The morning sun felt softer in São Paulo after Granja Comary. Maybe it was the air. Heavy with city noise and the smell of Mamãe's coffee. Not pine trees and mist. Or maybe, you know what, it was just home being home.
"Kaká, o café vai esfriar!" (Your coffee's getting cold!) Mamãe's voice echoed from the kitchen.
"I'm coming, Mamãe," I called back, lacing my shoes fast.
Our house in Morumbi always had this rhythm in the mornings. You know, the smell of bread, the faint sound of the radio playing morning news, Papai already dressed neatly, sipping his coffee, reading the paper. Digão, half-asleep, just poked at his scrambled eggs. It looked like he was still dreaming.
"You know, one day you'll have to wake up early like your brother," Papai teased him.
"Not everyone trains with São Paulo, Papai," Digão muttered, yawning.
Mamãe set a plate in front of me—pão francês, papaya slices, black coffee, and her special omelet with onions.
"You eat properly today," she scolded me. "The first day back with São Paulo, it's important to not rush."
I nodded. "Yes, Mamãe. I will."
After the youth camp, I'd had a single day of rest before rejoining São Paulo. My body felt strong again. The tiredness? Replaced by excitement.
I'd learned a lot at the camp—patience, positioning, teamwork. Standard stuff.
But this? This was different. These weren't just boys chasing dreams. This was the professional world.
Papai lowered his newspaper. Looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "You'll be training with men now, filho. Don't rush. Observe. Learn. They're faster, stronger, smarter."
I smiled. "You sound like Coach João Carlos."
"Well," Papai said, smiling back, "he is right. Turns out he must be a wise man as well." He winked.
I heard my mom scoff from the other side. I laughed. This was what I loved about my family.
By the time we drove into Barra Funda, the sun was already climbing over the rooftops. The facility looked quiet from the outside—white walls, red gates.
But inside? You could feel the pulse of the club. I'd come here countless times with the youth team, but today, stepping through the gates, the badge on my chest felt heavier.
The guard waved me through with a grin. "Boa sorte, garoto!" (Good luck, kid!)
Inside, the atmosphere was different. The senior players arrived in their own cars—most of them imported, talking loudly, joking, and confident.
I tried to blend in. Carrying my boots in my hand. Greeting the staff who already knew me.
"Ricardo, bom dia!" said Zé, the kitman, his hands already full of fresh jerseys. "They put you with the first team, right? Let me check."
"Ah! Locker 22. Near França."
"Obrigado, Zé."
Locker 22. Coincidence? A message from the universe? Planning? I didn't care. I loved it.
The locker room buzzed with voices and laughter.
França was tying his laces.
Müller leaned against the wall chatting with the fitness coach. And Rogério Ceni, the captain, was adjusting his gloves. Calm and precise, like a conductor. He greeted everyone with a quiet nod.
When he saw me, he smiled. "The young prodigy is here finally!"
I was very nervous all of a sudden. "Sir!" I didn't know what to do all of a sudden. I almost bowed to him.
"Call me Rogério. Everyone here's just a player. You do your work, you earn your place."
I nodded. "Yes, sir! I will."
I changed into the red-and-white kit. No number yet, just the club crest. Joined the others on the training pitch.
Coach Nelsinho Baptista blew his whistle at exactly 7:30. His sharp eyes scanned the group, every movement controlled. "Gentlemen," he said, "we start the second phase of pre-season. Fitness is good, now we sharpen the ball. Ricardo will train with us for the next few weeks. Treat him as one of your own."
Right. No introductions. Straight to business. I keep forgetting that we had that party where I've met most of them.
I felt eyes on me. Curious, not hostile. França gave me a thumbs-up. Müller grinned. The veterans knew the drill: young players came and went. It was up to me to show them that I am here to stay.
The warm-up began. Light jogging, dynamic stretches, passing triangles. The sound of boots tapping the ball, voices shouting "vira!" (switch!) filled the air. I stayed on the right side. Alternating between control and movement. Focusing on keeping tempo.
