The air at Guarulhos still smelled faintly of croissants and jet fuel when we landed back in São Paulo. My body was home, but my mind was still somewhere over Marseille. The memory of stadium chants, the sea of yellow jerseys, the thunderous roar when Ronaldo scored. It felt like a heartbeat lingering in my chest.
Mamãe had been talking nonstop since our arrival. About the food. About the culture. About the smell.
Papai, quieter but steady, just nodded with that knowing smile whenever my mom would talk about the trip.
Digão, of course, couldn't stop showing off. He would wear his French cap, show off his Eiffel tower keychain and all the stuff to his friends as soon as we came back.
But, my grind starts again without any rest, because in my hands was the envelope from the CBF. The Brazilian U20 national team youth camp would start July 12 at Granja Comary. I had barely unpacked my suitcase from France before I had to pack it again. No rest, no time to deal with the jet lag. I am going to get a first hand experience of being a footballer.
Diego had an accident during the break and broke his hand. It is incredibly sad that he is going to be missing the camp. I don't know how this will affect his chances to be in the team. I am going to be going alone.
My mom and dad dropped me at the bus station.
"You'll call when you get there?" my mom asked.
"Of course."
"Eat well. Sleep early." Her eyes were misty.
"I will."
"And listen to your coach."
"Always."
She looked like she didn't want me to leave. She looked at me as if I would disappear.
"I am going to a football camp, not war. Relax, will you? I'm going to be back in a week" I told her as I hugged her.
Papai clapped my shoulder. "Remember Kaká! You're going to be representing the country. So, be disciplined. Do not cause any issues. Listen to the coaches and joy, my boy. Never forget joy. Enjoy football."
The whistle blew for boarding. It was time to leave. I felt a tightness in my chest. I would miss my mom. Her laughter. Her cooking. Her support. The confidence my father gives me. Even the little shit who keeps me humble.
"Vai com Deus, meu amor," she whispered. ("Go with God, my love.")
"I will, Mamãe."
I looked into her eyes. She was openly crying now. It broke my heart. I would miss her as well. But, this is my journey now. I need to get used to this. I let go, gave her a smile and boarded the bus.
My journey towards national greatness begins now!
The air in Teresópolis was thinner than São Paulo's. The bus that brought me up from Rio wound through the green folds of the mountains, until it reached the familiar gates of Granja Comary: the national training center. I had seen it countless times on TV, but seeing it in person felt different. I don't know how to describe it. It just felt more.
When the bus stopped, I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass for a second before stepping out. My bag felt heavier than usual, even though I had packed light. Maybe it was the weight of the yellow badge I was about to wear.
A tall man in a blue tracksuit stood near the entrance, his whistle hanging loosely around his neck. His hair was graying at the sides, but his posture had the calm confidence of someone who had seen many young talents rise and fall. Two other people dressed in similar attire were beside him.
"Ricardo Izecson?" he asked. His voice carried the tone of authority wrapped in warmth.
"Yes, sir," I said quickly, straightening my back.
"Welcome to Granja Comary," he said with a faint smile. "I'm João Carlos. Coach of this camp. You'll call me coach João or mister. You're the last to arrive. Let us go inside. Others are waiting. We will talk more in the following days."
I nodded, heart pounding.
He gestured toward the main hall, where a group of boys my age, or a little older, were milling around, laughing, tapping each other's shoulders.
Inside, a big white board hung on the wall, filled with papers pinned in neat lines. Across the top was a bold header:
SELEÇÃO SUB-20 — JULY CAMP SCHEDULE (12–20 JULY, 1998)
I stepped closer to read.
06:30 — Wake up and prayer (optional)
07:00 — Breakfast
08:00 — Physical conditioning (gym & track)
09:30 — Tactical drills (pitch 2)
12:00 — Lunch
14:00 — Team meetings / video analysis
16:00 — Evening Snacks
17:00 — Training match / technical skills
19:30 — Dinner
20:30 — Curfew
Someone behind me whistled. "They want to kill us, brother,all business and no fun" he said in a teasing tone. I turned around to see a tall, curly-haired guy smiling, Ronaldinho.
I froze for a second. I recognized him instantly. His grin was unmistakable. He is not yet the legend. He is also just starting his career. He is at Gremio now.
"First time here?" he asked.
"Yeah," I admitted.
He clapped my shoulder. "Don't worry. The fact that you're here means that you're special. They'll take care of us. I'm Ronaldinho."
