Diego POV
June, 1998
June in São Paulo never really feels like winter, but that week it did. The air carried a damp chill, and the afternoons were short enough that daylight felt borrowed. The club had given us a break before the youth camp selections, a rare few days to breathe.
I'd gone home to Santo Amaro to spend time with my family. My mother was over the moon about me being on the shortlist for the Brazil youth camp. I'd been in form, scoring regularly for the U20s, sharper than I'd ever been, and for the first time, it all felt close, like the dream wasn't something far away anymore.
On the morning it happened, I wasn't even thinking about football. Just a quiet, ordinary day.
My little cousin, Marcus, was visiting. He wanted to see the backyard parrot that my uncle had left with us. The poor thing hated everyone, especially me. Still, I followed him out back, barefoot, half-awake, coffee in hand.
The floor was wet from the rain. I remember laughing when the parrot squawked and fluttered toward us, and then I slipped. My body twisted awkwardly, my right arm went out to break the fall, and I heard the sound before I felt the pain.
A dull, flat crack.
At first, I didn't realize it was my arm. It felt like I'd been punched from the inside. I tried to sit up, and pain shot from my wrist to my shoulder. My back screamed when I moved again.
Marcus screamed louder.
The hospital was only ten minutes away, but the drive felt endless. My mother kept saying, "It's probably just a sprain," and I kept nodding even though I knew it wasn't.
The doctor took one look at the X-ray and sighed. "Fratura distal do rádio," he said , distal radius fracture. "You'll need a cast for six to eight weeks. Maybe more if the break doesn't heal."
I stared at the lightboard behind him, the white line where my bone shouldn't have been. I didn't even need to ask about the camp.
He added, almost gently, "You'll need rest. A lot of it. No impact, no running for now."
I sat there with my casted arm and that single sentence ringing in my head.
When we got home, Mom made soup, the kind she always makes when she doesn't know what else to do. I tried to eat, but everything tasted of metal.
The phone rang that evening. It was the club's physio, saying the national selectors had confirmed my withdrawal.
They'd already written me off. I informed them of the injury a few hours back and now I am already gone.
I hung up before he finished his sentence.
The next morning, I woke early out of habit. My boots were by the door, clean and ready. I'd polished them the night before the fall. They looked stupid there, a reminder that the world was still running while I was benched.
Mom came in, eyes soft but firm. "You'll heal. You're young. There will be more camps."
"I know."
"Then why do you look like someone died?"
I smiled without meaning it. "Because it feels like it."
_________________________________________
A few days later, the phone rang again. It was Ricardo.
He didn't say "Oi" like usual. Just, "You all right?"
"Yeah," I lied.
"You sure?"
"Just bored."
I could hear background noise , laughter, voices, the echo of a hall. "I thought you'd still come, even in a cast."
"Doctors said no. Something about the back, too."
"Back?" he said, voice sharper now.
"Minor," I said. "Just sore. I'm fine." I lied again.
There was a pause, the kind that carries both guilt and care.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Don't be. You didn't push me."
He laughed softly. "Still. I wanted us both here."
I didn't know what to say. I wanted that too.
"You'll smash it," I said finally. "Someone's got to score for both of us."
He chuckled. "You'll be back before I come back."
_________________________________________
The days blurred together after that. My schedule was built around doctor visits, cold packs, and staring at the TV. I couldn't even write properly with my left hand. Every time a match came on, I'd hold the remote in my lap and imagine being on that pitch.
By mid-July, the pain dulled, but the frustration got worse.
One afternoon, I was dozing on the couch when Mom came in with the phone.
"It's him again," she said, smiling. "He is always so polite. He is a nice boy."
Ricardo.
I sat up, balancing the phone against my cast.
"Hey," I said.
"You sound sleepy," he said, laughing. "Still on painkillers?"
"Still on boredom."
He laughed.
"How is camp?"
"Different. Everything's faster. The players, the drills. Half the guys are taller than the goalposts."
"Sounds fun."
"It is," he said. "But I wish you were here."