But the difference from the youth sessions hit immediately. The passes came harder. The tempo was relentless. In my first touch drill, the ball from César Sampaio smacked into my shin and bounced away embarrassingly far.
A ripple of laughter passed through the group.
I recovered. Tightening my focus. The next pass came—firmer still—and I absorbed it. Turned, and released with one touch. França's approving nod told me I'd done better.
"Good, garoto," he said. "Don't worry, we all looked like that on our first day."
After morning drills, we gathered under the shade for hydration. The air smelled faintly of grass and the eucalyptus trees beyond the fence. I sat beside Rogério and the defensive line while the coaches discussed tactics for the afternoon.
"Ricardo," said Rogério, turning to me. "You were on the right, yes? Remember, in our system, the right midfielder tracks back when the full-back overlaps. But you also need to stay close enough to transition fast. Think of the triangles. Always triangles."
I nodded, trying to imprint every word. "We do that in the youth setup, but I guess it's quicker here?"
He smiled. "Much quicker. Less time to think. But if you see the space first, you'll survive."
That phrase stayed with me: see the space first.
Xavi said it as well. Scholes said it as well.
At lunch, we gathered in the canteen overlooking the training fields. Plates of rice, feijão, grilled chicken, vegetables. The team atmosphere was lively. But disciplined. I sat near the younger players—Belletti, Denílson, and Edmílson. Still young, but already part of the main rotation.
Denílson grinned as I sat down. "So the prodigy joins us, eh? The coaches said you tore up the Paulista youth matches."
"They exaggerate, I think I did okay." I said modestly. Doesn't he remember our conversation at the party? Maybe he was more drunk than I thought. I didn't mind though.
"Well, don't worry. If you mess up, we'll make you carry our water bottles."
Everyone laughed. Even I couldn't help smiling.
The older players told stories of away trips—endless bus rides, rainy matches in Fortaleza, wild crowds. I listened. Soaking in every word. This was a world built on rhythm and resilience. Not just talent, you see.
In the afternoon, we moved to positional play.
Coach Nelsinho divided us into two groups. I was on the side with Rogério in goal, Belletti at right-back, and a midfield diamond: Sampaio as the anchor, me on the right, Denílson on the left, and França just ahead.
"Compact and sharp," Nelsinho said. "We win it, we break. The wings open, the forward drags space. Kaká, you link the midfield to attack. Don't just run, read."
We began. The drill moved fast. One touch, two touch, switch, move. Every mistake is punished by a shout or a whistle. I lost the ball twice in the first ten minutes. Bad control once, trying to dribble instead of passing the second time. Rookie mistakes.
Nelsinho called me over. His tone was calm, not cruel. "You have the legs and eyes, Ricardo," he said. "But this is a man's game. Space closes fast. When you receive, decide before the ball touches your foot."
I nodded. Sweating. Determined.
The next sequence came. I saw Belletti moving up the flank before the ball arrived. So instead of trapping, I used the inside of my boot to guide the ball straight into his run. Clean. Efficient.
"Better!" the coach shouted.
By the time we finished, my legs felt like lead. The veterans still had energy. Years of endurance built into them. I dragged myself to the locker room.
Peeled off my socks. Let out a breath.
"Not bad, garoto," França said beside me. "The first day's the hardest. You learn the tempo, you adjust."
I smiled. "Feels like I ran through a storm."
"That's São Paulo training. But don't worry, tomorrow when it gets harder, you'll have this experience to call back on."
That night, at home, Mamãe served stroganoff with rice. The table was warm, the laughter familiar.
"So, how was it?" she asked.
"Tiring," I admitted. "The pace is crazy. I messed up a few times."
"Of course you did," muttered Digão. I threw some fruit at him.
"No fighting at the table," came my mom's stern voice.
I just ate in silence. It was very tiring, man. I played matches, I went to youth camp, but the intensity here is much higher. I'm dead on my feet.
After dinner, I went out to the backyard. I thought about Rogério's advice: see the space first.
