Sometime after Christmas
We reached Gama just before noon. The road shimmered in the heat, the air thick with that summer smell of dust, fruit, and sun-warmed asphalt. I had the window rolled halfway down, and every time the car slowed, I caught a whiff of roasted corn and charcoal smoke drifting from the roadside stalls. Mamãe was already smiling, humming along to some old Roberto Carlos song.
Papai turned off the main road and slowed as we entered the neighborhood. The houses here always looked a little older, the paint fading under the Brasília sun, but they felt alive. You could hear music, laughter, and the clinking of dishes from open kitchens.
"There it is," Mamãe said softly, as the red-tiled roof appeared between the mango trees.
Before Papai could even park properly, the front door burst open.
"Meus amores!" (My loves!)
Vovó came out in her flowered dress, her arms open like she could hug the whole car. She still had that same soft round face, with deep lines around her eyes that made her look like she was always smiling.
I didn't even wait for the car to stop. "Avó!"
She wrapped me in a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. She smelled like coffee, soap, and cigarettes.
"Meu Deus, Ricardo, look at you!" she said, pulling back to study my face. "You're taller every time I see you. If you grow one more centimeter, we'll have to raise the roof!"
I laughed, red-faced. "It's just the shoes, avó."
"Ah, shoes, nonsense," she said, swatting my shoulder. "Strong bones, that's what you have." Then she looked behind me. "And where's my little troublemaker?"
"Here!" yelled Digão, sprinting around the car. She bent and caught him mid-run, still somehow strong enough to lift him for a second.
"Still thinks he's faster than me," she said, shaking her head fondly. "One day I'll race you again."
Mamãe got her turn next, and the two women just stayed in each other's arms for a long moment. Mamãe's voice broke a little when she said, "It's been too long."
"Too long," Grandma agreed, brushing her hair back. "But you're home now. That's what matters"
Papai was already laughing with Tio Rafael by the gate. They hugged with the kind of warmth that made you forget they used to argue about everything, politics, football, even barbecue sauce.
And then, from the porch, came a familiar voice. "So, the golden boy arrives."
It was Eduardo.
He was leaning against the railing, in a Cruzeiro training shirt, his hair shorter than I remembered, and his grin exactly the same.
"Golden boy?" I asked, pretending to look behind me. "You must be talking about someone else."
"Sure," he said, coming down the steps. "Just the kid who got called up before turning sixteen."
"And the guy who gets paid to sit on Cruzeiro's bench has jokes."
We both cracked up before we even hugged. It was the kind of teasing we'd done since we were little, the sort that meant nothing and everything.
Inside, the house was exactly the same. The same photos of the family lined the hall, Papais' old wedding photo, Mamãe in her graduation gown, Eduardo and me in our kits, both missing teeth and grinning at the camera.
Lunch was already half done, the smell of feijão, rice, and grilled meat filling the whole house. The kitchen was chaos, but the good kind. Two aunts cutting vegetables, cousins chasing each other, Mamãe and her sister gossiping at the sink. Every few minutes, someone would yell "watch your elbows!" or "who took my spoon?"
Eduardo was in the backyard, juggling a ball barefoot, his movements easy, practiced. "Come on," he called out, "before the food's ready."
I wiped my hands and went out. The backyard was just like I remembered, an uneven stretch of grass, mango tree on one side, clothesline on the other, chickens wandering near the fence.
We passed the ball back and forth, at first just for fun, then faster, harder, until sweat was dripping down my neck.
"You still training like you told me, every day?" Eduardo asked, catching the ball with his chest.
"Almost. Coach has us doing double sessions since last month."
He nodded. "Cruzeiro's the same. They want us to play faster, think faster."
I smiled. "But you still take three touches to control, don't you?"
"Shut up," he laughed, kicking the ball straight at me. I controlled it on instinct and sent it back low and sharp.
For a while, we said nothing, just the sound of ball against feet and the occasional shout from the kitchen.
Then he said, quieter, "You ever think about what it means...to really make it?"
I looked up. "Every day."
He nodded. "Sometimes, I think about the ones who don't. Guys who train just as hard, but never get there."
"Yeah," I said. "That's why I don't intend to waste a single chance."
We stopped playing, just standing there, breathing hard, the ball rolling between us.
"Maybe we'll face each other one day," he said finally.
"Maybe sooner than you think," I answered, grinning.
"Then I hope you're ready to lose."
"Cruzeiro doesn't stand a chance."
Grandma's voice cut through from inside, loud and commanding. "If you two break something again, I'll break you! Footballers or not. Come eat!"
We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"Same old vó," Eduardo said.
We headed inside, the smell of food stronger now, and somehow, everything felt right again, like the world hadn't moved that far since we were kids chasing a ball across the same backyard.
Lunch at Grandma's house wasn't lunch, it was a marathon. Two tables pushed together, rice, beans, farofa, roast beef, grilled chicken, sliced oranges, and more guaraná than any sane person should drink.
Grandma made everyone sit before she'd let anyone eat. "You can be a football star, a doctor, or the Pope," she said, glaring around the table, "but you still wait for grace."
We bowed our heads. Her prayer was short, but full of love: "Thank You for keeping them safe. For bringing me joy. For these noisy mouths that never stop talking."
By the end of it, everyone was laughing.
We ate until we couldn't move. Papai and Tio Rafael started debating who had the tougher job.
