By late afternoon, the sky over Morumbi glowed amber, the kind of light that looked painted on the air. From inside the team bus, we could already hear the noise building , drums, horns, a hundred different chants mixing into one steady heartbeat.
As we turned into the avenue that led to the stadium, the streets were a flood of red, white, and black. Flags waved from balconies, kids in São Paulo jerseys ran alongside the bus for a few meters before peeling off. The closer we got, the louder it grew, until conversation became impossible.
Through the window I saw people holding up signs , Vai Tricolor! , and one that read Kaká 22, Nosso Futuro. I looked away quickly, afraid to let it mean too much.
The bus rolled through the tunnel and came to a stop beneath the stands. The air changed there: cooler, denser, full of concrete and the distant roar above. Someone clapped; someone else exhaled hard. We'd arrived early enough that the other half of the stadium was still filling, a hum swelling toward a storm.
Inside, the locker room lights buzzed. Jerseys hung in neat order, numbers facing outward. Mine was right there, clean and waiting , 22, white with red and black across the chest. Every time I saw it, it looked a little heavier.
Carpegiani stood near the center table, calm as always. "Listen up," he said, his voice clear but low. "We're not chasing the result; we're building it. One goal down means nothing if we control the match. Compact in transition, patient with the ball."
He looked at each of us in turn, not for drama but for connection. "They'll press high again. Use the width. Kaká, if they crowd you, release early and move again. Don't fight the space. You make it."
I nodded. The words landed quietly but stayed sharp.
He pointed his marker toward the back. "Edmílson anchors. Serginho, first overlap only when secure. Belletti, watch their winger; he'll cut inside more this time. França, Dodo , work off each other. If the midfield breathes, we all breathe."
No shouting, no slogans, just instructions. We'd heard everything we needed.
As he finished, the physio handed out gum and small bottles of electrolyte mix. The smell of menthol and tape filled the room. Ceni laced his gloves tighter, testing the strap with quick snaps. The sound echoed like small applause.
Marcelinho sat near me, head down, tying and untying his boots. "Big crowd," he said without looking up.
"Feels like more," I replied.
He grinned faintly. "Feels like they brought the whole city."
I changed fast, taped my ankles carefully, tugged the socks high. When I slipped the jersey on, the fabric felt cool, the number brushing against my back like a reminder. The locker room mirror caught my reflection , same boy, same eyes, but steadier now.
França passed behind me and patted my shoulder. "Let the ball do the running," he said quietly, Mamãe's phrase reborn from a teammate's mouth.
I smiled. "Trying to."
Carpegiani gave the nod. "Ten minutes."
The room tightened, boots tapping the floor, bottles closing, straps pulling. The noise from outside climbed, the sound of 60000 hearts waiting.
We lined up in the tunnel, jerseys bright under the lights. Ahead, the opening slit of sky led to the pitch, blazing under floodlights. You could smell grass, smoke, sweat, and something electric in the air.
The ref signalled.
We stepped out together.
And Morumbi roared.
The noise hit first , a wall of sound that made the chest vibrate. Sixty thousand voices, flags waving like fire, drums pounding somewhere above the tunnel. It wasn't nerves anymore. It was charge, current, something that made even the grass hum underfoot.
We lined up facing the Santos end, their section a white-and-black island surrounded by red. I could feel the light on my neck, the air heavy but sharp, the kind of weather that makes passes skip fast and tackles sting.
The whistle came.
The ball rolled back to Edmílson, then to Serginho, who lifted his head and drove it long down the wing. The crowd roared at nothing and everything, just happy the match had begun.
My first touch came early. França dropped off, laid it into my path. I turned, heard Sandro's footsteps before feeling his hand on my back. A small shove , not enough for a foul, enough for a message. I didn't turn around. I just moved the ball on, faster.
We started compact, patient. Carpegiani's plan was clear: no rush, control rhythm, make them chase. Santos pressed like they did in Rio, but the field here was wider, our touches cleaner.
In the twelfth minute, I drifted central, picked a pass through to Marcelinho Paraíba. He took one touch and shot, low, just wide. The collective gasp from the stands felt like wind behind my neck.
"Good idea," he muttered as we jogged back.
They countered hard. Ceni had to stretch full-length to parry a curling shot from Alessandro. He got up slow, looked furious with himself even though it was a brilliant save. "Wake up!" he shouted, pointing at our line.
