The stadium appeared suddenly, immense and white, its curved roof gleaming under the sun. It felt like a spaceship that had landed to collect 60000 souls.
Security lines stretched for blocks.
Vendors wove between them, shouting prices for water, flags, roasted peanuts.
The air smelled of salt, beer, and paint.
Inside, the first sight took my breath away: the pitch, green, perfect.
We found our seats high on the east side. Below us, both teams were warming up: Brazil in bright yellow, Netherlands in blazing orange.
Ronaldo jogged near the halfway line, his shaved head catching the light. Rivaldo stretched beside him, calm and sharp. Dunga clapped his hands, shouting orders.
Papai's eyes gleamed. "Look at them!"
Digão was already chanting. "Ronaldo! Ronaldo!"
Mamãe clasped her hands in prayer. "Lord, watch over them. And please, no penalties."
I laughed softly. Because I knew what happened in the past life.
"I'll bet you 100€ that it will be penalties"
She glared at me. I laughed.
The national anthems began. The Brazilian section sang so loud the ground seemed to vibrate. When the final note echoed, confetti burst in the air like gold rain.
"Let's watch history," I whispered.
Papai put a hand on my shoulder. "We aren't just watching Kaká. Thanks to you, we are a part of it!"
The referee's whistle cut through the roar. The ball rolled and the stadium exploded.
It was like the sea itself had turned into voices; waves of chants, drums, horns, flags that flickered in the light. The Dutch fans sang "Hup Holland Hup!" in deep orange tides; we answered with "Olê, Olê, Olê, Brasil!"
Every sound shook my chest.
From the first touch, Brazil played like they carried an invisible rhythm, short passes, quick triangles. Ronaldo and Rivaldo moved like twin storms. Dunga marshalled the back line, voice cutting through the chaos.
"Look at that control," Papai murmured.
"Perfect body balance."
Mamãe crossed herself, eyes darting after every run. "They play with faith."
Digão bounced in his seat. "Ronaldo's going to score! I can feel it!"
The first twenty minutes were nervous, heavy with midfield battles. Every time Kluivert or Bergkamp got the ball, the Dutch end roared.
Then came the 22nd minute. Cafu intercepted a long pass and sprinted down the right, slicing through orange shirts. He crossed low into the box. Rivaldo flicked, Ronaldo spun, and Van der Sar's gloves pushed it wide by inches.
I gasped. "That was it!"
Papai nodded. "Patience, filho. Football rewards rhythm, not rush."
The goal came just after halftime.
It started innocently, a through-ball from Rivaldo splitting the Dutch defense. Ronaldo charged, shoulders low, a blur of power and grace.
He rounded Van der Sar with a feint that froze time itself and slotted the ball into the net.
For a heartbeat, the stadium went silent. Then it erupted.
People screamed, jumped, cried. I found myself hugging Papai, then Mamãe, then Digão. The Brazilian flags became a golden storm.
"GOOOOALLLLL!" The announcer's voice cracked, and the chant followed like thunder:
"Ronaldo! Ronaldo! Ronaldo!"
I couldn't stop smiling. My chest felt too small for my heart. That was the football I wanted to live for the kind that made the world believe again.
Papai wiped his eyes, pretending not to tear up.
Mamãe laughed. But you could see the tears on her cheek.
But the Dutch were relentless.
In the 80th minute, Frank de Boer lofted a perfect cross. Kluivert rose above the defense and headed it home.
The orange end of the stadium exploded now, horns blaring.
Mamãe groaned softly. "Oh, Senhor…"
Digão covered his face. "Why now?"
Papai sighed. "Because it's football."
The last ten minutes stretched forever. Every clearance felt like a prayer answered, every Dutch attack a new test. Ronaldo limped once; Rivaldo grimaced.
I held my breath until the whistle finally came 1–1. Into the extra time.
The stadium buzzed with nerves. Some fans prayed; others sang louder to drown their fear.
Brazil attacked first, Rivaldo curling one wide, Bebeto missing by a hair. At the other end, Taffarel saved low from Seedorf.