Eduardo and I sat side by side, picking through the last of the meat.
He leaned close. "Our coach keeps telling me to bulk up. Says I'll get pushed around."
"You?" I grinned. "You're already built like a wall."
"Yeah, but not strong enough yet. You?"
"Still growing. I think I put on weight over the holidays."
He raised an eyebrow. "Muscle or feijoada?"
"Mostly feijoada."
We both laughed so hard that Grandma shot us a look from across the table.
After lunch, everyone drifted into the yard for coffee and cake. Grandma sat in her chair under the mango tree, fanning herself with a newspaper. She called me over.
"Come sit, meu neto (my grandson). Let me look at you properly."
I sat beside her, the cicadas buzzing loud in the heat.
"You've got your father's quiet eyes," she said. "But your mother's will."
I smiled. "You always say that."
"Because it's true. And you still don't eat enough. Too thin for all that running you do."
"I'm stronger than I look."
She nodded. "I know. But don't forget, strength's not just here," she said, tapping my arm. "It's here." She touched my chest.
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. She smiled softly, patted my hand, and changed the subject like she always did.
"Now, tell me. Do the girls in São Paulo still chase you?"
"avó!"
She laughed so hard the chair creaked.
"Stop teasing," I groaned, hiding my face.
"Fine, fine. I just like knowing you're still human and not just a footballer. If they don't chase you, you should chase a nice one. Don't forget to live, my love".
I just nodded shyly.
The afternoon melted into golden light. We helped clear the dishes, chased Digão around when he tried to sneak extra cake, and watched the sun dip low behind the houses.
By evening, the heat softened, and we all sat outside with the porch lights glowing. Eduardo brought out a ball again, and we juggled lazily, barefoot in the dust.
He said, quietly, "You know, I'm glad we both made it this far."
"Yeah."
"Let's not stop now, huh?"
"Never."
We bumped shoulders lightly, and the ball rolled away into the dark.
Grandma's voice called out from inside, "Enough football! You'll break my lamps again!"
We both laughed and flopped down on the steps, watching the stars come out one by one.
In that moment, everything felt simple, no stadiums, no pressure, no noise. Just two cousins, the smell of night air, and the sound of Grandma humming softly from the kitchen.
That's what home was.
Papai had gone back to the office after coming back from Gama, leaving me and Mamãe in charge of keeping the house from turning into a sauna.
She kept the curtains half-closed to block the sun, and every few hours we'd share a glass of cold guaraná in the kitchen like teammates between rounds.
Football had taken a back seat for a few days. My body needed that. The season had ended in a blur, and I'd promised myself to switch off, no gym, no runs, no chasing the ball down the hallway. For once, I kept the promise, though Papai kept raising an eyebrow whenever he saw me stretched on the couch watching reruns of last season's highlights.
One afternoon, while Mamãe was grading a few of her old lesson plans, she said she couldn't stand doing "nothing", the landline rang. It wasn't common to get calls that time of day, so she wiped her hands and picked it up first.
Her eyes lifted toward me almost immediately. "Ricardo, it's for you. From the club."
I sat up straight, heart skipping that familiar beat. I took the phone.
"Alô?"
"Ricardo? This is Dona Lúcia from administration. Happy New Year. You're expected back for medical evaluations on the 8th. CT da Barra Funda, seven in the morning. Don't be late."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll be there."
"Good."
When I hung up, Mamãe was smiling, though her eyes softened the way they always did when she realized the holidays were officially over.
"Back to reality," she said.
"Guess so."
She turned back to her desk. "Seven in the morning, hm? You'll have to remember how to wake up again."
I laughed. "Maybe I'll start training for that first."
That evening Papai came home early, still in his short-sleeved shirt and office slacks. He brought fresh bread from the bakery and a newspaper folded under his arm.
"Did you hear?" he said before even setting the bag down. "Carpegiani's our new manager."
I blinked. "Already confirmed?"
He nodded, rustling the paper open to the sports page. The headline stretched wide:
CARPEGIANI TO LEAD SÃO PAULO IN 1999
The article called him methodical, demanding, obsessed with discipline and positional play. Papai read aloud a few lines and then looked at me over the top of the page.
"He coached Flamengo when they won everything in the eighties. He likes structured teams. That could be good for you."
Mamãe joined with two cups of coffee.
"Another boss for you to impress," she teased.
I shrugged. "That's football. You blink and someone new's in charge."
Still, inside, I wondered what kind of coach he'd be to work with. Mário Sérgio had been flamboyant, full of flair and improvisation. The rumor was that Carpegiani was the opposite. Structure, repetition, precision.
It wasn't bad news, just a different challenge.
I'd walk down to the local café to meet up with Juan, Carlos, Alex.
The three of us had been meeting there for years and now Alex joined, the same corner table, same scratched wooden chairs, same menu with smudged photos of pastel and coxinha. We'd order and talk about everything except football until one of them broke the rule.
That day it was Alex. "So, Carpegiani, huh? That's serious business."
Carlos whistled. "He made bigger players look like a machine. You better start running laps right now."
I rolled my eyes. "I've got three days before that. Let me enjoy my pastel in peace."
Juan leaned forward, grinning. "I saw you last night on a replay. Santos game. They showed your assist again."
"Old news."
"Old, but still pretty," he said.
We all laughed, and the talk drifted to music, movies, random gossip. The laughter was easy, no cameras, no expectations. Just us.