The wake-up worked.
We pushed higher. Possession grew heavy on Santos' legs. We started drawing fouls thirty meters from goal, little clips and late shoves, exactly where we wanted them.
At twenty-seven minutes, one came in perfect range. Dodo had been pulled down just outside the box, slightly to the left. The crowd knew what that meant.
Ceni jogged forward.
You could feel the air shift. Even the Santos defenders moved aside in reluctant respect.
I stood near the edge of the box, hands on hips, watching him place the ball, stepping back with the same deliberate rhythm he always had. The referee's whistle sounded, one clean note.
Ceni took three steps, struck it with the inside of his foot. The ball cleared the wall and dipped late, like a bird diving into water. The net rippled.
1–0.
The roar was instant, wave, explosion, chaos. I felt it like heat against my face.
Ceni ran toward the corner flag, arms open wide, teammates flooding him. Even from midfield, I could see the grin stretching across his face.
I jogged up to join, patting him on the back. He only said one thing: "That's for the city."
Back at kickoff, I glanced toward the stands. Flags everywhere, colours swirling, the whole place pulsing with one sound: Tricolor! Tricolor!
It was impossible not to feel taller in moments like that.
When we resumed, the next ten minutes belonged to us. Every pass clicked, every movement found space. Edmílson fed me; I turned and split their midfield again, winning another foul.
Sandro looked more cautious now, less certain of his range. I didn't smile, but inside I could feel the balance shifting.
Halftime came with the scoreboard glowing bright: São Paulo 1, Santos 0.
As we walked off, the crowd clapped in rhythm. The noise didn't stop even when we disappeared down the tunnel.
Inside, no one spoke right away. We didn't need to. The sound from above did the talking for us.
The locker room at halftime smelled of sweat, tape, and silence.
Nobody celebrated. Nobody dared relax. A one-goal lead in a final meant nothing until the whistle.
Carpegiani paced slowly in front of the whiteboard, towel around his neck. "Good first half," he said evenly. "We're compact. We're patient. But remember,Santos will come hard now. They'll throw numbers forward. If we panic, we give them the ball. If we rush, we give them space. So we stay calm."
He pointed toward me. "Kaká, they'll double you faster. Move it early. Use Edmílson, use Belletti, but don't try to carry everything yourself."
I nodded. "Got it."
"Good," he said. "This half will hurt. Finals always do."
He let that hang in the air before adding, "And it's supposed to."
The whistle blew outside; the roar started again. We stood, stretched, adjusted tape. Someone slapped my back,França, probably. "Keep the ball, garoto," he said. "Let it breathe."
We jogged out into the tunnel, the noise swelling like a physical thing. The light at the end flared white. Stepping onto the pitch felt like walking into sound itself.
Santos came out flying.
Within five minutes, they pressed with fury, three, four players hunting the same ball. Their midfielders pushed higher, and our lines bent under the weight. The air buzzed with their momentum.
At forty-nine minutes, it broke.
A misplaced pass from our right fell to their winger, Alessandro. He darted forward, cut inside Belletti, slipped a pass between defenders. Marques arrived from deep, struck it low.
Ceni got a hand, but Alessandro was there to finish it off.
1–1.
The noise flipped,black-and-white corner exploding, the rest of the stadium hissing like steam.
I stood near halfway, breathing hard, watching the ball roll back to center. The taste of salt on my lips, the sound of celebration I couldn't look at.
Edmílson jogged past, muttering, "Forget it. Still ours."
França gathered us near the circle. "We stay compact! One goal, we answer!" he shouted.
I nodded. But the body doesn't forget that shock so easily. You feel the shift, momentum moving like current against your chest.
Santos kept pressing. They smelled blood. Every loose ball turned into a tackle, every clearance into a sprint.
I started dropping deeper just to touch the ball, calm the pace. Sandro followed me like a shadow, still whispering things under his breath, little barbs only meant for me.
"Same story, garoto," he said after one collision. "No space, no noise now."
I ignored him. Let him talk. The game was too loud for words.
We found small patches of order again. Carpegiani waved his arms from the sideline, motioning for patience, palms down. "Tranquilo!" he shouted.
We passed across the back, shifted to the left. Serginho bombed forward again, forced a corner. The crowd swelled.