I'm shaking hands with my hero. In my past life, I had a few heroes. People who made me feel what joy must be like. Ronaldinho would be on that mount rushmore for me.
"I'm Ricardo. People just call me Kaká"
"Ah! I've heard of you. The hotshot from Sao Paulo. Didn't you win the golden ball at the Paulista?"
"Yeah. I don't know about hotshot and all. We had a good team and we did alright. We didn't win anything else. Just the Paulista."
"That's enough, hero! Most people don't win anything in their lifetime. Don't look down on it. But you are the talk of the town. The one who broke records, and you're what? 12 years old?"
"I'm 16" I felt embarrassed. He was teasing me. I was being teased by Ronaldinho.
"Naah! You don't look 16. Maybe 13" and he started walking towards others. I followed him.
Nearby, Edu and Fábio Pinto were juggling a ball with impossibly quick touches. The ball never touched the ground. Each tap was light, almost arrogant, like they were daring gravity to intervene.
I tried not to stare too much, but inside, something burned. These weren't just kids, they were the best of Brazil's youth. I was the youngest here, sixteen, surrounded by players already rumored to be future professionals.
Soon, we were called into the meeting room. João Carlos stood at the front, holding a clipboard.
He looked around the room slowly before speaking.
"Gentlemen," he began, "you are here because you have talent. But talent is nothing without sacrifice."
His words hung in the air, measured, deliberate.
"This camp isn't just about choosing players for the World Youth Championship. It's about testing who among you understands what it means to wear the shirt of Brasil."
A murmur ran through the group.
"We'll train twice a day. You'll eat together, study together, and live together. You'll be tired, maybe even angry. But when we play, I want you to play as one heart. Not as stars."
He paused, and assigned each person to their respective coaches. Then he looked right at me.
"Ricardo. You're with the midfielders. You train under Amaral."
"Yes, coach" I said automatically, even though my throat felt dry.
After the meeting, we had lunch, a simple meal of rice, beans, chicken, and farofa. The dining hall buzzed with chatter in a dozen accents and tones. Some players had already played in top-tier clubs. Some were quiet like me, eating carefully, listening.
As I picked at my rice, Ronaldinho slid onto the bench beside me.
"So, Paulista," he said with a grin. "How many goals did you score this season?"
"Twenty-one," I said, embarrassed.
He raised an eyebrow. "Twenty-one? That's no joke."
I shrugged. Now, I wanted to boast a bit. "And, twenty-nine assists."
That earned a low whistle.
"I see why they called you."
He leaned closer. "But here, it's not about numbers. It's about style. The coach wants to see if you can dance in our rhythm."
"Your rhythm looks, unpredictable," I said, remembering his elastic dribbles.
He grinned wider. "That's the idea."
Throughout the lunch, I kept yawning. And I looked like I would just fall down on my face and sleep.
"Are we boring you, babyface?" Leandro asked.
"No, I just came back from France. I went to watch the semi-final. I didn't even get to rest or sleep. I boarded the bus and didn't get much sleep either. So, I am dead tired. Sorry guys!"
That stopped everyone in their tracks. And a hundred questions flew in. About the match, about the players, about the atmosphere, everything.
I smiled and answered everything.
After lunch, someone rolled a big television into the common room.
An old Philips box set, perched on a wheeled stand, wires snaking toward the wall socket. The antenna needed constant adjusting, so one unlucky staffer stood nearby, hand poised to twist it whenever the picture fuzzed.
It was July 12, 1998.
The World Cup Final. France versus Brazil.
Even though it was technically the senior team's battle, every boy here felt it as our own.
João Carlos entered the room last, arms folded, and gave a curt nod.
"We don't just watch as fans. We watch as students of the game. Win or lose, we will learn something from today. So, pay attention"
When the anthem started, we all stood.
Some sang, some murmured. Ronaldinho placed a hand over his heart. I did the same.
The camera panned across our legends Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Dunga, Cafu, Roberto Carlos. My heroes, some of them. Legends, all of them.
And in that crowded room of youth hopefuls, there was an unspoken vow: Someday, I will be there.
The kickoff whistle sounded, and a cheer erupted.
Plastic chairs scraped the tile as everyone leaned forward.
For the first ten minutes, it was tense but balanced. Brazil pressed high, France looked sharp in midfield. Zidane glided across the screen like he was skating.
"Mano," Ronaldinho muttered, eyes wide, "he floats."
Zidane. The legend himself. Watching him play live is something else altogether. And he was at his peak in 1998. He looked like he was untouchable. The sheer aura. His grace. The way he dribbled. OMG! I was completely mesmerized all over again.