When I got home later, the house smelled of dinner. Mamãe was sautéing garlic and onions, humming something faintly off-key. I leaned against the counter.
"You could teach at the club," I said.
"What, cooking?"
"Yeah. Everyone would run faster for your food."
She laughed. "If they ate my food every day, they'd be too full to run."
That night after dinner we watched a replay of the Copa do Brasil final, Corinthians had won that year, and Papai still wasn't over it. Digão fell asleep halfway through, head on my shoulder.
The quiet of home felt heavier knowing it was almost time to leave it again.
January 7th came with rain, soft at first, then steady. I went for a light jog in the neighborhood, just enough to feel the rhythm of movement again. The pavement glistened; cars splashed water onto sidewalks. A dog barked behind a gate as I passed, tail wagging like it recognized me.
When I got back, Mamãe had breakfast ready: papaya slices, bread, and strong black coffee. She sat across from me.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"Not really. Just curious. New coach, new start."
She tilted her head. "You always say that before a season. But this time, you sound calmer."
"Maybe I'm getting used to it."
She smiled, proud but wistful. "Used to growing up, you mean."
That night I packed my bag, cleats, shin guards, the São Paulo training shirt folded neatly. On top, I placed my small notebook, the one I used to jot down drills, things I learned, things I needed to fix.
As I zipped it shut, I caught my reflection in the window. Slight tan, a bit rounder in the face, hair longer than usual. Nothing dramatic, but enough to remind me how time moved even when I wasn't watching.
When I stepped outside for a breath of air, the street was quiet except for distant laughter and a radio playing samba somewhere down the block. I looked toward Morumbi's direction, barely visible through the haze, and felt that flicker of excitement again.
Tomorrow would begin the new season.
Morning arrived before the alarm. I was already awake when the sky turned from purple to gray.
Mamãe stood in the kitchen when I came down, her hair tied back, breakfast ready.
She didn't say much, just smiled, the same way she always did on first-days-back.
"Vai com Deus, meu amor," she said as I kissed her cheek. ("Go with God, my love.")
"Always," I replied.
The car ride to Barra Funda was short, the city still half-asleep. When I got there, the gates were open, the pitch hidden behind the training complex. A few players were already arriving, shaking off the holidays, exchanging lazy greetings.
Carpegiani stood near the entrance, clipboard in hand, serious but not unfriendly. His eyes swept over us as if measuring our readiness before he even spoke.
When our gazes met, he gave a brief nod. "Morning. Welcome back."
That was all. But it felt enough.
I took a deep breath, stepped onto the familiar ground, and felt the old rhythm return, not with noise or ceremony, just the quiet certainty of belonging.
The São Paulo FC training complex had that quiet hum again: the sound of doors opening, boots on concrete, someone laughing down the hall. The season hadn't started yet, but you could feel it in the air, the switch from vacation to discipline.
Inside the facility, the first thing that hit me was the smell of coffee. Players moved through corridors carrying medical forms, some still half-asleep. The club doctor, Dr. Turíbio Leite, waved me over to his office with a familiar grin.
"Bom dia, garoto (Good morning, kid). You ready to see how much damage you did during the holidays?"
I laughed nervously. "I didn't do that bad."
He raised an eyebrow. "We'll see."
The checkup went step by step, height, weight, body fat, reflex tests, flexibility. I stood still on the scale, shirt off, while the numbers clicked into place.
181 centimeters. 73.8 kilograms. Body fat: 12.5%.
Dr. Turíbio scribbled something on his clipboard and nodded approvingly. "You grew, that's good. Gained muscle, mostly. A little soft around the edges, but that's normal. You did eat well, right?"
I grinned. "Too well."
He patted my shoulder. "That's what the next two weeks are for. You'll sweat that back off."
From the hallway, I could hear the laughter of teammates comparing their results. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee from the staff room.
In the locker room, I found Serginho, França, and Belletti already changed. França was complaining loudly to anyone who would listen.
"They say I gained two kilos. Two! I swear the scale is broken."
Serginho leaned back in his chair, smirking.
"Maybe it's your shoes that got heavier."
"Maybe it's your jokes," França shot back.
I sat next to them, tying my laces, the banter instantly easing the tension. It felt like a reunion more than a first day back. Everyone looked tanned, rested, a bit slower than usual, but alive.
Then, the door opened, and silence followed like a ripple.
Paulo César Carpegiani stepped in. Short gray hair, crisp polo shirt, clipboard in hand. He didn't need to raise his voice; the room adjusted itself around him. He stood in the center, gaze sharp and calm.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he began.
"Vacation's over. I hope you enjoyed it."
A few chuckles broke out, quickly fading.
"I won't speak long. We'll get to work soon enough. My message is simple, this season, São Paulo must rediscover what discipline means. Talent, we have plenty. What we need now is structure. Effort. Collective rhythm. Each of you knows your potential. My job is to make sure you show it."
He paused, scanning the room, eyes settling briefly on each of us before continuing.
"Training starts in twenty minutes. We'll begin on the pitch. Stretch well, you'll need it."
And just like that, he left. No big speech, no theatrics. Efficient. Controlled. Exactly as Papai had described him from the newspaper article.
França exhaled. "He's not like Mário Sérgio."
Serginho nodded. "Just straight orders."
Belletti tied his shoes and grinned. "Good. Maybe we'll actually win something big this year."
