Chapter 10: I Thought You Could Catch It
"Ken, you need to grow up faster and come to Europe," Neymar's voice crackled through the phone, half-serious and half-laughing.
"You have to face Messi one day. A duel between you two would be incredible… Wait—no."
Ken lay back on his bed, phone pressed to his ear, listening quietly.
"I'm on the same team as him now," Neymar continued. "If you come to Barça, where would that leave me? That won't work either."
Neymar paused, clearly thinking.
"Hmm… then maybe Real Madrid. That guy there—always chasing greatness, always angry. Only you could suppress him."
Ken finally chuckled.
Neymar was still Neymar—talkative, confident, slightly chaotic. For him to ramble this much, it was obvious he still hadn't fully adjusted to life in Spain.
They talked for a long time, drifting back to memories from two years ago, when both were still teenagers in São Paulo, when football felt simpler.
Eventually, Ken's phone vibrated with a low-battery warning.
"Alright," Neymar said reluctantly. "You better play well. Don't embarrass the São Paulo twin stars."
The call ended.
Ken stared at the ceiling for a moment, then sat up.
Tomorrow was matchday.
---
Ponte Preta Football Club, founded in 1900, was one of the oldest clubs in Brazil. Based in Campinas, their home stadium, Estádio Moisés Lucarelli, could hold just under twenty thousand spectators.
Historically, they were a lower-league team, only reaching the Brazilian Série A in 2011. Last season, they had finished mid-table.
On paper, they were no match for São Paulo.
But Brazilian football was never played on paper.
---
May 27th, 5:00 PM.
São Paulo's opening league match of the season kicked off under clear skies.
Ken sat on the bench, wrapped in his jacket, watching quietly.
The tempo was slow.
Very slow.
Passes were cautious. Duels were half-hearted. Even the crowd felt restrained.
Ken blinked hard once, then again.
If not for Aloísio nudging him with an elbow, he might genuinely have nodded off.
"Careful," Aloísio whispered. "You'll get fined if you sleep."
Ken smiled awkwardly.
He had thought he might get a few minutes. But by the time the final substitutions were used—and even Aloísio himself had gone on—Ken was still seated.
In the end, São Paulo won 2–0, goals from Lúcio and Jadson sealing a comfortable away victory.
A professional win.
Nothing more.
---
On the bus ride back, Lúcio reached over and tapped Ken on the shoulder.
"I heard you almost fell asleep," the veteran said casually.
Ken scratched his head.
"Maybe the afternoon sun…"
Lúcio laughed softly.
"You'll get used to it. Most domestic matches are like this."
He leaned back in his seat.
"We play close to eighty matches a year. If every game were high intensity like Europe, players would collapse."
"Football is still work," Lúcio continued. "We love it—but we also need to survive."
Ken understood.
In short, conserve energy. Pick moments. Endure.
---
May 30th.
São Paulo's first home game of the season.
By six in the evening, Morumbi Stadium was already filling up.
Seventy thousand seats.
Noise rolling like waves.
Compared to Corinthians and Palmeiras, São Paulo's attendance wasn't the highest—but it was still intimidating.
Ken sat on the bench again.
This time, the cold night air kept him alert.
Their opponents were Vasco da Gama, a traditional powerhouse from Rio de Janeiro. Even fans who didn't follow Brazilian football closely knew the name.
Romário.
The Lone Wolf.
This club carried weight.
---
The match kicked off sharply.
By the tenth minute, São Paulo created a clear chance.
Denílson intercepted deep and launched a long pass forward. Fabiano controlled cleanly, combined with Silvinho, then sprinted into space.
The shot came.
Ken half-rose from the bench.
But the goalkeeper tipped it away.
A collective groan rippled through the stands.
Minutes later, Vasco responded with a dangerous counterattack. A low shot skimmed past the post.
The match tightened.
Duels hardened.
The first half ended 0–0.
---
As the players headed toward the tunnel, Ramalho turned and called out.
"Ken. Warm up. You're coming on."
Ken froze for half a second.
Then stood up immediately.
Aloísio clapped him on the shoulder.
"Go on. You're ready."
Ken nodded.
During halftime, substitutes entered the pitch to loosen up.
As Ken stepped onto the grass of Morumbi Stadium, the world seemed to narrow.
The lights.
The pitch.
The distant roar.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
Then—
Smack.
A ball struck him square on the head.
Ken staggered back, startled.
Aloísio stood nearby, hands raised apologetically.
"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I thought you could catch it."
Ken rubbed his forehead, then laughed.
The moment broke.
The game awaited.
And this time—
He would be part of it.