Then, in the 27th minute, came the first blow.
Corner kick. Petit swung it in. Zidane slipped free of his marker, bang, header. Net.
1–0 France. Lift off for France.
The room fell silent.
The TV commentator's Portuguese voice cracked through the static:
"Gol da França, Zinedine Zidane, de cabeça"
João Carlos, rubbed his chin slowly. "Watch the marking," he murmured. "Space at the near post. No one tracked the run."
We watched again, the replay flickering. Dunga yelling, Ronaldo looking frustrated. Someone cursed under their breath.
By halftime, it was 2–0. Another header by Zidane. Same story, corner, lost mark, despair.
I pressed my knuckles to my knees. "Zidane is ridiculous. Our defense cannot seem to hold him back" I whispered.
Ronaldinho sighed. "He's special. Moves when you blink."
When the whistle blew for halftime, João Carlos stood up.
"Okay. Lesson time. What do you see?"
Silence. No one spoke.
Then I took the initiative and said. "France presses in packs. Brazil hesitates when we lose the ball. And we don't have an answer to Zidane. He is tearing us apart with his passes, his speed and his movement"
João nodded. "Good. Transition speed. That's the key difference. Remember that in our sessions."
The second half started.
We cheered every time Ronaldo touched the ball, hoping for that flash of magic. But something was off, his runs were mistimed, his touches heavy. The French defense, led by Desailly and Thuram, strangled every move.
We roared when France were down to 10 men.
We were hoping for a miracle. I knew from my past that it wouldn't come. But, I was hoping. I was hoping that things would be different.
But, when Petit scored the third in stoppage time, sealing it 3–0, my hope vanished. That goal was made in Highbury, finished in Paris. Vieira to Petit. Arsenal players.
I knew the result, but I didn't remember the match. It had been a very long time even seeing the highlights. But, it still hurts. Watching it live, here with my team, it was devastating.
The final whistle sounded.On the screen, blue shirts flew into the air. The French crowd roared. The camera found Zidane again, arms wide, face calm, the stadium bowing before him.
Beside me, Ronaldinho whispered, "We'll come back. Brazil always does."
We watched the ceremony in silence. The crowd was devastated.
João Carlos turned off the TV.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then he spoke, voice steady but firm.
"Look closely at what you just saw. Not the score, the discipline. France played with unity, shape, belief. That's what wins tournaments. Talent shines, but only inside structure."
He looked at us, thirty young players sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide.
"Tomorrow, when you step on the pitch, I want you to remember this feeling. The sting of losing. The hunger to do better. That's what separates a good player from a champion."
He paused, letting the silence stretch.
Then, softer: "Your generation will have a chance to fix this story."
I sat there long after everyone drifted back to their dorms.
The screen had gone dark, but the ghost of the match replayed behind my eyelids, Zidane's header, Ronaldo's bowed head, the roar of the crowd.
I vowed to myself. I will do better. I will eclipse these performances. I will show them how it is done.
That night, I lay in my bunk, listening to the soft hum of crickets outside. I was so tired from my journey, and the restlessness was catching up to me. My mind is full of everything that awaited me, the drills, the matches, the pressure.
But mostly, the thought that tomorrow, I'd train with Brazil's future.
And, if I worked hard enough, prove myself, I could belong among them.
The early morning sun crept over the hills surrounding Teresópolis, brushing the misted slopes of Granja Comary. My boots felt snug and familiar on my feet, the laces tied tightly, as though the perfect knot could somehow anchor my nerves. Today was the first day of the national youth camp for the 1999 World Youth Championship, and I could feel every heartbeat hammering like a drum in my chest.
"Muito bem, meninos!" ("Very well, boys!") Amaral's sharp voice cut through the morning mist. "Let's start with mobility and passing. Eyes open, brains on the pitch!"
I swallowed and nodded. Amaral blew the whistle, and we moved into drills. Triangles, one-twos, overlapping runs , the pitch became a living puzzle of angles, passes, and movement. My legs felt heavy at first, the new intensity demanding every ounce of energy. But soon, patterns emerged. I could anticipate Fábio's run before he made it, spot Edu opening the space between defenders, thread passes I hadn't yet dared to try back home.
Thank you dear Xavi for the exercises. They're working. My spatial awareness is getting better day by day.
During the first rondo, Ronaldinho slipped a subtle ball between two defenders right to my feet. I took one touch, and slipped it along the inside to Coelho, who accelerated and finished cleanly. Amaral clapped sharply. "Excellent!"