That hit me harder than I expected.
"Don't worry," I said. "When we're in the same team again, I'll score twice to make up for missing it."
He laughed. "Deal."
He told me about Ronaldinho showing tricks during practice, about João Carlos's sessions, about how strange it felt to be away from home for a whole week.
I closed my eyes and imagined it , the smell of fresh-cut grass, the thud of passes, the chatter of teammates.
When the call ended, I sat holding the silent receiver. I wasn't jealous, not exactly. Just hollow.
_________________________________________
A week later, the local news showed a highlight reel of the youth camp. I watched, half slouched on the couch, my cast itching under the bandage.
And there he was, Ricardo, jogging out with the number 22 on his training bib, calm, head up. I saw the slow-motion clip of him in a possession drill, turning between two players, his first touch perfect.
The anchor said something like, "A promising midfielder from São Paulo, great control and awareness."
Mom clapped her hands. "That's your friend!"
"Yeah," I said softly. "That's him."
I smiled. But when I looked down at my own hands, the cast resting against my thigh, I felt the smallest crack of envy slide through.
Not because I didn't want him to succeed , but because I wanted to be running there too.
_________________________________________
By the end of July, the cast started to feel less like protection and more like a cage.
I was cleared for gentle stretching. The physio kept telling me, "Don't rush it."
I nodded each time and then rushed it anyway.
The back pain lingered, a dull throb that came when I sat too long. Nights were the worst. I'd roll over and feel a spark under my shoulder blade. The doctor called it "muscle imbalance." I called it unfair.
Still, every few days, Ricardo called.
Sometimes short, sometimes longer.
Once, he said, "You know, I scored today."
"Of course you did."
He laughed. "It wasn't pretty. I hit the post first."
"That's called suspense."
"The coach called it luck. But I know what it was. It was you. I started scoring ugly goals"
Those talks got me through the rest.
_________________________________________
In early August, I got the cast off. The doctor said the bone had healed well. He looked pleased, like it was his victory. I flexed my wrist and felt stiffness, not pain.
"You'll need therapy," he said. "The back, too. But you're on the mend."
When we got home, I went straight to my room and looked at the boots by the door. They were dusty now, the laces stiff. I picked one up and smiled.
It was time.
That night, I called Ricardo first for a change.
He picked up immediately.
"Diego! Finally alive again?"
"Sort of."
"Training soon?"
"Physio says I can start light work next week."
"Good. Just don't try to race me yet."
"I'd still beat you with one leg."
He laughed, loud and genuine. "In your dreams."
There was a short pause, comfortable, this time.
Then he said, "You know, when you come back, things might feel different."
"I expect that."
"I mean pace, sharpness, confidence."
"I'll get them back."
"I know you will. I just want you to be prepared."
The call ended like always, a short goodbye, both of us pretending not to care how much it meant to talk.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The city was quiet, except for the hum of a distant car alarm. I thought about the field, about running again, about the ache in my back and how it didn't scare me anymore.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall.
The cast was gone, the pain was less, but the emptiness still pressed against my ribs.
I whispered, mostly to myself:
"I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."
August started like a slow match under rain , slippery, hesitant, hard to control.
The cast was gone, but my wrist still didn't trust me. I couldn't even tie my boots properly with my right hand. The physio, Renato, made me loop elastic bands around door handles, stretch, rotate, repeat. Every day. "Small steps," he'd say. I hated that phrase.
My back still complained when I tried to sleep, a dull pinch below the shoulder blade that felt like something stuck under the skin. The doctors said it was muscle imbalance from weeks of inactivity. I called it the price of watching.
The U20s had already started their friendly cycle again. I'd sit on the benches at Cotia, jacket zipped, watching them run drills. Diego Costa from the younger squad had taken a few of my minutes. He was good, fast, hungry , but I kept thinking: those were my touches, my runs, my passes to finish.
Ricardo called less often now, but not out of distance, he was just busy. First-team training, travel, matches. Every time we spoke, he still had the same tone, like nothing had changed.
"You started running again?"