That is exactly what I've been learning to do from Xavi. Tomorrow, I will show them.
The next morning started the same. 6:30 alarm. Breakfast with Mamãe's toast. Papai's short pep talk before heading to his office. A sleepy "good luck" from Digão.
On the drive to Barra Funda, the city stretched in shades of grey and gold. Morning buses rumbling. Cyclists weaving between cars. Vendors setting up along the street. São Paulo always felt alive before football days.
At the gate, I spotted Denílson arriving in his silver Honda. He waved. "You ready, garoto?"
"As ready as I can be."
"Good. Nelsinho said we're scrimmaging today."
Inside, the players buzzed with energy. A full scrimmage meant competition. A chance for everyone to prove something.
Before we started, the coach gathered us around.
"Today, we test transitions," he said. "4-4-2 versus 3-5-2. I want a high press, compact shape. And I want to see who reads the game."
My heart kicked faster. This was my chance.
The pitch shimmered under the late-morning sun. Heat rising off the turf like invisible smoke. Rogério stood in goal adjusting his gloves. Shouting to the defenders to tighten their line. On the opposite half, Müller bounced lightly on his toes, eyeing us like a predator waiting for a mistake.
I stood on the right side of midfield again. Nervous but grounded. França leaned in before kickoff. "Just play your game. One touch, keep it moving. Don't try to impress anyone, the ball does that for you."
The whistle blew.
The first ten minutes were pure chaos. The tempo was faster than anything I'd known. Passes zipped. Shouts overlapped. Tackles came heavy. I pressed their left-back too late once. Heard Rogério bark, "Closer, Kaká! Anticipate!" I nodded. Sprinting harder the next time. Every run burned. But the rhythm began to settle inside me. Like music I was learning to dance to.
The ball came to me in the 12th minute. I handled it perfectly this time. Soft and close. Then saw Belletti overlapping down the flank. Feinted a dribble inside. Drew the full-back. Then back-heeled into his path. Belletti's cross found França. Whose header forced a sharp save. Applause rippled from the sideline. I caught Nelsinho's faint smile. Nice.
Moments later, though, I was punished. Trying to switch play. I hit a lazy pass across midfield that Sampaio intercepted. In seconds, Müller was through. Slotting it past the keeper.
"Never across the middle!" the coach scolded.
I nodded, frustrated. My lungs felt tight. My pride stung worse than my legs.
But I didn't hide. That was something I'd promised myself after the youth camp. Mistakes were teachers, not traps. The next time I got the ball, I turned quickly. Played it safe to Denílson. Who cut inside, drew two men, and returned the ball into my path. I took one touch and drove it toward the edge of the box before laying it off to França. This time, a clean sequence. Improvement.
At halftime, Nelsinho gathered us under the shade.
"Ricardo," he said, "good support on the right. But when you defend, stay tighter to Sampaio. You're leaving too much space between lines."
I nodded. Grateful for the specific feedback. He turned to the group. "Remember, transitions win games. If you win the ball and hesitate even one second, you lose the advantage."
In the second half, I finally began to feel rhythm.
When the ball moved, I could see the picture before it happened. I intercepted a pass near midfield. Broke forward. Found França with a through-ball between defenders. His low shot kissed the far post and went in. He pointed back at me. "Boa, garoto!"
Inside, something warm flickered. Not pride exactly. But belonging.
That afternoon, the coaches reviewed video footage. It was strange seeing myself on the monitor. A younger kid among men. My frame looked thinner, my strides lighter.
"Watch here," said assistant coach Muricy Ramalho, pausing the tape.
"You drift too wide. Look at the line, you should be here."
He pointed.
I leaned closer. "Because the central channel opens, right?"
He nodded. "Exactly. When you stay connected, we control the rhythm."
They were kind. But firm. Correcting everything: positioning, body shape, defensive timing. I filled half a notebook with scribbles that night. Diagrams of triangles and rotations.
When I got home, Mamãe peeked at the pages.