No goal came, but the rhythm returned,slowly, painfully.
Around the sixty-minute mark, Carpegiani called from the sideline. "Kaká! Float inside! Marcelinho wide!"
I raised a hand to show I'd heard. He wanted me in the middle now, where the ball and chaos met.
I adjusted my run, drifting closer to Edmílson's orbit. One touch, two touches, reset. The roar behind us turned from fear to hunger again.
We'd been hit. But the pulse of the match was changing once more, and this time, it felt like we could breathe again.
I looked up at the scoreboard,one each, time still plenty. The crowd chanted louder, voices merging into something alive.
The match wasn't even close to finished.
And neither was I.
Time moved slower once I dropped inside.
Santos had pulled their line high again, pressing two men on Edmílson and shadowing every pass through the middle. You could almost feel their confidence rising after the equaliser.
But our rhythm was coming back, one clean pass at a time.
I checked my shoulder, once, twice. Sandro still there, breathing against my neck. I shaped to go short, then peeled into the gap behind him. Edmílson saw it,he always did,and fed the ball into my path.
Touch, pivot, head up.
The field opened.
França had dragged their centre-half toward the right, leaving a lane that sliced across their back four. On the far side Serginho was already moving, sprinting into space, the grass ahead of him glowing under floodlight.
I didn't even think; I just swung through the ball with my laces, a low, hard diagonal that cut the pitch in half. It skipped once, twice, straight into his stride.
He didn't break his stride. One touch forward, one to set, and then he hit it across goal with his left.
The net rippled.
For a heartbeat the stadium held its breath, then Morumbi exploded.
2–1.
The sound came in waves,horns, drums, pure human noise rolling down from the stands. I found myself laughing as I ran toward Serginho. He was already sprinting along the touchline, arms wide, face lit with disbelief.
I caught him near the corner flag; we crashed shoulders, the rest of the team piling on. Someone yelled my name into my ear, someone else just shouted nonsense.
"Good ball, garoto!" Serginho said, still half shouting.
"Good run," I answered.
Carpegiani clapped once from the sideline, no fist-pumping, just one sharp nod.
When the noise dipped, I jogged back toward our half, breathing hard. Sandro brushed past, pretending not to notice me. I let him go. There'd be time for that later.
The restart came fast. Santos tried to hit back immediately, pumping long balls into the channels, but our shape held. Belletti and Edmílson swept everything clean, Ceni claiming crosses like they were routine.
My lungs burned but the body felt alive again, tuned. Every touch started making sense.
At sixty-eight minutes, we almost made it three,Marcelinho nicked a pass high, slipped Dodo through, and his shot shaved the bar. The crowd groaned, then applauded.
Carpegiani called from the sideline, voice firm but calm. "Stay compact!!"
We obeyed. The game steadied.
Santos' legs started to look heavier. Their tackles came later now, their lines wider. The roar from our supporters turned from anxious to joyous, the kind of roar that sounds like belief turning solid.
I wiped sweat from my forehead, glanced toward the bench. Carpegiani met my eyes and gave a short, approving nod. Nothing more. But it said enough.
We'd taken back control.
The first leg's ghosts still hovered somewhere in the memory, but they were smaller now, drowned by the sound of sixty thousand people chanting our name.
The clock ticked past seventy-five minutes, and the air inside Morumbi had changed again. The crowd wasn't just loud anymore,it was alive. Every São Paulo attack came with a rumble that felt like the stands themselves were leaning forward.
My shirt clung to my skin, heavy with sweat, but my legs felt lighter than they had all season. The earlier tension had turned into something steadier, sharper. Every pass made sense. Every step had purpose.
Santos looked tired now,hands on hips, breaths too quick. Sandro was still there beside me, jaw tight, eyes restless. He'd stopped talking; fatigue takes the words first.
I kept drifting between lines, moving him where I wanted. Sometimes I dropped to draw him out; sometimes I slipped behind. Every time he followed, he left a shadow in their shape.
At 77 minutes, the ball came to me from Edmílson again. A simple pass, rolling perfectly over the grass. I took it on my right, let it glide across my body, and turned into open space.
Belletti overlapped, dragging his marker wide. The path opened.
For a moment it was quiet in my head,no noise, no crowd, just the sight of their defensive line retreating, unsure whether to step or hold.
I carried the ball twenty metres, lifted my chin, and saw the goalkeeper leaning slightly left.