"Yeah. My legs remember, at least."
"Good," he'd say.
_________________________________________
Rehab became my new match. Every morning, I'd take the bus early, beat the staff in.
I'd do half an hour on the stationary bike, slow and steady, the hum of the wheels almost like crowd noise if I closed my eyes.
Renato made me do balance work for the back.
"Core strength," he said. "If your spine doesn't hold you, your legs won't trust you."
So I held planks until sweat stung my eyes. I counted seconds, then breaths, then just the sound of my own heartbeat.
Sometimes, Roni passed through after team's shadow drills. He didn't say much, just a nod, a "Keep working." That was Roni: solid, steady, not one for speeches.
Moraes came by once a week to deliver small updates, mostly practical things. "Next U20 match is against Portuguesa. Oscar's back on the wing. Adriano's arguing with everyone again."
"Good to know some things never change," I'd tell him.
He smiled. "You'll be in soon. Coach said he misses your movement."
"Coach says that about everyone who's injured."
"No," he said. "About you, it sounded real."
_________________________________________
By late August, I could jog without feeling like glass.
Ricardo stopped by one evening after first-team training. He looked different, stronger, maybe. Or just more at ease with the field.
"You look older," I said.
"Older?" he laughed. "I'm sixteen."
"Yeah, but the kind of sixteen that plays with adults."
He shrugged. "You'll see it soon. I'll wait for you."
We sat under the overhang near the gym, legs stretched, sipping the bottled coconut water from the vending machine.
He looked around Cotia, the field lights, the equipment cages, the hum of sprinklers.
"Feels strange being here again," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "Feels like it shrunk."
He smiled at that. "Maybe we grew."
"How's the arm?"
"Fine. It still clicks sometimes."
"And your back?"
"Better. Still gets tight if I sleep wrong."
"You're getting old," he joked. I didn't have a comeback to that. I did have an old man's injury. My back hurts if I sleep too much, or rest too much. I made a face.
He laughed, really laughed, the kind that makes you laugh too even when you didn't plan to.
That was the thing about Ricardo. He didn't fill silence with noise. He waited, listened, spoke when it mattered.
_________________________________________
By early September, I was training again.
Controlled drills, short passes, jogging laps. The first time the ball touched my foot again, something clicked in my head, like a door opening that I'd forgotten how to unlock.
I wasn't fast yet. My turns were stiff. But the sound , that soft thud of leather, that sound fixed things inside me.
At home, my family watched São Paulo's first-team matches religiously.
When Ricardo was on the bench, Mom would point him out, like I didn't know. "There! Your friend! They said his name!"
When he got subbed in, the living room would erupt. Dad once said, "You two used to share rides. Now he's on TV."
"Yeah," I said, smiling. "Still the same Ricardo, though."
I'd tape the matches, rewind the moments, not just his touches, but the runs before them, the spacing, the timing. That's what impressed me most, he didn't rush. Everything looked easy because he made it easy.
After one match in October, where he got an assist, I called him the next morning.
"You look comfortable out there," I said.
He laughed. "You mean slower?"
"No. I mean smarter."
"Same thing," he said.
He asked about my training, and when I told him I'd started full-contact drills again, he cheered like I'd scored a goal. "See? You're back already."
"Barely," I said.
"Still counts."
_________________________________________
By mid-October, I rejoined the U20 squad properly. First day back in full session. The sun was brutal, the kind that burns through your neck even when it's winter somewhere else.
The coach gave me a grin when he saw me warming up. "Thought you'd forgotten how to run."
"Almost did."
"Well, good to see you remember."
The first passing drill hurt, not the arm, not even the back , just pride. I mistimed three simple passes in a row. Moraes caught my eye and said, "Don't chase the ball, let it come."
Roni muttered, "You'll tire yourself before lunch."
Adriano clapped when I finally hit a clean pass through two markers. "There it is!"
"About time," Moraes said.
I grinned, breathless. "Rusty hinges," I said.
"Then oil them," he replied.
That session was a mess, but it was mine.