We filed out onto the training pitch, grass glistening under the morning sun. The first session was basic, short jogs, dynamic stretches, core activation. But the intensity climbed fast. Within fifteen minutes, sweat soaked through my shirt.
Carpegiani walked along the sidelines, arms crossed, speaking occasionally to his assistants. Every so often, his sharp whistle cut the air, signaling a correction or a reset. He didn't shout much; instead, he observed, waited, then spoke with precise timing.
When he reached my group, we were doing possession drills, four-on-four, small grid, two-touch limit. My lungs were already burning, but I tried to stay sharp. He stopped behind me just as I intercepted a pass and flicked it forward to França.
"Good, Ricardo," he said, voice calm but direct. "Now, don't admire it. Follow the pass. Play and move."
I nodded and jogged forward, reclaiming space.
Later, when we paused for water, Serginho leaned in. "See? He already knows your name. That's a good sign."
"I'd rather he didn't notice me for mistakes," I said, panting.
"That's impossible. You'll make some. He'll correct them. That's how it works."
By the end of the morning, everyone looked drained. The first day always hit the hardest, rust shaking off, lungs remembering what intensity felt like. My legs were heavy, but it was a good kind of fatigue, the kind that meant something was starting again.
After lunch, we had a tactical meeting. The room smelled of marker pens and whiteboard cleaner. Carpegiani drew quick lines across the board, outlining his preferred formation: 4-4-2 diamond with flexibility for transitions.
He spoke with precision, explaining how every zone connected, the fullbacks overlapping, the central midfield staying compact, transitions from defense to attack built on short passes.
"This team has always been technical," he said. "But sometimes, you mistake freedom for chaos. We will not play chaotic football. We will play intelligent football."
His tone wasn't arrogant, just certain. He pointed to each position, explaining responsibilities in detail.
When he reached the attacking midfielder role, he paused, glancing briefly at me and then at França.
"This player," he said, tapping the circle near the top of the diamond, "must read the field, not just see it. Timing, patience, discipline. No unnecessary flair, only purpose."
Then, back to the chalk lines, as if nothing had happened.
França nudged me with his elbow. "I think he was talking about you, garoto (kid)."
I smirked. "Then I better learn fast."
The next morning, soreness greeted me before the alarm. My legs protested every step. Even brushing my teeth felt like work.
When I reached the facility, others were already there, groaning, stretching, sharing complaints about muscle pain. The trainers smiled knowingly. "Good pain," they said. "Means it's working."
Day two focused on endurance. Long runs around the pitch, alternating with sprint intervals. It was brutal under the sun, the humidity clinging to every breath.
At one point, as we finished another lap, Carpegiani clapped his hands sharply.
"Again. But this time, stay in line. If one falls behind, the whole group repeats."
Groans filled the air, but nobody argued. That was his style, discipline through collective responsibility.
We ran again, lungs screaming, until we finally hit the line together. Sweat dripped from everyone's faces, pooling near our boots.
Afterward, during cooldown, França flopped onto the grass. "Remind me why we play football again?"
"To run," I said between breaths.
He chuckled.
By the third day, rhythm had returned. The rust was gone, replaced by that sharp edge of competition. Training drills felt quicker, touches cleaner.
Carpegiani rotated small-sided games, switching formations mid-play to test adaptability. I found myself in the midfield diamond again, with França ahead, Serginho and Belletti wide.
The coach watched silently from the halfway line, occasionally blowing his whistle. At one point, I turned with the ball, feinted left, and slipped a pass through two defenders for França to finish.
"Better," Carpegiani said, walking closer. "But next time, look sooner. Anticipation, not reaction."
"Yes, coach."
Later, as we gathered near the sideline for water, he addressed the group.
"In a week, we'll play Olimpia. Then Bayer Leverkusen. Both strong teams, both physical. They're not exhibitions to me. They're preparation. The Torneio Rio-São Paulo starts right after, and I want no excuses."
He looked around, eyes steady. "We start setting the standard now."
Something in his tone carried weight, not loud, but commanding. Everyone listened.
That afternoon, he called me aside after training. I'd half-expected a critique, but instead he said, "Ricardo, how do you feel physically?"
"Good, coach. Getting my rhythm back."
"I watched your tapes. I have your progress. You look stronger than last season. Taller too."
He smiled faintly. "That'll help. You'll need to think faster now, teams will press harder when they realize you can change a game."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
He gestured toward the field. "Your role isn't to dribble past everyone. It's to give structure to our attack. Understand that, and you'll be ahead of most players your age."
It wasn't a long talk, but it stayed with me.
When training wrapped for the day, I sat with França and Serginho near the locker room benches. The sun had dipped low, orange and soft across the field.
França kicked a stray ball lazily toward the wall. "You think he'll start experimenting already?"
Serginho shrugged. "He's watching everyone. But I think he already knows his core players."
"And you?" França asked me. "Think you'll get minutes in those friendlies?"
I thought about it. "If I deserve them."
Serginho smiled. "You will. You don't waste chances."
I smiled faintly, but didn't answer. Deep down, I just wanted to earn it the right way.
That night, back home, the soreness returned, but so did the satisfaction. Over dinner, Papai asked how the new coach was.
"Strict," I said, "but fair."
"Good. Structure is good. Keeps you grounded."