Ronaldinho jogged up beside me, his grin wide.
I nodded at him. I couldn't help it, but I was looking forward to playing with him. And I wanted his approval as well. I was reaching out to him during breaks. I was shadowing him. I was acting just like an obsessed fanboy. And I didn't care. I wasn't crossing boundaries, I wasn't making him uncomfortable, but I wanted to make a good impression.
Lunch was a blur of rice, beans, grilled chicken, and papaya, the kind Mamãe would have made with love. I ate with Fábio, Matuzalém, and Juan, exchanging stories of local leagues, past matches, and small jokes.
"Man, that pass you did to Coelho was sweet," Matuzalém said. "You've got vision, but sometimes your hesitation costs you. Push yourself."
I nodded. "Yeah, I get that. The team is new, so I am trying to understand how everyone moves. And plays. That's why I am hesitating"
The afternoon was tactical. Amaral drew imaginary lanes in the dew-laden grass, gesturing at shifts and rotations. "Football is geometry," he said. "Triangles, angles, balance. Joy with logic. Anticipate, adjust, execute."
We moved through pressing drills, overlapping runs, and simulated game situations. Every step required calculation, intuition, and speed. By the end of the session, my calves were screaming, lungs burning, but there was a spark I couldn't ignore, the thrill of being part of something bigger, a machine of collective skill and intelligence.
During an internal match later, I found a fleeting opportunity: a ball floated toward me, defenders closing in. I stopped it, one touch, dribbled past one, then another, and slotted it to Edu, who scored. The team cheered, Amaral clapped, and Ronaldinho gave me a nod that said more than words. That moment , the connection, the instinct, the joy, it was exactly why I loved this game.
After practice, as we cooled down by the lake, I sat on the grass, boots off, reflecting.
France was behind me now, the World Cup semi-final vivid in my memory. Mamãe, Papai, and Digão, their smiles, their cheers, they were my foundation. Here, at Granja Comary, the future felt alive under my feet, buzzing in every pass, in every laugh, in every sharp whistle of the coaches.
The next morning, the mist clung low to the pitch, heavy and damp, but Amaral refused to let it slow us down. "Weather waits for no man, boys! Move!" His whistle sliced through the haze, sharp and insistent. I laced up my boots again, feeling the familiar hum of nerves and excitement.
The first drill was positional awareness under pressure. Amaral laid out cones in tight grids, forcing us to move constantly, anticipate each pass, and think several steps ahead.
"Remember," he called, "a player without vision is a shadow! Move before the ball comes to you!"
Ronaldinho leaned over slightly, flicking the ball casually between his feet. "Watch how they shift, Kaká. Read their eyes, their weight. The ball will tell you everything if you know how to listen."
I nodded, following his advice. During one sequence, the ball rolled to me under heavy pressure. I controlled it, shifted my body, and saw Edu make a diagonal run. Without hesitation, I threaded a pass, precise and smooth. He sprinted, received it, and placed the ball into the corner. Amaral's hand clapped sharply. "Good!"
Later, during a rondo, I felt the pace pick up. Ronaldinho skated past three defenders as if gravity had forgotten him, then slipped a soft pass to my path. I took it in stride, controlled it, two touches, and immediately switched the play to Fábio on the flank. I got another nod of approval from the coach.
After the drills, we were split into small-sided matches. I played as an attacking midfielder, trying to combine instinct with the tactical instructions Amaral had drilled into us. Despite being the youngest, the other boys treated me as a teammate, not an anomaly. There was no isolation here, only challenges, guidance, and camaraderie. This was so different to my experience in the U17 team. Every single one of them here is nicer. Maybe this is why Brazil had so much success.
Look at England. The so-called golden generation. Divided by their club loyalty. Rio Ferdinand said that the Man United players wouldn't even sit near Liverpool or Chelsea players. Arsenal players are separate. Lampard agreed. Gerrard says the same. Even Rooney, he said the same in many interviews. What use is their world class talent, if they cannot coexist in a national team. Pathetic in my opinion.
That team they had should have won a big trophy irrespective of the coaches or the systems.
Neville, Ferdinand, Terry, Campbell, Cole. Gerrard. Scholes. Lampard. Beckham. Joe Cole. Owen. Rooney, Heskey.
What a fucking waste of talent.
I decided that wherever I go, I will try to develop a camaraderie with the team. I will help the young ones. I will listen to the experience.