Afterward, I sat in the changing room, shirt stuck to my skin, head spinning.
The days blurred into drills, stretches, matches. My body caught up with itself slowly.
The first goal I scored back came off a rebound, ugly, off-balance, barely across the line, but it felt like a miracle.
When I walked off, Moraes slapped my shoulder. "You don't score pretty ones anymore?"
"Still counts," I said.
"True," he said. "But the next one better hit the net properly."
We both laughed.
_________________________________________
Some time passed by. My touch was fine. My shot was fine. Everything was fine, except it wasn't.
Since coming back, I could hit the ball clean again, but I couldn't find space the way I used to.
Defenders read me too easily. I'd make a run and they'd already be waiting. Moraes said I was forcing the tempo; Adriano said I was overthinking. Maybe they were both right.
After training one afternoon, I stayed behind on the small pitch. The sun was sharp, low enough to turn the grass gold. I was running patterns, one-two passes, cut inside, finish, but it all felt mechanical.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
"You're moving too early."
I turned. Ricardo was there, still in his first-team gear, carrying his jacket over his shoulder.
"Timing's fine," I said, half-defensive.
He shook his head. "No, your runs are fine. Your pauses aren't."
I frowned. "Pauses?"
"Yeah. You're giving the defender the answer before you ask the question."
He jogged toward me, picked up a loose ball. "Come on. Show me that last sequence again."
So I did. Moraes wasn't there to feed the ball, so Ricardo took the role. I laid it off, spun, and cut in behind an imaginary full-back. He stopped mid-pass.
"There," he said. "You're gone before I've even looked up."
"That's how we trained it."
He smiled. "In U-20s, sure. But when you play against older defenders, you move like that, they just track your hip. You need to disappear first."
He tossed me the ball again. "Try this. Stay in their line of sight for a heartbeat longer. Then cut. Let them relax for half a second."
I did. Waited. One heartbeat, two. Then darted left.
"Now," he said, slipping the ball through the channel. It met my stride perfectly.
He grinned. "See? You didn't run earlier. You ran later. But it looked faster."
We did it again, and again, same rhythm, same pause. It felt different, smoother. Less sprinting, more thinking.
After ten minutes I stopped, catching my breath.
"You ever practice this with the first team?"
"All the time," he said. "França does it best. Sometimes he doesn't even move, he just stops, and defenders panic because they expect motion."
He mimed it, a fake lean forward, then a stillness that almost felt theatrical. "The trick isn't speed," he said. "It's silence."
I laughed. "You make it sound like magic."
"It's math," he said, smiling. "Two seconds of waiting equals one second of freedom."
We reset. This time he played a longer pass. I delayed my run, drifted half a meter off the centre-back's shoulder, then burst into the gap. Shot. Net rippled.
He raised a hand. "Better."
"Guess you're the smart one now," I said.
He smirked. "No, I just get yelled at by older people more often."
I laughed.
He took a sip of water, then tossed me the bottle. "You'll score more if you trust that delay. You were always quick, you're better on the ball, better than me, now add quiet to it."
"Quick and quiet," I repeated. "Sounds dangerous. Sound like someone I know"
"Exactly."
We packed up the balls together. Before leaving, he said, "You were already good before the injury, Diego. You just needed to remember the difference between running and moving."
"Big difference?"
"Everything," he said, heading toward the tunnel.
That night, when I lay in bed, I replayed that one clean pass in my head, the half-second pause, the run, the sound of the ball skimming the turf.
For the first time since coming back, it felt like I wasn't chasing the game anymore.
The game was waiting for me.
_________________________________________
Late November, I got my sharpness back. Two goals against Palmeiras U20s, one assist. Both scrappy, but I didn't care.
Later that night, I ran into Ricardo again outside the locker area at Barra Funda. He'd just finished a late recovery session; I was coming back from the youth gym.
He held up a towel, still damp around his neck. "Heard you scored today."
"Word travels fast."
"Good news travels faster."
"You watched?"
"The rebound goal was classic you."