Mamãe placed a bowl of salad on the table, and Digão snuck an extra piece of pão de queijo when she wasn't looking.
By the end of the week , the pace had changed. No more long jogs or medical briefings , it was football again. The kind that demanded lungs, touch, and thought at the same time.
The training pitches shimmered under the São Paulo sun, the kind that could turn white shirts into sponges within ten minutes. When I reached Barra Funda that Monday morning, I already heard the thud of balls and whistles from a distance.
Carpegiani had split the squad into two groups: defensive structure on one side, attacking transitions on the other. I was in the midfield rotation, paired beside Edmílson, who had that calm, compact stance of a player who never wasted a movement.
"Keep the distance short," he told me quietly before the first drill. "If you drift too far, they'll break our shape."
He wasn't loud, but everyone listened when he spoke. He'd played enough games in that deep position to see everything two passes before it happened.
The drill started , short triangles, one-touch passing through mannequins representing a pressing opponent.
"Control your spacing," Carpegiani called.
"Ricardo, stay between lines, not on them."
I adjusted, sliding half a meter back into the pocket of space he wanted. The difference was immediate , I received, turned, and found França with a split-second more time.
"Better," the coach said, walking past with that small approving nod.
From the far side, Marcelinho Paraíba shouted, "Oi, coach! You're turning the boy into a metronome!"
Carpegiani didn't even glance his way. "Do you want to take his place?"
The laughter that followed cut through the humidity. Even Marcelinho grinned, then flicked a ball casually over an oncoming defender, just because he could.
That was Marcelinho, chaos wrapped in flair. Half the time, he looked like he was improvising everything, but somehow it worked.
During water break, I sat on the grass beside Warley, who had a towel over his head and a grin that never seemed to fade.
"You looked comfortable there," he said.
"Coach doesn't give compliments easily."
"I'm still trying to read what he wants," I said. "It feels stricter."
He nodded. "It is. But once you understand what he wants, it's easier. I think he likes players who think."
Warley took a sip from his bottle, glancing toward the coaches. "He'll test you more. That's a good sign."
That afternoon, we moved indoors for video analysis. The room was dim except for the projector light washing the white wall. Carpegiani stood by the screen, laser pointer in hand.
The footage was from last season's Torneio Rio-São Paulo. São Paulo's lines were stretched, the midfield leaving gaps, opponents countering too easily.
"You see this?" he said, circling the midfield on the paused frame. "Space kills us here. Everyone is chasing the ball, no one is guiding play. A team without compactness is like an accordion with holes, it makes no sound."
A few chuckles rose, but he continued, eyes sharp. "This season, we fix that. The midfield must breathe as one unit. Ricardo, play this clip."
I hit play on the remote. The screen showed an opponent cutting through the middle.
"There," Carpegiani said. "That's where you should intercept, not after he passes, but before he looks up. Read the intention. Anticipation is your best defense."
He wasn't just talking to me, everyone was listening , but his gaze stayed fixed on me for a few seconds longer than usual.
When the meeting ended, Edmílson caught up to me near the exit.
"He sees something in you," he said.
I shrugged. "Or he sees mistakes."
"Same thing," Edmílson replied with a grin.
"That's how you learn."
The next morning, small-sided matches filled the session. The whistle blew almost constantly , Carpegiani stopping play, moving cones, restarting.
"Again. Faster. Transition quicker. The ball doesn't get tired, you do."
At one point, I was partnered with Marcelinho and França in a 3-v-3 rondo. Marcelinho was unpredictable, flicks and feints flying everywhere. França anchored the attack, waiting for passes to turn and shoot.
When I mis-timed a forward run, Carpegiani stopped play.
"Ricardo," he said, walking toward me, "what did you see before you moved?"
"I saw space behind their line," I replied.
He nodded. "Good. But did you see Edmílson holding their marker? You ran into his channel. Communication is everything. Watch his body language."
He turned to the group. "You must read your teammates as well as you read the ball."
We restarted, and this time, I waited half a second longer. The space opened properly; the pass connected, and França buried it.
"Perfeito (Perfect)," Carpegiani called out. "Now you're playing football."
After training, as players filed out of the locker room, I found myself walking beside Edu, who had just finished a long conversation with one of the physios.
"Long morning," he said, stretching his neck. "But the new gaffer's got something about him."
"Different style?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Less shouting, more details. It's like, chess. Everyone has to move together. You're the kind of player who'll like that."
"Why do you say that?"
"You think too much before you play," he said with a grin. "That's not an insult. Just make sure you don't start calculating mid-dribble."
We both laughed.
Next came a tactical scrimmage, full-squad, half-field simulation. One team wore red bibs, the other white. I was on the white team, behind França, with Edmílson anchoring behind me.
Carpegiani's whistle sliced the air. "Start compact. Compress the middle. When you recover, spread fast."
The rhythm was intense. França barked orders, Belletti overlapped, Serginho cut inside. I found pockets where I could breathe, turn, and slip passes forward.
Half an hour in, I received a long switch from Edu, controlled on my chest, and slid a diagonal pass into Warley's path. He cut in, shot, goal.
"Boa, garoto (Good, kid)!" França shouted, slapping my back.
Carpegiani clapped once, a rare smile breaking through. "That's the pattern we want. Inside-to-out, quick rotation."
He turned to the group. "Remember this connection , Ricardo to Warley. That's how we unbalance defenses."