One touch to settle, one to shift, and I struck with all my anger, clean, curling toward the far post from outside the box.
Time stretched. The ball bent just enough to escape the keeper's fingertips.
Then the net rippled.
The roar that followed didn't sound like sound anymore. It sounded like colour.
I sprinted toward the corner flag, chest burning, arms spread. The noise crashed over me,flags whipping, drums pounding, strangers screaming my name.
França caught me first, wrapping me in a bear hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. "That's how you answer!" he shouted in my ear.
Serginho arrived next, pulling me into another embrace. The others followed,Dodo, Belletti, even Ceni had come halfway up the field, waving both arms to the crowd.
3–1.
It took a full minute before we broke apart. I stood there, catching my breath, watching the scoreboard glow red with the numbers. For the first time all night, I smiled properly.
Then, as we jogged back for the restart, I saw Sandro walking past. He wouldn't look at me.
I slowed down, angled my run just enough to pass behind him, leaned slightly close, and said quietly, "Are my legs stronger today?"
He didn't turn around, just shook his head and muttered something lost to the noise. I didn't wait to hear it.
It wasn't mockery,it was release.
When we lined up again, the referee's whistle brought me back. Santos kicked off, desperate and disorganised now, all forward passes and long balls. The energy had drained out of them.
Carpegiani motioned from the sideline. I caught the signal: substitution soon.
The next two minutes felt endless. Every time I got the ball, the crowd roared louder. Every touch felt like breathing.
Then I saw the fourth official lift the board: 22 in red, 27 in green.
I raised my hand, nodded once toward the bench. The coach clapped as I came off.
The whole stadium rose with me. The applause was a wall of warmth, chants, just noise, approval, gratitude.
As I walked to the sideline, every step felt heavier. The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the slow weight of exhaustion. I high-fived Warley as he came on.
From here, everything looked smaller,the field, the players, the ball.
But the sound still shook my ribs.
I found an empty spot on the bench, dropped into it, head back, chest still heaving. For a moment I couldn't hear anything but my own pulse.
Warley sprinted down the wing on his first touch; the bench rose again, shouting encouragement.
I sat there, towel over my head, watching the final minutes unfold. Santos pushed, but they were finished. Every clearance from Belletti came with applause, every save from Ceni with cheers.
The whistle finally blew at ninety-three minutes.
For a second, there was silence,like the city itself inhaled.
Then Morumbi exploded again.
Players fell to the ground, arms raised. Some ran straight to the fans, others to Ceni, who punched the air three times, shouting words no one could hear.
I stayed seated for a moment longer, smiling under the towel. Not out of pride,out of relief.
The ghosts from Rio were gone.
I had scored, assisted, and walked off to applause.
And the sound of sixty thousand voices chanting "Kaká! Kaká!" would stay somewhere deep inside me for the rest of my life.
I stood up from the bench, legs stiff, towel falling from my shoulders. The field had turned into a moving painting: red and white everywhere, players on their knees, fans leaning over barriers, flags trembling in the air.
Belletti sprinted toward Ceni, both arms high. Serginho collapsed near the corner flag, laughing into the grass. Marcelinho grabbed the nearest ball boy and lifted him like a trophy.
I walked out slowly, boots heavy with dried mud, mind still half in the rhythm of the match. My heartbeat hadn't yet caught up with what had happened.
França spotted me and jogged over, grinning. "We did it, garoto," he said, pulling me into a hug that almost cracked my ribs. "You answered them all tonight."
I laughed, breathless. "Couldn't have done it without you running like crazy."
He pointed at the stands. "They're still shouting your name. Look."
I turned. The Morumbi lights hit waves of banners: Tricolor Campeão, KAKÁ 22, Orgulho de São Paulo. People were jumping, singing the club hymn off-key, strangers hugging strangers.
For a moment, I just stood there, letting it sink in , the weight of the shirt, the sound of joy too big to belong to one person.
Carpegiani came over next, his expression calm but his eyes bright. "Good match," he said simply.
"Thank you, coach."
Ceni waved everyone toward the centre circle. The organisers were setting up the small podium, men in suits carrying medals that glinted under the floodlights. Someone handed Ceni the captain's armband he'd removed before running forward to celebrate his goal. He slipped it back on with the kind of reverence you give sacred objects.