"Messy?"
"Effective," he said, smiling.
We leaned against the fence, quiet for a bit, watching one of the groundsmen hose down the turf.
"Feels like things are moving again," I said.
"They are," he replied. "Sometimes you just need a delay before the start."
I nodded. "Still feels late."
"It's not," he said. "We just take different roads."
He had that calm in his voice, the same one he always did before matches , not soft, just steady.
"Thanks," I said.
"For what?"
"For being there when I was useless. For not giving up."
He smiled. "You were never useless. Just out of service for a while."
We both laughed.
_________________________________________
By the end of November, I'd played my best game yet, goal, assist, full ninety minutes. The coach called me into his office afterward.
"You've got your touch back," he said.
"I've been waiting for it."
"Good. Keep it close. Scouts are watching again.
He didn't have to say more. I left the office smiling.
At home that night, I watched São Paulo's first team on TV again, Ricardo subbed in around the 70th minute. I watched him pick up the ball, spin away from a defender, play a perfect through pass to França. It didn't lead to a goal, but it led to applause.
My father said, "You see that? He sees the whole field."
"Yeah," I said, quietly proud.
When the game ended, I switched the TV off and sat there a while.
My arm didn't hurt. My back didn't either. Just my chest, but the good kind. The kind that makes you want to run faster, train harder, live sharper.
Tomorrow, I'd be back at Cotia again. New drills, new chances.
And maybe, soon, we'd be back on the same field again, not as kids chasing the ball, but as players shaping the game.
The new year came with the kind of humidity that clings to your skin like another shirt.
By January, Cotia smelled like cut grass and sunscreen again. My boots finally felt right, no pinch in the arch, no echo of pain when I planted.
My arm was steady, my back no longer protested every twist.
I was back.
The first morning of pre-season, Coach called us all in under the bleachers. "This year's going to be heavier," he said. "Harder. You boys are close to that edge, the one between youth and senior. And when the door opens, you better not be too tired to walk through."
I caught Moraes's eye. He gave a small grin. "That means no skipping cardio this time," he whispered.
Roni stood at the back, hands behind his head. Adriano was pretending to stretch but mostly making faces at Oscar. I could almost hear the rhythm of the old days again.
After warm-ups, we ran positional play. Moraes barked orders like a sergeant. "Hold your shape! Don't chase shadows!" he shouted, pointing his chin at me when I pressed too high.
"Old habits," I said, smiling.
He smirked. "Good ones, just faster next time."
The back felt strong , no tug, no stiffness. The ball came clean off my boot again.
One-two with Oscar, pivot left, through ball to Adriano, goal.
_________________________________________
By the second week, I'd scored in three straight friendlies. Nothing spectacular, but solid. The kind of goals coaches remember when they're picking squads.
News filtered down from Morumbi , the first team's Euro-America Cup run.
Ricardo had assisted in the first game, scored in the second. The papers were calling him "the calm before the storm." It made me grin. That was exactly him, quiet until he wasn't.
We didn't talk as often now. Different schedules. Different demands. But whenever we did, it felt the same.
One night, after training, I found him by the main cafeteria near the youth wing. He was sitting alone, eating slowly, a notebook open beside his tray.
"You taking notes on your dinner now?" I asked.
He looked up, surprised, then smiled. "Diego. What are you doing here?"
"Came to steal your fries."
He laughed, sliding the tray forward. "Be my guest."
I took one, bit into it. "So? You're famous now."
He scoffed. "Famous? Hardly. They still make me carry cones."
"Yeah, but cones for the first team."
He smiled, shaking his head.
We sat there quietly for a bit, just the sound of cutlery and muffled chatter from the staff kitchen.
He looked tired, though. The kind of tiredness that doesn't come from running, but from everything that comes with success, pressure, attention, expectation.
"You sleeping enough?" I asked.
He chuckled. "Define enough."
I shook my head. "You'll burn out."
"I'll rest when the season ends."
I stared at him. "And when will that be?"
He smiled faintly. "When the ball stops rolling and I lift a trophy."