Hearing him use my name during instructions still made my stomach flip a little. Not nerves anymore , something closer to pride.
Later that day, while we cooled down near the benches, Rogério Ceni jogged over, towel around his neck.
He looked at me and grinned. "So, the coach wants you to be a playmaker, huh?"
I nodded. "Looks like it."
"Then you need to know how to beat me too," he said, tossing a spare ball toward my feet.
"Come on. Let's see that shot."
At first, I thought he was joking, but he walked straight to the goal. A few teammates stayed back to watch.
"Alright," he said, planting his feet. "From here. Twenty-two meters. No walls. Just you and me."
I set the ball down, exhaled, and took a few steps back. The first shot went wide, clipping the post.
Ceni laughed. "Good power. But power without control is like a book without words."
I tried again. This time, I hit cleaner, low toward the left corner. He dove, fingers brushing it wide.
"Better. Again."
We stayed like that for ten minutes, my legs aching, his gloves thudding against leather. After the fifth save, he straightened, breathing hard.
"You've got the technique," he said, "but you're rushing the moment. You're thinking about scoring before striking. Wait half a heartbeat. Let the ball tell you where to aim."
He tossed the ball back. "Watch."
He set it down himself, took three slow steps, and curled it perfectly into the top corner , effortless, like breathing.
"See?" he said. "Same ball, different patience."
I grinned. "You make it look easy."
"It is," he said, walking away. "Once you've practiced it a thousand times."
That session was invaluable to me.
By Thursday, the squad's rhythm was sharper. The sessions began earlier, finishing before the heat turned unbearable.
Carpegiani spent more time directing positional play, pulling me aside during breaks to correct angles or body shape.
"Think about your hips," he said one morning. "If you open them too soon, defenders read the pass. Keep them closed until the last second."
He demonstrated with a ball, showing how a small turn could disguise intent.
"Deception is intelligence," he added. "Not showboating. Just smart movement."
He was right. During scrimmage later, I used the same feint and slipped the ball through to França for a one-touch goal.
After training, I caught up with him near the sideline.
"Coach," I said, "thanks for the correction earlier."
He looked at me, eyes steady. "That's what I'm here for. Don't thank me, show me."
That night, I came home covered in grass stains and exhaustion. Papai was on the couch, newspaper in hand, Digão glued to the TV.
"How was it?" Papai asked without looking up.
"Hard," I said, collapsing beside them.
He chuckled. "Good. Hard is good."
"Rogerio made me practice against him. Free kicks, shots. And he showed me as well."
Digão nudged me. "Did you score?"
"No. He saved all of them."
Digão grinned. "Of course he did, he's still better than you."
I threw a cushion at him, and Mamãe yelled from the kitchen, "Don't throw things in the house!"
We all laughed.
On Friday morning, the team gathered for one final session before the rest day. Carpegiani spoke briefly before training began.
"You've adjusted well," he said. "The physical base is strong again. Next week, we prepare for real matches. Olimpia on Sunday, Leverkusen on Wednesday. They're not just friendlies, they're our mirror."
He looked around. "We see who we really are when we play strangers."
The first Euro-América Cup match was around the corner, and though it was labeled a friendly, it carried the kind of weight that reminded you the season was near.
Carpegiani stood near the touchline, arms folded, eyes scanning the pitch. "Spacing," he barked. "Stay compact when we lose it. Compact!"
His voice carried across the damp grass. We'd heard it enough times to know what that tone meant , he wasn't angry, just sharpening edges.
"Ricardo, closer to Edmílson. You drift too high, they'll find space behind."
I nodded, sliding half a meter inward, shadowing Edmílson's pivot. That half-meter seemed to matter more than any sprint I'd run all morning.
When the whistle blew to stop the drill, Carpegiani pointed at the space between us. "That's your game, boy. Learn the distances. You keep those right, you control the tempo."
He moved on without another word. No praise, no nod. Just the reminder. That was how he worked.
Inside the locker room, the air felt thick with humidity and focus. The usual banter was still there , Serginho teasing França about a missed shot, Marcelinho humming something off-key , but everyone had one eye on Sunday.
Edmílson was retaping his ankles, methodical as ever. "The boss is testing rotations," he said, not looking up.
França grinned. "Everyone's getting minutes."
"Yeah," Edmílson replied, "but not everyone's making them count."
I didn't say anything. It was true. The friendlies might have been labeled experiments, but for players like me, they were the real auditions.
The next session was focused on setpieces. Rogério Ceni ran his own kingdom during those drills.
"Line the wall, no gaps," he barked. "Ricardo, if you jump early, I'll put it through your ribs next time."
The guys laughed. I didn't doubt he could. His free kicks looked like arrows that could split wood.
Later that day, he caught me lingering near the penalty area. "Still watching?"
"Trying to learn," I said.
He smirked, straightening a stray cone. "Good. But watching doesn't score goals. I'll show you next week."
It wasn't just banter, he meant it. Rogério wasn't one for empty promises.
That evening, back home, Mamãe had dinner waiting, the smell of garlic and rice already filling the kitchen.
"How was training?" she asked, serving food onto Papai's plate.
"Hard," I said. "But good. I might play in the second half tomorrow."
Papai nodded without surprise.
Digão piped up, "We're going, right?"
"Of course," Mamãe said, smiling. "We already have the tickets."
Sunday morning. Morumbi.