During one internal match, I found a small pocket of space near the edge of the box. A pass came to me from Juan, defenders closing fast. I took a touch, spun, and hit a low shot. The ball sailed past the keeper's outstretched hands into the net. Goal. A rush of exhilaration shot through me, and my teammates cheered. Ronaldinho jogged over, clapping me on the back. "Good finish. Timing, confidence, you have it. But you still hold back, Paulista. Be free!"
I laughed, breathless. " Soon, I'll try to be as free as you, and I am trying to keep up."
He grinned. "You don't try to keep up. You find your rhythm. Each of us has it differently. Learn yours."
Lunch brought the familiar scents of beans, rice, grilled meats, and seasonal fruits. I sat with Matuzalém and Coelho, the conversation ranging from tactical observations to light teasing about missed passes.
I went away to get water. And I could still hear the conversation faintly.
"You saw that ball Kaká threaded to Edu?" Coelho asked. "Clean. He's faster with his vision than most of us at his age."
Matuzalém nodded. "Yeah, but he hesitates sometimes. A fraction of a second costs you in these games."
I knew that I was not doing my 100%. I am a bit hesitant since these players are new to me, and I am tired. So, I am a bit off my game. I hope I put on a display for them. I had my moments, but I could still do better.
The afternoon was filled with tactical scenarios. Amaral positioned us in shifting formations, explaining movement patterns and pressing triggers. "Football is a conversation without words," he said. "Your legs speak, your eyes answer. Anticipate before it happens."
I moved through drills, tracking runners, adjusting positioning, and feeding passes. The internal match that followed was intense. I spotted a narrow gap between two defenders and received a quick pass from Ronaldinho. I faked a turn, slipped through the space, and sent a pass to Juan, who finished cleanly. Amaral's approving nod was a quiet but powerful reward.
Afterward, I found a moment to talk with Ronaldinho on the sidelines. "Your control, your dribbles, I've never seen anything like it. How do you make it look so easy?" The inner fanboy in me couldn't help myself. This was fucking Ronaldinho!
He laughed softly, the ball spinning lightly on his foot. "It's rhythm, not speed. Patience, feel, and imagination. Watch, then practice. Never force it."
I nodded, eyes wide. "Could you, may be show me some of your tricks sometime?"
"Of course," he said. "But first, understand the game itself. Tricks without understanding are just flair, not intelligence."
By late afternoon, fatigue was heavy, but spirits remained high. We ran conditioning drills, sprints, and finishing sequences. My lungs burned, calves ached, but every touch, every pass, every sprint felt like a connection to something larger, to the history of Brazilian football, to the collective energy of my teammates, and to the quiet promise that I was here because of talent, hard work, and relentless desire.
As the sun dipped behind the hills, we cooled down near the lake. The water reflected the orange sky, calm and inviting. I just sat there, calmly reflecting on everything. And playing masterclass videos on the system. I never forgot about those.
The next day my legs were heavy, my touch not as sharp. Maybe I was trying too hard to prove that I belonged. Maybe it was the altitude, the fatigue, or just nerves, but during the tactical drill, everything I did seemed half a step late.
Mister João divided us into two squads for a possession game: six versus six, tight space, two touches maximum. The ball zipped around like lightning. Amaral barked corrections from the sideline.
I tried to settle a pass from Edu, but my first touch was too long. Ronaldinho pounced and stole it cleanly.
"Valeu, garoto!" ("Thanks, kid!") he laughed, spinning away.
I chased, too eager, fouling him clumsily.
The whistle shrieked.
"Stop!" João Carlos's voice cut through the air.
"Ricardo, over here."
My stomach twisted as I jogged toward him.
He waited until I was standing beside him, hands behind his back, eyes calm. "What are you thinking before diving recklessly?"
I hesitated. "I just wanted to win the ball back"
"That's your mistake." He pointed to the pitch.
"At this level, you don't react emotionally , you prepare. Before the ball comes to you, you already know your next pass. Your body, your eyes, your rhythm, all must speak the same language. You lost the ball, your touch hasn't been great today, I can understand the jet lag, I can understand exhaustion. But, you should not give in. Fight the exhaustion. Play around it. What you shouldn't do is react emotionally after losing a ball, you take a step back, get back into the formation and do your best to win it back then. A foul like that could be a card, could be a free kick, could be an injury. Your idea was right. The execution was wrong."
He took a step closer. "You have vision, Ricardo. But vision without execution is just daydreaming."
I nodded quickly, cheeks burning.
"Yes, Coach."
He wasn't angry, though. His tone was measured, almost gentle. "You're sixteen. You'll make mistakes. The question is whether you learn quickly enough that they don't repeat."