That weekend, the first team had a light session, so he came to watch our U20 friendly. He stood behind the advertising boards with his São Paulo jacket zipped halfway, blending in with staff.
We didn't make a big deal of it, but everyone noticed.
Even the coach said before kickoff, "Looks like we've got a guest."
I played like a man trying to prove a point, not to the coach, not to the scouts, just to myself.
The pitch was rough, the sun brutal. Early on, I lost the ball twice trying to overcomplicate. Moraes yelled, "Simplify! Focus" so loud it startled a pigeon off the net.
So I simplified. Short passes, quick runs, one touch less every time.
In the 28th minute, Roni launched a long ball, Moraes flicked it, I ran between two defenders and hit it first time with my left. The ball skidded low and inside the far post.
It wasn't pretty. But it was mine.
When I glanced over, Ricardo was clapping once, slow and proud. Our eyes met for a second, and he mouthed, "Better."
After the match, I found him near the exit gate.
"Not bad," he said.
"Just not bad?"
"Good," he corrected. "Very good."
I grinned. "You'd have missed it."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But I'd have made it look cool."
We walked to the parking lot, the sky turning pink above Cotia's hills.
"You know," I said, "I thought missing that camp was the worst thing that could happen to me."
He nodded. "It felt like that, I bet."
"Yeah. But if I hadn't, I wouldn't have learned half of what I know now."
He smiled. "Sometimes that's the game. The missed plays teach more."
We stopped near the car.
"You're going to do fine," he said. "Better than fine."
"You know," he said, "Coach Joao told me something a long time back. He said the hardest part isn't the climb. It's staying calm once you're seen at the top"
"Sounds like him."
"I didn't get it then, but I think I do now."
"What's that?"
"Every goal, every touch, every mistake , people see it now. It's louder. But I just keep playing. Because it's still football."
I smiled. "Simple."
"Always," he said.
We stood there a while , two kids from the same path, now walking parallel roads.
The city buzzed behind us, buses honking, the sky a blur of orange and silver. But for that moment, it was just us , the same old rhythm, the same simple understanding.
He had his world, I had mine. And both were just beginning. And I have every intention to reach the top with him.
_________________________________________
Matheus POV
I used to be the one people pointed to.
"Matheus. The engine in midfield."
That's what the papers said once, back in 1997, when I still had something to show.
Two years later, nobody says it.
The locker I used to keep in the middle row got moved to the end of the hall last month, near the showers. No one tells you why. They just start filling your space until you take the hint.
That's how it works when you start slipping.
Quietly.
No meetings, no big speeches. Just less attention.
Less everything.
When I first heard about Kaká joining the U20s, I didn't think much of it. Some skinny 15 year-old from the juniors. Smart, sure, polite, the kind of kid coaches like because he says "yes, sir" and doesn't complain.
Then we had our issues. I will admit, I am not proud of that, but he didn't help the matter either. Nutmegging seniors in practice, flicking over the head, that's not okay. But, the undeniable thing is that he had talent. He had an aura about him. Even at 15.
Then he started getting minutes. Then Diego started getting minutes.
And I started sitting more.
I've been at São Paulo longer than both of them. I came in when the U20 badge still felt heavy. I've worn every training bib color.
But lately, it feels like all my shirts are the wrong size.
The coach says I need to "adapt."
Adapt to what?
Every week, it's the same lecture.
"Matheus, move the ball quicker.""Matheus, close the space.""Matheus, press in triangles."
I do what they ask, but when I look up, someone else has already done it better.
I used to play box-to-box, strong legs, decent shot, and loud voice. I wasn't the fastest, but I knew how to boss a midfield.
Now, I can't even boss the cones.
_________________________________________
The breaking point came in training one day.
The first team's staff had come to observe the U20s. Everyone was tense, everyone but them.
Kaká was there, light and quiet, like always. He'd come down from first-team recovery just to watch.
The coach called him over for a small demonstration. He jogged, turned, split a pass through a tight grid like it was nothing.
