports magazines.
"They wrote about you!"
He shoved it into my hands.
It was just a tiny column near the bottom: Youngster Kaká shows promise in late cameo; calm under pressure despite knock earlier this week.
I laughed. "They even knew about that?"
"They know everything," he said, wide-eyed.
"Maybe they just like stories."
"Well, it's true, isn't it?" he said, almost defensive.
I smiled. "Yeah. I guess it is."
He leaned against the doorframe. "When I grow up, I'll play for São Paulo too."
"You already do," I said. "Every time you kick the ball outside."
He grinned, proud.
That Sunday evening, I wrote a line in my notebook, just one:
Pain is part of the game, but not the point of it.
Then I added another beneath it:
Be grateful. Be careful. Keep growing.
It wasn't poetry. Just something to remember.
Football teaches you that your body isn't yours alone. It belongs to the game, the fans, the people who believe in you.
But the responsibility to protect it, that's yours and yours only.
The next morning, Mamãe called from the kitchen.
"Ricardo! Come help with the bags before church!"
"Coming!"
I stood, stretched, rolled my ankle one last time. No pain, no twinge, just movement. It still felt surreal.
Either way, I tied my sneakers, grabbed the grocery list, and smiled to myself.
I was still standing.
Still chasing.
Still whole.
And that, for now, was enough.
By kickoff the sky had that strange São Paulo gray, thick and restless, like it couldn't decide between rain or smoke.
Coritiba had come in full of energy, another team desperate for points. I wasn't starting again, but that didn't sting as much now. I'd learned to wait, to keep ready.
In the dressing room, you could hear the studs knocking on the concrete, the hiss of spray, the usual hum before a match. França sat across from me tying his boots, humming off-key. Rogério stretched in the corner, headphones on.
Coach Mário Sérgio walked in five minutes before we lined up. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to.
"Patience," he said. "Play with rhythm. Don't chase chaos, make them chase you. And subs…" his eyes flicked toward me, "…stay alive. The game always turns."
The roar hit when we walked out.
Morumbi looked alive again, floodlights slicing through drizzle, banners moving like slow waves.
And somewhere up there, I knew Mamãe and Papai were sitting with Digão between them, wrapped in jackets, waving a small São Paulo flag.
Just that thought steadied me.
The first half dragged on. Coritiba pressed high, snapping at our heels. We misplaced passes, got frustrated, and they punished us, a quick counter, cut-back, goal. 0-1.
The groan from the stands sounded like one voice.
At halftime, Coach's words were clipped: "Too slow. Move it, think faster, believe again."
No shouting, just the weight of truth.
Second half, we came out sharper.
França hit the post from a Serginho cross, and for a moment Morumbi leaned forward, almost willing the ball in.
When Coach turned toward the bench, I already had my jacket half-off.
"Ricardo, warm up."
I started running the sideline, short sprints, knees up, rain pinpricks on my arms. Some fans near the tunnel recognized me and clapped; a few called out, "Vai, Kaká!"
That sound hit different, not pressure, more like permission.
Minute 60.
"Ricardo, you're in."
He gripped my shoulder. "Right side. Float inside when they open. Be brave, keep it moving."
"Yes, coach."
The fourth official lifted the board.
22 in. 10 out.
The stadium murmured, a small wave of expectation.
My first touch was simple, a give-and-go with Belletti.
Second touch, intercepted. Third, a short pass to calm the tempo.
Then, the 70th minute. França dropped deep, spun, and played me in. The ball skipped off the wet grass.
I let it roll across my body, one touch to steady, another to push forward. The defender lunged.
Feint right. Step left. Gone.
Inside the box, I saw the keeper hanging at the near post.
I went low across him, not hard, just quick enough.
The net rippled.
For half a second the world blinked white, noise, rain, arms, everything.
França's scream in my ear: "Finally, garoto!"
Somewhere above, I caught a flash of red jacket, Mamãe jumping, Papai lifting Digão by instinct, their flag spinning in the air.
1–1.
The match turned electric.
We pressed higher, crowd roaring each tackle. Coritiba looked tired now.