Then he turned back toward the group and blew his whistle. "Play on!"
The game resumed.
This time, I forced myself to breathe. When the ball came to me again, I scanned first, left shoulder, right shoulder, teammates, space. I had a point to prove.
Edu's marker drifted wide. I used one touch to roll the ball across my body, then slipped a pass through the gap.
Clean. Smooth.
"Aí, garoto!" Amaral shouted approvingly.
I felt my chest lighten.
Later that afternoon, João Carlos called me aside after training.
"Do you know why we're strict about spacing and timing?" he asked.
"To keep possession?" I guessed.
He smiled faintly. "Partly. But also to teach patience. In football, in life, not every opening is a door. Sometimes it's a trap. Learn to wait for the right moment."
He looked out over the empty pitch. The sunset stretched long across the grass, turning the goal nets gold.
"When you came here, I heard about your goals and assists in São Paulo," he said. "Impressive numbers. But national football is different. Every movement has weight."
I nodded. "I understand, Coach."
He nodded. "Good. Because one day, you'll need to lead others. And leaders must first learn to listen."
That night, in the dorm, I replayed that phrase again and again. Leaders must first learn to listen.
It echoed in my mind as the sounds of laughter and snoring filled the room.
He was right.
In São Paulo, I was the bright young talent who could change a game. Here, I was a small piece in something bigger, a system, a dream shared by thirty boys chasing one impossible jersey.
The sun had barely risen when Amaral's whistle pierced the morning air. Mist lingered low over the fields, each blade of grass heavy with dew, and I could feel my muscles stiff from yesterday's intensity. But excitement coursed through me, overriding fatigue. Today was another opportunity to push, to learn, to prove myself.
We began with warm-ups that were deceptively simple, short sprints, lateral shuffles, dynamic stretches. "Control your body as well as the ball," Amaral instructed. "Discipline in movement is as important as discipline in thought."
I glanced at Ronaldinho as he casually juggled the ball, seemingly untouchable by gravity.
"Watch," he said with a wink, "the ball is your friend, not your burden."
This fucking show-off!
The morning session focused on combination play. Amaral set up tight grids for two-touch passing sequences, emphasizing movement off the ball. "Anticipation is everything," he repeated. "If you know where your teammate will be before they do, you're already a step ahead."
During one sequence, I found myself in a small triangle with Fábio and Coelho. The ball came to me, I executed a quick one-two with Coelho, spun past Fábio, and immediately fed it to Edu making a diagonal run. Amaral clapped sharply. "Excellent awareness, Kaká!"
Later, during a rondo drill with six attackers against three defenders, I noticed a subtle gap in the pressure. I slipped the ball through with a precise first touch, catching two defenders off balance. Ronaldinho grinned. "Good. Now, try adding deception, feints, pauses. Make them guess."
The internal match that followed was intense.
Teams were shuffled constantly to test adaptability. I played in an advanced midfield role, orchestrating passes and linking the attack. Midway through the second half, a fast counter-attack unfolded: Juan launched the ball forward, I received it near the edge of the penalty area, defenders closing quickly. I feinted right, went left, and threaded a pass to Edu, who calmly slotted it into the corner. The team erupted in cheers. Amaral nodded approvingly. "Excellent! Vision, composure, execution!"
Afterward, as the players gathered for a water break, a few teammates came up to me.
"Kaká, that move in the rondo yesterday, and your pass just now, you're quick to read the play," said Matuzalém.
"We've played against you before; your vision is impressive."
I felt a warm surge of pride. "Thanks. I'm still learning to trust my instincts fully, though."
Fábio laughed. "Just remember, the ball listens more than some teammates."
Afternoon sessions emphasized tactical scenarios. Amaral divided the pitch into zones, simulating opponent pressure and transitions.
"You must move before the ball reaches you. Anticipate shifts, open lanes, and always communicate."
I moved with precision, observing defenders' weight shifts and the subtle openings that appeared. During one drill, Ronaldinho slid a pass in my path. I controlled it, rotated, and played a one-touch through ball to Coelho. The defenders were already out of position. Amaral's nod was brief but meaningful. "Good. You are beginning to understand rhythm."
Later, while resting near the lake, I spoke with Ronaldinho again. "I still can't do everything you do. Your dribbles, vision, it's incredible."
He laughed softly. "Kaká, you have your own strengths. I can teach you tricks, but your game is your own. You are quicker. Your vision is there. Soon, your execution will catch up. You don't need to be flashy when you can get the job done directly."