The assistant whistled. "That's what it should look like."
And I swear, everyone nodded like he'd said something divine.
I was standing fifteen meters away, sweat sticking my shirt to my chest, legs heavy, and something just burned in me.
When it was my turn in the same drill, I overhit my first pass.
The coach blew the whistle. "Control, Matheus! You're forcing it!"
The next one, I under-hit, and the defender intercepted.
Next, I turned the wrong way.
After ten minutes, he shouted, "Enough. Go stretch."
That was the last time I touched the ball that morning.
In the locker room after, I sat listening to the water pipes thud behind the wall.
Roni walked past, gave me a short nod, that same quiet, unreadable face. I used to think it meant respect. Now it felt like pity.
Moraes tried to talk to me once after that session.
"You all right?"
"Fine," I said.
"You don't look fine."
"Then stop looking."
He didn't bother me again.
_________________________________________
The next week, Diego came back from injury.
He was sharper, leaner, and loud again. The coaches clapped after his first finishing drill.
"That's how you move off the shoulder," the coach said.
I watched from midfield, half listening, half boiling.
When the scrimmage started, I told myself I'd prove them wrong. Show them I still had it.
The ball came to me in the center circle , I turned too slow, Diego closed in, stole it clean, and scored.
The coach shouted, "Good pressure, Diego!"
No one said anything to me.
At lunch that day, everyone was talking about Kaká's match in the the first team, how he'd come off the bench and almost assisted.
Even the cafeteria staff were whispering about it.
"Such a humble boy," one of them said. "You see him smile? Like sunshine."
I almost laughed out loud. Sunshine.
I took my tray and ate alone near the back window, where the sunlight actually stung.
The thing is, I don't hate them.
Not really.
I hate how easy they make it look.
Like they were built for this.
Like the rest of us are extras in someone else's story.
_________________________________________
The coaches stopped talking to me about tactics.
They just said, "Focus."
And when you start hearing that word, you know what it really means: We're giving up.
I'd go home after training and turn on the TV.
Highlights. Always Kaká. Always the same headlines:
"Sixteen-Year-Old Sensation."
"São Paulo's New Maestro."
He'd talk politely if you engage him, thanking God, thanking the team, thanking the coaches, thanking his family. Not a single word about luck or talent, just effort.
I couldn't even bring myself to hate him.
Because he wasn't fake. He meant every word.
That made it worse.
One evening, after another bad training session, I stayed late.
The floodlights were on, insects buzzing through the glare.
The field was empty except for the maintenance guy dragging hoses across the grass.
I took a few balls and started shooting from a distance. First one over. Second, wide. Third, the keeper dummy I imagined didn't even flinch.
On the fourth, the ball hit the crossbar, bounced back, and smacked me in the chest. I laughed, but it didn't sound like me.
When I looked up, someone was watching from the stands.
It was Diego.
He jogged down the steps, still in his training kit.
"Late shift?" he asked.
"Something like that."
He picked up one of the stray balls and passed it back to me, soft and easy.
"Rough week?"
"Rough year," I said.
He nodded like he understood. "Happens."
I wanted to snap at him. Say, Easy for you to say. But the way he stood there, calm, quiet, it stopped me.
"I don't get it," I said finally. "I train, I work, and somehow it keeps getting worse."
He shrugged. "Maybe you're trying to force it."
"Force it? What am I supposed to do? Wait for what? Luck?"
"No," he said. "Just wait for the right moment. Find your rhythm."
I frowned. "What?"
"Luck happens once. Rhythm stays."
He said it like it was obvious.
Then he smiled, faint but real. "You used to move easily, freely. You've got that thing, balance. You just forgot how to use it."
I didn't answer.
He clapped my shoulder once, firm. "Don't chase it angry. It doesn't work that way."
Then he left, boots scraping the concrete.
For a few seconds, I stood there staring after him, the sound of sprinklers starting again.
I picked up another ball, took a shot, and missed again.
_________________________________________
The next morning, I woke up sore everywhere , back, legs, even my hands. I still went in early.