Papai's voice was steady. "Look at how they manage distance. Even under pressure, they hold formation. That's discipline"
Mamãe didn't answer; she was whispering prayers.
When extra time ended, a strange quiet fell. Everyone knew what came next.
Penalties.
The match had ended, but the world hadn't breathed yet.
The scoreboard read 1–1, but inside the Stade Vélodrome, the air was trembling, alive with prayers, chants, and fear.
Brazil and the Netherlands stood in two huddles under the Marseille lights. The air smelled of sweat, turf, and destiny.
I could hear my heart louder than the crowd. Mamãe's hands were clasped so tight her knuckles were white.
Papai was leaning forward, analytical even now.
Digão was biting the edge of his flag.
And on the field, the heroes lined up for the loneliest walk in football.
Brazil: Ronaldo.
The stadium shook when he picked up the ball.
He kissed his wrist, took many steps back, stared down Van der Sar.
Confident run-up , strike , clean, powerful.
Brazil 1-0 Netherlands.
The yellow end erupted.
"Ronaldoooo!" Digão screamed until his voice cracked.
Mamãe wiped a tear, smiling. "The boy of joy. Deus o abençoe." (God bless him.)
Netherlands: Frank de Boer.
Captain. Calm. Shoulders square.
He stepped up, face like stone. Three steps, a powerful strike to the left. Tarafel read right, but couldn't stop it.
The net rippled.
Orange flared. 1–1 Netherlands.
Papai murmured, "Perfectly placed. No keeper could reach that."
Brazil: Rivaldo.
He placed the ball slowly, eyes like glass.
Soft steps, pause, and a cool push down the right as Van der Sar dove left.
2–1.
Papai whispered, "That's confidence built over years. Controlled heart rate, perfect timing."
Netherlands: Dennis Bergkamp.
A master, elegant and calm even under pressure.
He ran in, right foot slicing through the air, bottom right corner.
Taffarel guessed right, but no saving it.
2–2 Netherlands.
Brazil: Emerson.
He walked to the spot like a man with a promise to keep.
His eyes never left Van der Sar.
He shot low and hard, centre, perfect.
Brazil 3 – 2 Netherlands.
The stands shook. A chant began to roll like thunder: "Taffarel! Brasil! Vamos Brasil!"
Netherlands: Cocu.
He adjusted his socks twice. You could see the nerves.
Strike, Taffarel guessed right, he pushes the ball away! Save!
The yellow half of the stadium erupted.
Digão was jumping, screaming, "He saved it! He saved it!"
Mamãe clapped her hands and looked skyward. "Obrigada!"
Brazil: Dunga.
The captain. The warrior. The heartbeat of Brazil.
He picked up the ball. The noise fell away.
He exhaled once, slow and steady.
Run-up. Strike.
Top left corner.
Van der Sar guessed right but was a moment too late.
GOAL.
4-2
Netherlands: Ronald de Boer.
His brother had scored; now it was his turn to keep hope alive.
He ran, stuttered a bit, shot low , Taffarel read him.
A diving save to his right!
Saved clean.
For half a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then: the universe erupted.
Then the Brazilian half exploded into sound and color. Drums, flags, tears, joy.
"TAFFAREL! TAFFAREL!"
The chant rolled down like waves.
Mamãe was sobbing openly now, laughing through it. Digão hugged me so hard my ribs hurt.
The Brazilian bench sprinted across the field, a tidal wave of yellow.
Taffarel dropped to his knees, hands raised to the sky.
Dunga ran to him, screaming, "DEUS É FIEL!" ("God is faithful!")
Ronaldo and Rivaldo tackled him in joy.
Confetti burst from everywhere, floating through the night like golden snow. In the stands, strangers hugged like family.
A man from Bahia was crying on Papai's shoulder.
A Dutch supporter behind us clapped, respectful even through heartbreak.
Mamãe pressed her hand to her heart. "It's over. It's beautiful."
Papai smiled softly. "It's more than football."