The sky hung heavy with summer heat as we arrived at the stadium. Morumbi shimmered in the distance, a giant bowl of red, white, and black. Fans were already queuing at the gates, waving banners, calling out player names.
Inside the dressing room, jerseys hung neatly from the racks. The smell of grass filled the air. The starters were already lacing up: França, Serginho, Marcelinho, Belletti, Ceni, a core that knew exactly what to do.
The rest of us would come on later. Two full squads, as planned.
Carpegiani walked in, clipboard under his arm. "Two halves, two teams," he said. "We keep our shape, build from the back. Don't chase. Don't force. Play like we train."
His eyes scanned the room, stopping on me just long enough to make my pulse quicken. "Ricardo, you'll come on after halftime. I want rhythm. Keep the midfield linked, look for the diagonal when it opens."
"Yes, coach."
He gave a small nod, then turned to Ceni. "Captain, the floor is yours."
That was that. No big speech, no fireworks. Just business.
First Half
From the bench, the match unfolded like a chess game played on grass. Olimpia pressed early, trying to disrupt our build-up. Ceni was his usual self , barking orders, organizing the line. França and Serginho combined for the opener around the 18th minute, a low shot that kissed the post and went in.
The tempo stayed high. By halftime, we led 2–1. Sweat poured off everyone. The bench players were already jogging, stretching in the narrow warm-up space behind the dugout.
Carpegiani called us in. "Second unit, ready."
I jogged forward, heart pounding, every muscle alert.
Second Half
The eleven that stepped out after the break were a mix of starters and reserves , me, Edu, Warley, plus defenders from the youth group.
The rhythm changed instantly. Olimpia tried to exploit our fresh legs, pushing forward. I dropped deep to collect from Edmílson, who'd stayed on to anchor.
"Move it quick," he muttered.
A few minutes in, I found Edu between lines.
He turned, slipped it wide to Warley, who drove toward the byline and cut it back across. I'd kept running, ghosting into space. The ball brushed my shin and rolled to França , 3–1.
França pointed over his shoulder, grinning. "Good run!"
I nodded, too winded to answer.
We controlled the rest of the half. In the 81st minute, I played a long diagonal toward Marcelinho, who'd just checked back on. He cut inside and curled it top corner. 4–1.
The coach clapped once from the sideline, calm as ever.
"Tempo," he said. "Keep tempo."
When the whistle blew, sweat soaked through my shirt. Friendly or not, every muscle buzzed.
The players shook hands, traded jerseys. I found myself beside Warley near the tunnel.
"Good work today," he said. "You're linking faster."
"Trying to," I said. "Coach wants transitions quicker."
He nodded. "We'll get there."
No big compliments. Just quiet, professional acknowledgment, the kind that actually meant something.
Back in the locker room, the mood was lighter. The veterans joked about who'd lost the most breath; someone tossed a wet towel across the room. Ceni was already analyzing plays aloud, walking through sequences with defenders.
I caught Carpegiani's eye once as I unlaced my boots. He gave a small nod , that subtle, rare nod that said you did fine. Then he turned away to speak to his staff.
That was enough.
Later that evening, home again, Papai had the TV on low. The news replayed the highlights , Serginho's cross, França's goal, Marcelinho's finish, and somewhere in between, my name in the commentary:
"...Ricardo Kaka, the young midfielder, involved in the buildup again. Good movement off the ball."
Digão grinned from the sofa. "They said your name!"
I laughed, nudging him with my foot. "You heard wrong."
The house smelled like fried banana and detergent. The window was open, a breeze carrying the city hum.
It didn't feel like a dream anymore. It felt like a job , one I wanted to do better every single day.
The morning after the Olimpia game, the air around Barra Funda felt different. Not relaxed exactly, but looser, lighter. The 4–1 win had done its job. There were no celebrations, Carpegiani wouldn't allow that this early, but you could sense approval in how the staff spoke, how the drills ran sharper, and how laughter found its way back into the changing room.
We trained at reduced intensity that day. Carpegiani divided the groups , starters went through recovery and stretching, the second-half squad ran passing triangles and tactical patterns.
"Don't lose rhythm," he said, voice even. "We'll rotate again Wednesday."
That meant Leverkusen. A German team, well-organized, physical. Word around was they'd just finished their European midseason break, meaning they'd be fit, maybe fitter than us.
When training wrapped, I stayed back with Edu and Warley to run extra short sprints. The field shimmered in the midday heat. Sweat pooled at my temples.
Warley grinned as he leaned on his knees. "Still chasing that starting spot, huh?"
I shrugged, half smiling. "Chasing better control."
He laughed, clapping my shoulder. "Same thing, garoto (kid). Same thing."
The next morning, I woke up early out of habit. Papai was already at the kitchen table, reading the sports section, glasses halfway down his nose.
Mamãe entered with her apron still tied. "Don't stay up late tonight like usual. Your match is in the evening, and you'll be no good yawning through warm-up."
I saluted with the juice glass. "Yes, ma'am."
She swatted my arm with a dish towel, smiling.
At the club, the atmosphere was efficient. No tension, no grand speeches. Just a sense that everyone knew what needed to be done.
We went through tactical walkthroughs in the morning, focusing on transitions from deep midfield. Edu and I paired during positional drills, he was calm, always open, his movement an education in itself.
"You play the pass before it looks open," he told me quietly between reps. "If you wait until you see it, it's too late."