"You're studying football now like your Papai studied engineering."
I grinned. "Maybe I'll get a diploma in passing lanes."
She laughed. The sound is as light as wind chimes. "As long as you keep that smile on your face, I'm okay with it."
By Thursday, I felt physically stronger. The soreness had become a familiar ache. No longer pain. I arrived early at the training ground. The air was still cool, the sky barely awake. Rogério was already there, jogging slow laps—the ultimate professional. He saw me and gestured. "Come on, Garoto. One extra lap never hurts."
We ran in silence for a while. The rhythmic crunch of our studs is the only sound. Then he said quietly, "You know, I started here almost your age. Everyone looked too strong, too fast. But if you focus on details—your touch, your vision—you can stand out."
"I'm trying," I said between breaths.
"I see that. Everybody sees that. Keep doing it. You'll find your timing."
After the run, I worked on crossing drills with Belletti. We repeated the same motion a hundred times. Sprint, cross, jog back. My right leg felt like lead by the end. Belletti slapped my shoulder. "Your touch is clean, Ricardo. Just add conviction. When you cross, believe in it."
Everybody was being supportive. Maybe they see themselves in me. Maybe they see potential. Or maybe they're just good people. But whenever someone found me, they offered little tips. Little bits of wisdom. I absolutely loved it. They were quick to admonish me whenever I made a mistake. But, they're quick to give praise and correct my mistakes as well.
The next day, the coaches set up small-sided games: 8-v-8, narrow field, two touches max. Perfect chaos.
Every second counted. No space to hide. The rhythm was all instinct.
At one point, I received the ball under pressure, spun past a challenge and slipped a pass between defenders to Müller. He finished with his usual calm. The older players cheered. "This kid sees brilliant passes!" someone shouted. I felt my face burn. Half-embarrassed, half-elated.
Later, I lost the ball trying a nutmeg near midfield. "Showboat later, garoto!" França called, laughing.
I laughed too. The teasing felt like acceptance.
During the water break, the conversation turned to the upcoming Brasileiro season.
"Corinthians look strong," said França.
"Always," muttered Rogério. "But they can be beaten."
Denílson looked at me. "You'll see. The atmosphere in the league games, nothing like youth matches. Thousands screaming, drums, flags. The first time you hear that, it shakes your chest."
I smiled faintly. "I can't wait."
Inside, though, a small fear whispered: could I handle that noise?
Saturday was open training. A few fans were allowed to watch. The stands were filled with maybe a hundred people. Mostly families. It was the first time I'd trained before a crowd since the Paulista final. As I jogged onto the field, a group of kids near the fence waved and shouted, "Vai, Kaká!" My heart stumbled for a beat. They knew my name. Wait, what!?
The drills went smoothly: passing rondos, tactical shape work, shooting patterns. In the shooting drill, I connected sweetly with a half-volley that curled into the top corner. The small crowd applauded.
Even Rogério, retrieving the ball from the net, smiled. "Not bad, Garoto. But don't get used to scoring on me."
After training, some fans waited by the gate. Most wanted autographs from the stars. But one little boy with a São Paulo cap held out his notebook shyly to me. "Can you sign too?" he asked.
My hands trembled slightly as I wrote my name. It felt surreal. Sixteen years old and someone asking for my autograph. My first autograph. I asked for his name. "Thiago," he replied. And I thanked him. It felt surreal. Signing an autograph. I was only 16. I hadn't even made my debut!
Sunday was a rest day. I couldn't really rest, though. I spent the morning in church with the family. The familiar hymns. The peaceful silence afterward.
Football made me restless. But church reminded me to breathe. Mamãe squeezed my hand during the final hymn. "God's given you a gift," she whispered. "Use it with gratitude."
I spent my time with my friends at the arcade. Playing games. Talking about the world cup for the 100th time. Reenacting goals. Enjoying food. And some banter. A perfect day.
Tomorrow will be another step.