Digão was chanting "Brasil! Brasil!" with the crowd, his voice hoarse.
And me, I couldn't move.
The field below glowed under the floodlights, and every player in yellow looked ten feet tall.
Somewhere deep inside, I felt the smallest spark whisper: Soon, I'll stand there too.
As the players lifted their arms toward the fans, Aquarela do Brasil began to play through the stadium speakers.
Taffarel, still on his knees, drew a cross in the air.
The camera zoomed in on Dunga's face, tears streaking through the sweat.
Behind him, Ronaldo grinned that boyish grin that made the whole world believe again.
Flags waved until they blurred into yellow clouds.
It wasn't just victory; it was a release. Joy, faith, exhaustion, all at once.
Mamãe leaned close, whispering, "You see, meu filho? God answers in His time."
I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes, Mamãe. And today, looks like he wore yellow."
The final whistle had ended long ago, but the sound of it still pulsed through the city.
Outside Stade Vélodrome the streets had turned into rivers of yellow and green.
Trumpets, tambourines, car horns, everything that could make noise was now part of the celebration.
Security guards tried to guide the crowd, but laughter spilled over every barrier.
Vendors were already back at their stalls, shouting in French and Portuguese, selling pastéis fried fresh beside crepes filled with chocolate and banana.
The smell of dough, sugar, and victory clung to the night air.
Papai lifted his face to the breeze. "Salt and smoke," he said, "that's the smell of victory".
I laughed.
He shrugged, proud.
Mamãe wrapped an arm around him. "And food," she added, eyeing a nearby stand. She ordered in careful French, "Deux crêpes au citron, s'il vous plaît" and turned to us. "When life gives you lemons, you put them on pancakes."
Digão took a giant bite and got sugar all over his nose.
"This is the best thing I've ever eaten! Even better than brigadeiro!"
"Don't let your avó hear that," Papai warned, but he was smiling too.
Somewhere ahead, a drum circle started again "Olê, olê, olê, Brasil! Brasil!" The rhythm spread like fire. French locals joined in, some still wearing the blue of Les Bleus, laughing, dancing anyway.
Even a few Dutch fans swayed along, orange scarves around their necks.
A boy about my age, with a Dutch flag painted on his cheek, caught my eye. He gave a small nod, half-smile. I nodded back. No anger remained, only the acceptance.
We followed the singing crowd downhill to the Vieux-Port. Fishing boats bobbed under the moonlight, and the reflections of fireworks turned the water into molten gold.
Cafés had pulled their speakers outside. Someone played João Gilberto, soft bossa nova drifting through the chaos like calm among waves. Couples danced barefoot on the stone pier.
Mamãe sat on the low wall, feet dangling above the sea. She looked at me, eyes soft. "Do you feel it, Ricardo? This air it's full of stories."
"I do," I said. "It feels like home, but louder."
She laughed. "France will sleep; Brazil never does."
And then, suddenly in that moment, she looked at me and said
"Thank you baby! For everything you have given. For making my dream come true. Watching Brazil win the world cup semi-final in France! I couldn't even dare to dream that big. You did. And soon, you will be there, playing. I can feel it. I can see it when you look longingly at the team. He is watching as well. And he sees your hard work. He is going to reward you. For everything you do. For being the greatest son.I love you, my baby" she was tearing up.
I just gave her a sideways hug and we just stayed there for a while. No words were needed. Our tears were enough.
We found a small restaurant still open, a family-run place, white walls, wooden tables, smell of garlic, butter, and grilled fish. The waiter, a young man with tired eyes, smiled when he saw our Brazil scarves. "Félicitations ! (Congratulations!)" he said. "You go to the final, eh?"
"Oui!" Digão shouted, nearly knocking over his chair. Mamãe apologized in French; the waiter just laughed.
We ate bouillabaisse, rich fish stew, crusty bread to soak up the saffron broth and a salad full of bright tomatoes and olives.
When we stepped back outside, it was near midnight. Fireworks erupted above the harbor , green, gold, white bursting in rhythm with the samba drums echoing up from the street.