I nodded, the words sticking.
When Carpegiani blew the final whistle, he called us together. "They press in waves," he said of Leverkusen. "We'll invite the first, skip the second. Keep the ball on the ground. Quick combinations, no panicking."
Then his eyes flicked toward me. "And Ricardo , when you drift central, don't hesitate to shoot. Don't overthink."
January 20, 1999 – Euro-América Cup – São Paulo vs Bayer Leverkusen
Morumbi Stadium, São Paulo
By the time we walked out of the tunnel, the stands shimmered under floodlights. The air carried that familiar cocktail of humidity, roasted peanuts, and anticipation.
Ceni jogged past, gloves already on, muttering to himself. "German efficiency," he said under his breath, smirking. "Let's see how efficient they feel tonight."
The referee's whistle sliced through the hum, and we were off.
I watched the first half from the bench. Our starters were sharp, Serginho tore up the left flank, Warley's dribbling had the Germans scrambling. França converted a slick cross at the 12th minute, and then Edu added another before halftime. 2–0.
Carpegiani turned around as we gathered at the interval. "Ricardo, you're in. Second half, right side. I want connection, rhythm, and if the space opens, you shoot."
"Yes, coach."
When I stepped onto the pitch, the lights seemed to hum louder. The grass was slick, and the ball rolled fast.
Leverkusen pressed high immediately, leaving space behind their midfield. I dropped into pockets, linking passes with Edu and Belletti.
Five minutes in, Edu found me on the half-turn.
I took one touch, then swung a diagonal to Warley on the left. He darted past his marker and squared it back. França's shot was blocked, and the rebound spilled into space. I rushed forward, side-footing it to Edu, who danced past a tackle and buried it bottom corner. 3–0.
The crowd's cheer rolled through Morumbi, warm and booming.
I jogged back, breath steadying, pulse thudding.
Leverkusen adjusted, playing quicker, more direct. Around the 60th minute, one of their midfielders clipped my ankle in a challenge. I went down hard but bounced up quickly, waving off the medics. My shin throbbed, but I didn't want to look weak.
Edu gave me a side glance. "You good?"
"Yeah."
He smirked. "Then move."
I did.
70th minute.
Belletti intercepted a long pass and fed me instantly. I turned, looked up, and for a heartbeat saw the space. No one closed.
Instinct took over. I stepped into the shot, right foot curling through the ball cleanly. It flew in an arc , over one defender, dipping just beyond the keeper's fingertips, slamming into the top corner.
For half a second, silence , then Morumbi exploded.
Ceni raised both gloves in salute from his goalmouth. Warley sprinted over, laughing, nearly knocking me down.
"Olha só, garoto! (Look at that, kid!)"
I just stood there, trying to breathe, heart hammering. My first goal of the new season , friendly or not , and it had felt right. The strike, the timing, the way the crowd roared.
On the sideline, Carpegiani allowed himself a rare grin. He leaned toward his assistant. "That's why you let them shoot."
80th minute.
Serginho replaced Edu. Within minutes, he overlapped down the flank. I slipped a pass behind the fullback, perfectly weighted. Serginho cut in, was clipped in the box. Penalty.
Ceni jogged upfield, the crowd buzzing.
"Want to bet if I would miss, Garoto?" he teased as he passed.
He didn't miss. 5–0.
When the final whistle blew, the players shook hands, laughing and clapping each other's backs. Friendly or not, a win that convincing mattered.
I lingered by the halfway line, watching the fans waving flags, some chanting my name. Not in unison, not like stars got, but loud enough to catch.
Warley nudged me. "You might've just made the coach's decision harder."
I smiled. "That's the plan."
Inside the locker room, steam clouded the air.
The mood was relaxed but buzzing.
Ceni stood near the doorway, toweling his hair, still talking through sequences with the defenders.
When he noticed me walking past, he pointed with the towel. "That shot , you didn't overhit it. That's the trick. Don't fight the ball. Let it breathe."
Later that night, back home, Digão was practically vibrating with excitement. "That curl, man! Everyone at church is gonna talk about it tomorrow."
I didn't say much. My legs still buzzed from adrenaline, but my mind was strangely calm.
Not every goal changes your career. But some stay etched, not because of what they meant to others, but what they reminded you of. That all the hours, the sweat, the long days away, they added up to something real.
The morning after, the routine continued like nothing had happened. Stretching, gym, recovery. The staff analyzed footage quietly, pointing at the board, talking rotations.
Carpegiani crossed the gym once, catching my eye. "Good decisions," he said. "Keep your head down, Ricardo. The real games start soon."
"Yes, coach."
And that was it , the only acknowledgment. But it was more than enough.
At lunch, Edmílson and Edu sat across from me.
"He handled the press well," Edu said between bites.
"What press?" I asked.
He shrugged. "They're already talking, saying you might start against Flamengo."
I blinked. "You think he'll really start me?"
"Who knows?" Edmílson said with a grin. "Just don't give him a reason not to."
We all laughed quietly, the sound blending with the clatter of dishes and the faint echo of the field outside.
That night, before sleeping, I looked at the match schedule tacked to my wall , January 23, Torneio Rio–São Paulo, São Paulo vs Flamengo.
The season was about to begin. The real one this time.
And for the first time since I'd joined the senior squad, I felt ready. Not lucky, not nervous, just ready.
Author's Notes:
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