I nodded. "I want to learn everything I can, though."
"Then pay attention, practice hard, and feel every moment. Tricks are only tools, the game is the teacher."
That evening, after dinner, the dorm was alive with chatter. Some boys thumbed through magazines, others swapped stories of local matches. I sat quietly, taking it all in.
The final session of the day was a scrimmage with tactical emphasis. Teams were set up to simulate game situations: pressing under pressure, defensive rotations, quick transitions. I positioned myself to link the midfield with attack, constantly scanning, moving, anticipating.
Halfway through the game, a long ball came toward me. I controlled it, spotted Edu's run, and played a perfectly timed pass behind the defender. Edu finished cleanly. Amaral's sharp whistle confirmed the quality of the play.
The last days at Granja Comary unfolded in a rhythm that was both exhausting and exhilarating. The morning sun reflected off the dew-soaked grass, as we began drills, stretches, and positional exercises. Amaral's voice was as sharp as ever, guiding, correcting, pushing us. "Discipline, awareness, movement! Football is intelligence in motion!"
I felt more confident now, my first few days' hesitations replaced by awareness, anticipation, and instinct. During a rondo, I slipped a pass between two defenders with a timing that even surprised me. Ronaldinho, grinning, clapped me on the back. "Now you speak the language of the ball fluently," he teased.
Internal matches became more competitive.
We were divided into tactical units, experimenting with pressing patterns, quick transitions, and counter-attacks. I played as an attacking midfielder, orchestrating plays and linking the wings to the center.
In one scrimmage, a long ball came to me near the sideline. I controlled it, feinted, and rotated the ball to Coelho, who sprinted forward. The defense scrambled, but the timing of our passes opened space, and a well-placed finish followed. The whistle blew, goal. Amaral's nod and the team's cheer made the effort worthwhile.
Between drills, the boys teased, joked, and swapped stories. Matuzalém laughed about a missed pass yesterday, Fábio challenged me to a juggling contest, and Edu mimicked Ronaldinho's signature moves.
The atmosphere was competitive, yes, but filled with warmth, mentorship, and camaraderie.
One quiet moment, I approached Ronaldinho. "Teach me the stepovers and feints you use. I want to understand your vision."
He chuckled, spinning the ball effortlessly. We practiced by the sidelines, first slowly, then faster. I stumbled, misjudged touches, and laughed at my own mistakes. "It's harder than it looks," I admitted.
"Harder, yes," he agreed, "but you are learning faster than most. Keep your eyes open, and your heart in the game."
Without even forcing it, I formed a bond with Ronaldinho. He took me under his wing and whenever I reached out to him, pestering about teaching me his dribbles, tricks, feints, he would laugh, but teach me how he does things.
I could use the system to learn all of these. Yes. But, it is not even close to the real thing. The bond we formed, the conversations that followed, silent quips, they're everything. This is more personal. I could always fine tune on these things and make the tricks my own, but I feel like the time spent here with these guys is worth the effort.
Afternoons were dedicated to tactical simulations. Amaral set scenarios for defensive transitions, pressing triggers, and finishing under pressure. I focused intensely, noting defenders' shifts, the opening angles, and the timing of my teammates' runs. During one sequence, I intercepted a pass, quickly turned, and found Fábio making a forward run. The ball slid perfectly into his path. The moment of execution, clean, precise, coordinated, sent a thrill through me.
By the penultimate day, fatigue had accumulated, but so had confidence. We ran final conditioning drills, shooting sequences, and positional scrimmages. I felt myself clicking with the team, understanding subtle cues, the rhythm of passes, and the timing that made the difference between an intercepted ball and a perfect through pass.
During the final internal match, a fast break unfolded. Juan launched the ball forward, I controlled it near the edge of the box, then split the defense with a subtle pass to Edu, who finished cleanly. Amaral whistled sharply. "Beautiful understanding of spacing and timing, Kaká. Good job!"
As the sun dipped behind the hills, the camp day ended with a cool-down jog around the lake. I stretched, boots off, listening to the quiet of the water.
Ronaldinho jogged up beside me. "Kaká, I will tell you something I have been told in the past, talent is nothing without understanding. Keep learning, keep feeling. You have everything to become extraordinary, but stay grounded."
I smiled, grateful. "I will."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "Good. And never forget, football is joy first, intelligence second, and passion always."
The last morning came with a strange quiet.
No whistles. No shouts. No rush to the locker room.
Only the sound of birds echoing off the trees, the mountain mist hanging low over the fields.