Ten minutes later I picked the ball near halfway, carried it through midfield. Two defenders came, I waited just long enough, then slid it left.
Serginho caught it in stride, crossed first time.
França met it with his forehead.
2–1.
This time I didn't even celebrate properly, I was already laughing, running toward him, soaked to the bone.
Coach Mário Sérgio clapped once, that half-smile of his meaning good, but don't lose your head.
Of course we did, just a little.
Five minutes later, they equalized on a corner, a messy rebound. 2–2.
You could feel the air get heavier again. But nobody folded.
We went again.
Injury time.
Serginho earned a corner.
The cross was poor, cleared halfway. I chased it before it rolled out, slid to keep it in. Their winger tried to block; I rolled the ball behind my heel, spun past, and whipped a low cross into the crowd with much power.
Franca arrived just in time and headed it in from what seemed like an impossible angle.
3–2.
Morumbi went wild.
The final whistle felt like thunder.
I just stood there for a second, chest heaving, rain streaming down my face. França wrapped his arm around me, shouting something I didn't even catch.
Coach walked by, shaking his head, smiling. "You don't like quiet games, do you?"
"Trying to learn fast," I said, still gasping.
"Keep learning like that," he answered, and moved on.
In the locker room: chaos.
Music, laughter, shouts echoing off the tiles.
Someone yelled, "O garoto saved us tonight!" and another threw a towel my way.
Even the staff were grinning.
I sat for a moment, boots muddy, water dripping off my hair, just breathing.
One goal. One assist. One step closer.
When we finally got home, it was past midnight. The air outside still smelled of rain and fried pastel from street stalls near the stadium.
Mamãe had already rewound the tape to the first half.
"Come, sit," she said, patting the couch. "We're watching it properly."
Papai was setting mugs on the table, his work shirt half untucked.
Digão was fighting sleep but refused to go to bed.
They didn't cheer like in the stands this time.
They just smiled quietly as the replay showed the first goal, the slow-motion cut, my shot sliding past the keeper.
"There," Mamãe whispered. "That's the moment."
On-screen, I could see myself running, rain flying everywhere, teammates chasing.
It didn't even look real.
After the assist, Papai rewound it once, studying the pass.
"Perfect weight," he muttered like an engineer.
Mamãe nudged him. "He's not a bridge, Bosco."
"No," he said, smiling. "He's better."
I laughed, embarrassed, leaning back into the couch cushions.
"It was a lucky shot," I said.
Mamãe shook her head. "Luck doesn't make you that good baby. Your hard work did"
We watched the rest quietly, the equalizer, the winner, the whistle.
When the tape ended, Digão was asleep on her shoulder.
Papai stood, stretching. "Good game, Ricardo."
"Thanks," I said.
He looked at me, seriously for a second. "You played like you belonged."
That one line stayed with me longer than all the cheers.
Later, in my room, the sound of the rain returned. My body ached, legs heavy, shoulders tight.
But inside, there was a calm.
Not the euphoria from scoring, just a steady warmth.
I thought about the crowd, my family waving, the sound when the ball hit the net.
December came quietly.
Matches started to blur together, bus rides, hotel rooms, warm-ups, the same smell of liniment and cut grass.
Since that night against Coritiba, I'd been called up for every game. Sometimes I came on for ten minutes, sometimes twenty. Once, just three.
It wasn't about minutes anymore, it was about readiness.
Coach Mário Sérgio said that once in training.
"Don't count your minutes, garoto. Make your minutes count."
So I did.
Three goals, five assists. Small numbers on paper, but every one of them carried a moment, a flicker, a heartbeat, a lesson.
The days between matches were heavier than the matches themselves.
Training grew sharper. The staff had added weight work, balance drills, short sprints uphill. I started to understand that strength wasn't just about lifting heavier; it was about control, how fast you recover, how stable you stay when a defender leans his shoulder into your back.
In the mornings, I worked with the physio, medicine ball throws, resistance bands, deep squats, balance holds. They checked everything: muscle ratios, hydration, recovery times.
My weight barely changed, 71.8 kilos on the dot, but I could feel the difference. My legs didn't tremble late in matches anymore. My core held me upright through contact.