Monday began with tactical review. Coach Nelsinho rolled out diagrams on a whiteboard. "Our first league match is coming," he said. "We'll be switching up the pace a bit. Ricardo, you'll rotate between right-mid and number ten in drills this week."
I swallowed hard. Number ten. The role I'd dreamed of. But that shirt carried weight. The team's rhythm flowed through that position.
During training, I tried to balance creativity with discipline. Sometimes it worked: a quick turn, a pass splitting lines, a run creating space. Other times I held the ball too long. And lost it. Each mistake drew calm but pointed advice from the coaches.
After one misplayed ball, Nelsinho walked over.
"Ricardo, why did you hesitate?"
"I thought Müller would drop deeper."
"You thought. You can't think here. You see. One touch too late, and it's gone."
He smiled gently. Not unkind. "You'll learn. Vision isn't in the eyes, it's in the rhythm."
By midweek, something clicked. In a full-field scrimmage, I drifted centrally. Received between the lines. Spotted França's diagonal run. One touch, pass, goal. Later, I slipped past two defenders on the right. Delivered a cross that Müller buried. The applause from teammates was genuine now.
After training, as we cooled down, Rogério approached. "You're adapting fast."
"Still making mistakes."
"Good. That means you're trying things. Better that than playing safe. Remember, the crest you wear isn't just fabric. It's a promise."
That evening at home, Papai asked, "So? How's the team?"
"Strong," I said. "Everyone knows their role. It's like watching a machine move, each part in sync."
He smiled. "Sounds like engineering after all."
Mamãe leaned in. "And do you feel you belong in that machine?"
I paused. "I think so. Some days, it feels like I'm just a gear learning where to fit. Other days, it feels like I could make it move faster."
She smiled, eyes soft. "Then keep both feelings. They'll keep you humble."
Digão, of course, couldn't resist. "So when's your debut?"
"Not yet," I said. "Maybe in a few months."
He smirked. "I'll be waiting with popcorn."
The week closed with a friendly match against a local club. No fans. Just staff and families watching from the stands. I wasn't starting. But when Nelsinho called me to warm up midway through the second half, my heart jolted.
"Right-midfield," he said. "Play simple. One-two touch. Show what you've learned."
As I stepped onto the pitch, the familiar smell of grass and sweat filled my senses. My pulse steadied.
The game flowed smoothly, São Paulo already leading 2–0. I received my first pass from Sampaio. Quick exchange with Belletti. Darted forward. When the ball returned, I crossed it the first time. França met it. Just wide. But he clapped, pointing at me. "That's the ball!"
Later, I intercepted a pass near halfway. Drove into space. Slipped a pass to Denílson who finished neatly. 3–0. My teammates crowded around. Tapping my head. My chest felt light.
After the final whistle, Nelsinho called me aside.
"Ricardo," he said, eyes thoughtful. "Good vision. Smart runs. You still need more strength, the defenders will test that. But your brain moves well. Keep it."
I smiled. Heart pounding. "Thank you, Coach."
As the sun dipped low over Barra Funda, the sky turning gold and crimson, I sat on the bench watching the players laugh and stretch. I realized this was just the beginning—the smallest step in a long journey.
And yet, it already felt like a dream coming to life.
Training intensified as the week wore on. The coaches pushed harder. The drills are shorter and sharper. What used to feel like sprinting now felt like survival.
By Tuesday, my legs carried a dull heaviness. The kind that sits deep in your bones. During warm-up sprints, Belletti jogged past me, grinning. "Don't slow down, Garoto, the first team never waits."
"I'm trying," I gasped.
He chuckled. "Try harder."
The difference in strength was impossible to ignore now at this level. Every tackle. Every shoulder bump. It was like colliding with walls that moved. I could glide past one defender. Only for another to muscle me off balance with ease.
I remember, once, during a scrimmage, I drove forward between two midfielders. Trying to slip through a gap. Marcos Assunção stepped in. Shoulder to shoulder. I bounced off him like a ball off concrete. He kept running. I ended up on the grass. Staring at the sky.