The coach didn't even notice.
He was too busy watching Diego run shooting drills and Moraes organize the midfielders.
When I finally got subbed into the scrimmage, ten minutes before the end, my first pass went straight out.
The coach blew the whistle. "Focus!"
That word again.
I wanted to scream. But I didn't.
I just nodded and played on.
By the next month, I'd become a name they didn't mention.
Not on the sheets. Not in the post-match talks.
Just gone, like chalk lines washed off the board.
I heard someone say they might loan me out next season. Somewhere smaller.
At lunch, I sat across from Roni once. He was eating in silence like he always did.
He looked up at me after a while. "You all right?"
"Fine," I said automatically.
He didn't talk. He didn't ask. Just nodded and went back to his food.
But that question , you all right , it stuck.
Because I wasn't.
A few nights later, I went to watch the first team play Flamengo on TV. My father still follows every São Paulo game.
He sat beside me, wearing the old jersey. "Look at that boy," he said, pointing as Kaká assisted again.
"He plays the game like a song."
I nodded, pretending to agree. But inside, it twisted.
My father turned to me. "You used to move like that."
"Maybe," I said.
"Not maybe. You did. What happened?"
I didn't answer.
When the game ended, he patted my knee.
"Get it back."
As if it were that simple.
I stopped staying late after that.
Stopped doing extra drills.
Stopped trying to look eager.
What was the point?
The coaches had their favorites. The headlines had their heroes. The rest of us were just names that filled the team sheet when someone else got injured.
I still showed up. Still ran. Still listened.
But the fire? Gone.
When people asked how training was, I said "fine."
When they asked about the future, I said "we'll see."
I think that's when I disappeared , not when I stopped scoring, but when I stopped caring if I did.
One afternoon, I passed by the youth field after therapy.
The U20s were playing a friendly.
Diego scored twice.
The boys cheered, Moraes shouted something about shape, and Roni lifted his arm to clap.
From the other side of the fence, I watched.
Kaká was there too, in first-team gear, laughing with the coaches. The crowd near the fence was whispering, smiling, and taking pictures.
But I didn't move.
I just stood there, watching, invisible behind the wire.
The next day, my name wasn't on the training sheet.
No explanation. No conversation.
I sat in the stands, waiting for someone to say something. No one did.
At lunch, my spot at the table was already taken.
By a new midfielder. Younger.
He looked nervous, eyes darting around like a kid on his first day.
I wanted to tell him it doesn't last, that the excitement fades, that the cheers go quiet, but what good would that do?
So I smiled instead.
"Welcome," I said.
He nodded, relieved, and thanked me.
I went back to my food. It tasted like nothing.
That night, I lay in bed thinking about everything, the drills, the noise, the moments I wasted being angry instead of better.
I realized Diego had been right.
I'd been chasing it angry.
And anger doesn't win. It burns until there's nothing left.
I used to love the sound of the ball hitting the net.
Now? I feel nothing.
That's how I know…I'm faded.
Author's Notes:
Diego and the other U20 characters had been missing for a while, this explains what's happening. Kaka still goes back and meets his ex teammates, ex coaches whenever he has time.
I wanted to write this mainly to show the two sides of it. One coming out of an injury with people helping and supporting, and him accepting. The other who kept hitting the rock bottom and didn't have a proper support system.
It is important to have that in every aspect of life imo. And that space that Moraes was in, it is dangerous. That's how passions die. That's how dreams die. It isn't the lack of talent, it is the lack of nurture.
Let me know what you think.
Tell me if you are okay with having chapters like these in between. I plan to have some more like these, talking about mental health issues of professional footballers. I have first hand knowledge of some footballers dealing with stuff, so I want to include them in this story.
I am asking for your thoughts because I want to grind the Milan arc and give more chapters.
So, if I know what you want, I could try to fit it in and if you absolutely hate something, I could try to take something out.
Comment your thoughts.
Looks like we shall have a part time model/weather girl for his first girlfriend, some R18 chapters, and a summary for the time skip.