For the first time since I'd arrived, the pitch looked still, like it was resting too.
We were gathered by 8 a.m. in the main hall.
The long tables where we had shared countless plates of rice and beans were cleared, except for a few pitchers of juice and baskets of warm pão francês.
Some of the boys looked like they hadn't slept. Others smiled through yawns.
Ronaldinho was juggling an orange near the door, his laughter bouncing off the walls.
I smiled quietly, folding my hands. The air carried that familiar mix of sweat, coffee, and grass.
Then Mister João entered, clipboard under his arm.
Everyone straightened instinctively.
"Sit down," he said, voice even as always.
"Today, we finish."
He looked around, eyes scanning each of us like he was memorizing our faces.
"Seven days," he said softly. "Seven days is not long. But what you've done here, how you've trained, eaten, competed, helped one another, that's what defines a footballer."
He walked slowly between the tables.
"When you wear yellow, you carry more than a shirt. You carry the weight of history, Pelé, Garrincha, Zico, Romário, and you carry the eyes of every child who believes that one day, they can be here."
He stopped near the window, looking out at the mist-shrouded pitch. "We lost the World Cup last week. You all saw it. Painful, wasn't it?"
A low murmur of agreement passed through the room.
He turned back to us. "Then remember that feeling. Because the road back to that final begins here, with boys like you, learning to become men who play for something greater."
I recalled yesterday evening's meeting. Where he gave us the feedback in his office.
"You came here as the youngest," he said, "and you worked like a professional. You listen. You learn. You made mistakes, but you corrected them faster than anyone."
He paused. "You have the touch of an artist, but you're still painting your first canvas. Don't rush to finish it. Let it grow with patience."
His eyes softened. "I see in you a storm. Waiting to be unleashed. Don't rush it. Learn to control it."
"I saw the way you interacted with others. We see you reaching out to Ronaldinho. It is good. Keep making those connections. Learn from each other. No egos. Your attitude has been exemplary. You do not work like a 16 year old. I would like to see you keep this up. But, I also see impatience in you. You need to temper it. Your body is not yet ready for professional football. Club football is not my business, but my advice to you is to take it slow. Grow into your body first, strength comes with patience. All your talent would be wasted if you rush it. You're still 16. You have all the time in the world. I could see a potential star in you. Just like Ronaldinho. You're both artists. But you need to mature."
I just nodded. This is not the first time I have heard that particular talk.
"Thank you, Coach. I will keep that in mind."
He nodded once. "São Paulo has done good work. Keep making them proud."
I came back from my musings when Amaral wheeled in a rack of fresh training jerseys, one for each of us. Not the official match kit, but something symbolic. Embroidered above the crest were the words:
"A Seleção começa aqui." ("The National Team begins here.")
We took turns signing each other's shirts with black markers. Laughter filled the hall again. Fábio drew a smiley face next to my name. Ronaldinho wrote "Keep dancing, Kakazinho."
When it was time to leave, the bus engines rumbled outside.
I stepped out last, taking one final look at the field.
Mister João joined me for a moment, hands in his pockets.
"Feels short, doesn't it?" he said quietly.
"Very," I admitted.
He smiled. "Good. It means you loved it."
We stood there in silence for a few seconds, just the breeze rustling through the trees.
"You'll go far, Ricardo," he said finally. "But promise me something."
I turned to him. "Anything, Coach."
"Never stop enjoying the game. The day it feels like work, you've lost it."
I nodded slowly. "I promise."
He patted my shoulder. "Then you'll be fine."
As I climbed the bus, I looked back once more.
The camp faded behind us, the dorms, the pitch, the mountains, shrinking into a memory that would never quite leave me.
Author's Notes:
I could have divided the chapter into parts, but I wanted the feel of continuation. So, a longer chapter than usual.
A lot of bias went into the characterization, I love Ronaldinho. So, I focused a bit more on that.
I wanted this camp to be a fun, bonding experience and for him to show glimpses of what he could be. I didn't want to add drama or negativity into this setting.
Let me know what you think or if you feel like something is missing please comment. I take feedback seriously.
Thank you for the support!
I would like it if more people joined the discord, so that I could run polls for future chapters. I would like your involvement in some of the decisions.
For example, I would like to run a poll about the year he should move away from Sao Paulo. I want to know your thoughts on that. Or the club he should go to after Milan. Some of those choices, I have my biases, but I would like to know your opinion as well, and if you convince me, I could listen to you and implement the changes.
Here is the link.
https://discord.gg/G2ux7G8RS