"Welcome to professional football," he said, not unkindly. Helping me up.
I brushed dirt off my knees. Cheeks burning.
"Guess I need to eat more protein."
"Protein, beans, and gym," he said, smiling. "Lots of gym."
Later, during the water break, Nelsinho came over. "Ricardo, your technical work is strong. But your body still thinks you're playing youth football."
He gestured toward the veterans jogging lightly.
"They play with contact. You can't avoid it forever; learn to ride it."
"I'm trying," I said.
He nodded. "We'll work on your strength. Patience. Talent you already have."
Those words stuck. Talent you already have.
It sounded like both encouragement and warning. A reminder that talent wasn't enough anymore.
The next morning we had conditioning sessions in the gym. Squats, lunges, resistance bands. I hated it. The weights felt alien in my hands, my balance unsure. França and Rogério teased me kindly.
"Careful, Garoto, that bar's heavier than you," França joked.
I grinned through the strain.
By the third set, my arms trembled. Rogério stood nearby. Correcting my form. "Keep your core steady. Football is balance before strength."
It was strange seeing the captain helping me like that. He didn't have to. But he seemed to understand something about being young in a room full of men.
After the session, I sat catching my breath while others chatted and stretched. I noticed how effortless everything looked for them. Every movement sure, every gesture confident. I was still finding my rhythm.
But I also noticed something else: when the ball rolled, they trusted me now. Small nods. Quick passes. Eye contact. Subtle signs that I was earning space among them.
Thursday's session was tactical. Eleven versus eleven. Full intensity. I started with the reserves against the first team. We were told to press high. Deny space. I was on the right. Tasked with tracking Denílson. A nightmare assignment.
He toyed with me at first. Flicks and feints. That dancer's rhythm in his steps. Once, he pulled a Cruyff turn. Left me facing the wrong way entirely. I heard laughter behind me.
But I learned. I watched him closely. Studied how he used his hips. How he slowed to bait pressure before accelerating. The next duel, I timed my run better. Cut his angle. Forced him to pass backward.
When Nelsinho blew the whistle, he shouted across the pitch, "Good adjustment, Ricardo!"
It was just one small win. But it felt huge.
Midway through the match, a loose ball dropped near midfield. I went for it. Stretching with a long stride. Out of nowhere, Capitão slid in. Clean but hard. Took the ball and most of my balance. I hit the ground with a thud.
"You're quick," he said as I stood, "but this is the tempo now. Learn it."
I nodded. Chest still heaving. "I will."
He smiled. "You will. I can tell."
By the end, I'd lost count of the bruises. But I'd also gained something. A clearer picture of the level I needed to reach. I was glad that I equipped my minor injury protection card. I didn't have to use it yet, but having it gave me confidence. I could go for the ball more, be more aggressive. I held back a lot initially because of the worry of injuries. Even now, I hold back a bit. Hesitate. I will need to work on it, I need to be more confident. Trust the system and the cards to protect me in this lifetime.
After lunch, the players sat outside the cafeteria under the shade of the training complex. Plastic chairs. Open soda cans. Easy laughter. The atmosphere was relaxed.
França leaned back. "You remind me of me when I was your age."
"You were slower," said Rogério, smirking.
"Says the one who stays idle all the match! When have you ever run?" he quipped back.
I laughed. França turned to me. "You see? This team, it's family. We fight hard in training, but we take care of each other. So when you get hit, don't take it personally."
"I don't," I said.
"Good. Because I plan to hit you again tomorrow."
Everyone laughed. It feels easy now. Not like before, when I was worried about every word.
As the laughter faded, I went to get water.
Rogério said thoughtfully, "He's got something. The calm. Most kids rush when the ball touches their feet. He waits. And he never gives up. He always gets back up and works on his mistakes.That's rare."
I pretended not to hear. But my chest tightened with pride.
Friday was the last pre-season scrimmage. I wasn't starting again. But I didn't mind. Just being there, part of the rhythm. It felt like progress.