Mamãe twirled once, skirts flying, laughing like a girl. Papai caught her hand, half-dancing, half-trying-not-to. Digão clapped in time with the beat, shouting "Vamos Brasil!" to the sea.
For a moment I watched them three shapes lit by fireworks and thought: This is what winning feels like. Not medals or headlines, but this, family, laughter, happiness.
The walk back to our small place was quieter. The crowd noise softened into a distant hum. In the narrow streets, cats slept on warm cobblestones. Posters for the final fluttered in the night breeze.
Inside our room, Papai fell onto his bed with a satisfied sigh. Mamãe was unpacking the few souvenirs she'd bought a blue-and-white porcelain cup, a bar of lavender soap, and a packet of herbs she insisted would make the best feijoada ever.
Digão was still talking, half-asleep: "And then Taffarel dove, and everyone screamed, and I thought maybe my heart would explode…"His words faded into snores.
I sat by the window, looking out at Marseille's rooftops, lights blinking like tired stars.
The city smelled of fireworks and the sea. From somewhere far off, a drum still beat faintly the heartbeat of Brazil carried across an ocean.
I opened my notebook, the one I bought in Paris. I wanted to start a journal. To record important moments in my life. Tonight's page began with shaky handwriting:
July 8, 1998.
Marseille.
Brazil 1–1 Netherlands (Brazil 4–2 on penalties).
The night I saw what courage looks like.
I drew a tiny sketch of Taffarel's dive, his fingertips stretch just enough to change everything.
Papai's words from earlier came back to me: "Discipline, courage, faith."
Mamãe's too: "God answers in His time."
I wrote about the food we ate. I wrote about watching my family under the fireworks. I wrote about winning. And dreaming.
I closed the notebook. Outside, the city kept breathing, slow and bright, like it was alive.
I didn't know if I'd wear that same yellow, hear that same anthem from the grass instead of the stands. Nothing is set in stone.
But I knew this: whatever came next, I'd carry this night with me, the roar, the prayers, the lemon sugar on my lips, and the feeling of being small beneath fireworks and still infinite inside.
The next morning began with sunlight slicing through the white curtains of our little hotel.
Downstairs, the owner had set out croissants and pain au chocolat.
Mamãe bit into one and closed her eyes as if it were a prayer.
"Ricardo," she said, her voice dreamy, "how can butter taste like happiness?"
Papai smiled over his coffee. "Because someone engineered it properly."
I nearly choked on my orange juice. "Papai, even croissants are engineering now?"
"Of course. Layers, temperature, timing. It's structural integrity and chemistry," he replied, serious as ever.
Digão giggled, smearing chocolate on his cheek. "Then I'm an engineer too! But a bad one. Because my sandwich always collapses!"
We all laughed, the kind of morning laughter that comes when life feels wide open, and even crumbs on the table seem like proof of joy.
We walked through the market streets, where stalls sold lavender sachets, olives, cheeses, and postcards. The air smelled of thyme and warm stone. A vendor offered us nougat from Montélimar, soft, sweet, full of almonds.
Mamãe bought a small box, saying, "For the plane. We'll taste France one last time before we go home."
By noon we were on a train heading to Lyon.
Outside the windows rolled the countryside of France, lavender fields blurring into streaks of purple, stone farmhouses, golden sunlight.
The air inside smelled faintly of coffee and perfume.
A French family sat across from us; their little daughter wore a blue jersey with Zidane on the back. When she saw our yellow shirts, she grinned and whispered something to her father.
He turned, smiling politely. "Bonne chance pour la finale. (Good luck for the final.)"
"Merci beaucoup!" Mamãe answered, proud of her accent. She'd been practicing her French all week, scribbling phrases in her notebook beside recipes.
Papai was reading a French magazine about bridge design, pointing at diagrams like a man reading sacred texts.
"This arch here," he said, tapping the page,
"look at the load distribution. Magnificent."
"Mamãe," I whispered, "do you think Papai sees bridges in his dreams?"
She chuckled. "He sees God's geometry everywhere. Just like you see football."