The coach noticed.
"Stronger," he said one morning after I fought off a challenge from one of the senior defenders.
"Trying to be," I said.
"Good. Don't rush it. Strength that comes slow, stays."
He had this calm about him, not as explosive as Nelsinho had been before, but more deliberate, more… musical. He talked about football like an artist, not an engineer.
"You've got something rare, Ricardo," he said once, after training. "The calm before the pass. Most players have to learn that at thirty."
I just smiled, unsure what to say.
Through all of this madness, one thing was my anchor. Home.
That part stayed constant.
Every home game, my family was there.
Mamãe with her thermos of coffee, Papai with his small notepad where he pretended to take "technical observations," and Digão yelling himself hoarse until his voice cracked.
After each match, win or lose, we drove home together. The city lights would flash through the car windows, soft and gold, and the air always smelled of rain and fried food from the stalls near the stadium.
They didn't talk about goals much anymore.
They talked about how I moved, how I worked. That made me prouder somehow.
"Your balance looks better," Papai said once, and it meant more to me than any headline.
Mamãe would smile quietly. "He's learning to stand firm."
After big matches, we'd rewatch the tape together, not just the broadcast replays, but also Papai's shaky camcorder footage from the stands.
It caught the things the cameras didn't: the roar when I stood up to warm, the way Mamãe clasped her hands when I got fouled, the little leap Digão made whenever we scored.
Watching that made me realize how small and vast this dream was at the same time.
You run for ninety minutes on a field, but it echoes through a whole home.
December brought exhaustion.
Three months of constant travel, two games a week. Even as a sub, the training, the focus, the recovery, it wore on you.
One night, after a match against Paraná, I sat in the ice bath, legs stiff, skin burning from the cold. Rogério passed by, towel over his shoulder.
"Good run tonight, garoto," he said. "You're learning to play tired. That's the hardest part."
I looked up, teeth chattering. "How long did it take you to get used to it?"
He laughed. "Still not used to it. You just get better at pretending."
That stuck with me.
Maybe maturity in football isn't comfort, it's endurance.
The last week before Christmas, we played Bahia.
The coach said before the game, "Enjoy it. Don't chase perfection, chase understanding."
We won 2–0. I came on at seventy minutes, almost scored, hit the post instead. Didn't matter. The crowd was happy, the air was light, and everyone felt like breathing again.
After the final whistle, Coach gathered us near the center circle.
"Year's over," he said simply. "You gave everything. We rebuild, we grow, and we come back stronger."
He looked at me then, half-smile, half-warning.
"You especially. The body's catching up to the mind, don't lose patience."
I nodded. "Yes, coach."
And I meant it.
At home that night, we didn't talk much about football.
Mamãe was decorating a small Christmas tree near the window, Papai helping her with the lights, and Digão was trying to hang a paper angel that kept falling off.
The smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the house.
I sat on the couch, legs stretched, muscles heavy, but inside I felt light.
It wasn't just pride, it was belonging.
Ten matches played.
3 goals. 5 assists.
One season that had changed the shape of my world.
I looked at Mamãe's hands, steady as she placed the last ornament, papai's quiet smile as he stood back, checking the symmetry like it was one of his projects.
At Digão, now pretending to direct the whole operation.
I realized that everything I was building started from here, from the quiet love that had never once asked for anything in return.
When Mamãe turned off the room light, the little tree glowed softly in the dark.
"Sleep," she said. "Tomorrow we rest."
I nodded, closing my eyes against the couch cushion, still hearing faint echoes of the stadium in my head.
The noise, the light, the chants, all of it fading into something deeper.
A quiet promise.
To keep growing.
To keep moving.
To never take a single minute for granted.
And in that stillness, just before sleep found me, I whispered the same words I always did after every match ,
"Thank you!"
Author's Notes:
Wanted to have a quick time skip. Didn't want to concentrate too much on the matches. Just his important moments.
I will address family reactions and crowd reactions in detail in another chapter.
Let me know your feedback about the style or content, or anything you might think is relevant.
Thanks for the support!