The sun hung low and sharp. Turning the grass into a mirror of gold. The coaches wanted intensity—one last test before the real season began.
When I came on for the final twenty minutes, the pace had slowed. But the duels hadn't. I found small ways to contribute: one interception, one sharp through-ball, a run that drew a defender and opened space for a goal.
Late in the game, I chased a loose ball toward the corner flag. A defender reached first, shielding me off. Instinctively, I leaned in. Used my body—not enough to foul, just enough to hold him. He stumbled. I stole the ball cleanly.
I heard claps from the sideline. It wasn't strength like theirs yet. But it was something—controlled, deliberate.
After the whistle, I jogged toward the bench. Sweat pouring. Heart calm.
Nelsinho approached. "You're learning," he said quietly.
"Football isn't about showing everything you can do," he continued. "It's about knowing when to do it. You're starting to learn that."
"Thank you, Coach."
He nodded. "Now eat. And rest. You've earned both."
Saturday was recovery day. I spent it at the club gym again. Stretching, light jogging, and ice baths. I hated ice baths. I like a hot jacuzzi. Not an ice bath.
While I was there, Rogério walked past and said,
"You'll hate this part less one day."
"I doubt it."
He laughed. "No, really. The soreness, it's proof you're growing."
Later, I joined the physio for core training. Every rep burned. Sweat stung my eyes, my arms shaking with fatigue. But somewhere beneath the strain, I felt pride. The kind that doesn't come from goals or applause. But from knowing you've survived the week.
That evening, the entire squad gathered in the meeting room. The air was quieter than usual. The easy banter was gone. Replaced by focus.
Nelsinho stood before us. Arms crossed.
"Pre-season is done," he began. "You've all worked hard. But remember, this was the warm-up. The league is the real test. Mistakes cost points, points cost titles."
He paused. Eyes scanning the room. "We're building something here. Discipline, intelligence, unity. That is São Paulo."
Then, one by one, he gave feedback to each player. When my name came, my pulse quickened.
"Ricardo," he said, voice level. "You've shown quality. Vision, touch, awareness. You also need time, strength, consistency, more belief in duels. Don't rush. Your time will come."
I nodded. Trying to hide my relief.
He added softly, "You belong here. Never doubt that."
The room murmured in quiet approval. Rogério caught my eye. Gave a subtle nod.
After the meeting, as players filtered out, França clapped my shoulder. "Told you, you'd survive the week."
"Barely."
He laughed. "Barely is how everyone starts."
That night, I couldn't sleep right away. I sat by my window. The city lights felt distant and golden.
Somewhere below, the faint noise of a passing bus.
A barking dog.
I thought of the past month. The first day's nerves. The endless drills. The collisions that left bruises. And also the moments. That through-ball. The smiles. The small victories invisible to most.
I opened my notebook again. Flipping past pages of sketches and notes. At the top of a fresh page, I wrote:
"Play with rhythm, do not rush. Strength will follow."
Tomorrow, the real season will begin. I wouldn't be on the pitch yet. Not for a while. But I would be there. Watching. Learning. Waiting.
Because every player starts somewhere between the giants. Every great journey starts with one small, simple step.
Author's Notes:
I miscalculated things. I should have put the youth camp before the France trip.
In reality, the season started on 26th July, 1998. In this story, to keep the continuity, I am pushing the start of the season to August. I will take care next time. But, I didn't want to rush with the pre-season, and I also didn't want to go back and change the dates for youth camp.
Pushing the dates by 10 days seemed the best option.
Let me know what you think.
I wanted to give Kaka a strong foundation.
I wanted him to have good mentors. Rogério Ceni, França, Denilson, They'd work.
For a 16 year old, the locker room is very important. This is where his habits develop. This is where the foundations are laid down. I wanted a positive environment here, before throwing him into a den of legends at Milan.
Please join the discord so that polls are easier to run. Manually counting all the comments and tallying is tedious. I wish webnovel adds an option to just run polls here. Would be sick!
Here is the link for the server.