I smiled out the window, watching the fields blur by like pages turning too fast.
That evening, we reached Lyon. If Paris was elegant and Marseille wild, then Lyon felt like a quiet heart , red roofs, cobbled lanes, rivers gliding under old bridges.
Our hotel was near Place Bellecour, a square so wide it looked like it could hold all of São Paulo's Sunday markets.
After checking in, we wandered along the Rhône. Streetlights shimmered on the water. People strolled hand in hand; children ate glace à la vanille from little paper cups.
We stopped at a small bouchon lyonnais, a family-run restaurant glowing with warm light. The menu was hand-written, quenelles de brochet, salade lyonnaise, et tarte praline.
Mamãe whispered, "It smells like heaven, doesn't it?"
The owner, an older woman with kind eyes, heard her and laughed.
"Heaven? Oui, madame. But here, heaven comes with butter."
Dinner was slow, like a song.
We shared dishes, each bite an adventure. The quenelles were fluffy, like clouds of fish and cream.
The salade lyonnaise came with crisp bacon and a poached egg that melted into the greens. Digão tried escargot for the first time, after ten minutes of hesitation and one dramatic face.
"Actually," he said, surprised, "it's not bad. Like chewy chicken."
Mamãe clapped her hands. "See? You just need courage to try new things baby. And some faith!"
Papai raised his glass of Côtes du Rhône wine. "To having courage: in football, food, and family."
We touched glasses, orange juice for Digão, sparkling water for Mamãe and me. The moment shimmered like the river outside.
After dinner we walked through Vieux Lyon. Street musicians played accordions, the sound echoed between the Renaissance facades. A couple danced under a streetlamp, their shadows spinning on the cobblestones.
Mamãe squeezed my hand. "You'll remember this, won't you, filho? This is what matters."
"I will, mamãe," I said. "Every light, every sound, every smell, every touch. This trip was special"
She smiled. "It really was. And we documented it well. The photographs. The memories. Thank you for everything Ricardo!"
The next morning we visited the Musée des Beaux-Arts. Paintings hung in quiet light, Monet's lilies, Degas's dancers. Mamãe lingered in front of a still life of bread and grapes.
"Simple things," she murmured. "But look how much love in the way they're painted."
Papai leaned close to a model bridge in a side gallery. "Even art understands structure," he said. "They knew how to balance tension and beauty."
Digão, bored, whispered to me, "Do you think they'd let me draw Ronaldo's goal on the wall?"
I nearly laughed out loud. My brother, the vandal.
Later we walked through a small street market, where an old man sold hand-painted football posters. I bought one, Brazil vs France, on July 12.
On July 10th, we flew back to São Paulo. At the airport, the hall was full of fans, some French, some Brazilian, some just travelers caught in the current of history.
Mamãe bought sandwiches for the flight: baguettes with ham, cheese, and butter so soft it melted instantly. Papai insisted on one last espresso "My body needs caffeine" he declared solemnly.
As the plane climbed, France spread below like a memory, fields, rivers, the sparkle of joy in the distance.
Digão pressed his face to the window. "Do you think we'll come back someday?"
"We will," Mamãe said. "But even if we don't, part of us will stay here."
Papai rested his hand on hers. "And part of France will stay with us."
Somewhere above the Atlantic, with the cabin lights dimmed and everyone asleep, I thought this trip was my gift to them. But maybe it was God's gift to me, to see them laugh, to see them live, to see the world wide and bright before I chase my own dream.
I saw joy shaped like my mother's smile, patience shaped like my father's hands, and courage shaped like my brother's face after eating Escargot.
Football gave me this.
My family made it real.
For the first time, I felt the quiet certainty that everything ahead, the sweat, the training, the dream would be worth it. I am sure of it.
Author's Notes:
Please let me know your thoughts on the style and the content. The last chapter and this one I have tried to change the way I write and looked into references and tried to be more descriptive, more novel like.
I could see a difference. I hope you like it. I hope it works.
Let me know what could be better.
Up next: The national youth camp.