We lined up in twos. The Santos players came through first, shaking hands. Most were respectful, nodding, murmuring parabéns. When Sandro reached me, he hesitated.
"Good goal," he said quietly.
"Thanks, next time I'll finish things in the first leg" I replied.
He gave a short laugh, the kind that carried no bitterness, and moved on.
Then it was our turn. The flashbulbs burst like lightning. Cameras, microphones, shouts of names. Medals around necks, quick handshakes, and suddenly I was looking at silver ribbon draped across my chest, the club crest shining beneath it.
Ceni lifted the trophy first, high, both hands, a roar answering him so loud the concrete vibrated. He turned, beckoned the rest of us in. I squeezed between Serginho and Belletti; the metal felt cold under my fingertips.
The confetti rained down, red, white, and black, sticking to our faces, mixing with sweat.
For a few seconds, the world was only noise and colour and light.
I caught sight of the section where my family always sat. Even from that distance I could tell them apart: Mamãe's white blouse, Papai's dark jacket, Digão waving both arms like he wanted to lift the stadium by himself. They looked small against the sea of people, but in that instant, they were the only ones that mattered.
I lifted the medal a little higher, not for the cameras, just for them.
When the ceremony ended, we walked a slow lap around the field, clapping toward the stands. Fans threw scarves, flags, even flowers. I bent to pick one up , a red carnation , and tucked it into my wristband.
Back in the tunnel, the sound dulled but didn't disappear. It followed us inside, echoing off the walls.
Someone popped a bottle of champagne; foam sprayed across jerseys. Laughter filled the locker room, deep and unguarded. Belletti grabbed the trophy again and danced with it, pretending it was a partner.
I sat on the bench, medal cool against my neck, watching everything , the celebration, the noise, the blur of joy, feeling both inside it and outside it at once.
Edmílson dropped down beside me. "First of many," he said.
I smiled. "Hope so."
He shook his head. "Not hope, garoto. I know so."
I nodded, looking down at my boots. Mud, grass, and faint traces of white paint from the lines. They looked battered, honest, earned.
I leaned back against the cold tile wall and closed my eyes for a second, letting the sound of laughter wash over me.
Outside, Morumbi still sang.
And somewhere beneath all that noise, I could hear one quiet truth beating steady in my chest:this was only the beginning.
In the press box, a little earlier
For thirty full seconds after the final whistle, nobody inside the Morumbi press box could hear themselves think.
Sixty thousand voices melted into one red-white-black roar that rattled the windows.
Paper cups and cigarette ash danced on the tabletop as the old structure trembled from sound alone.
Luiz Mendes had called football for twenty-five years, and even he looked dazed.
He ripped the headset from one ear, shouting over the chaos to his partner, "Paulo, the city's losing its mind! You'd think that they won the Copa or the champions league"
Paulo Vinícius grinned, sweat shining on his temples. "If they keep screaming like this, the microphones will quit first!"
Below them, the pitch was a storm of colour , players hugging, photographers sprinting, flashes bursting like small explosions.
Confetti sprayed from somewhere near the dugout; it caught in the glare of the floodlights and drifted over the grass like silver rain.
Luiz slammed his finger on the console's red button. "We're live, Paulo! Hold on, I'm bringing us back in three… two…"
He leaned toward the mic, voice breaking with the effort.
"Ladies and gentlemen, from the Estádio do Morumbi, São Paulo Futebol Clube are champions of the Torneio Rio–São Paulo 1999! Final score: São Paulo 3, Santos 1!"
Paulo picked up smoothly, half-laughing. "Luiz, I swear this old stadium has never sounded younger! The stands are shaking, the flags, the fireworks,Morumbi is alive!"
"Alive and singing!" Luiz shouted back. "Let's remind everyone how we got here.
27 minutes, Rogério Ceni, that magician in gloves, with a free kick curled like a postcard to heaven!
49 minutes, Santos equalised, drilling it past our keeper, silence for just a heartbeat.
67minutes, a beautiful cross field diagonal ball into Serginho's path by Kaká, and Serginho doesn't even break his strike, one touch, hits it the second time, GOAL! 2-1, and then, oh then, Paulo, the moment this city will talk about for years!
On 77 minutes, a counterattack, the young number twenty-two, Ricardo Kaká, takes the ball, drives forward for 20 metres, cuts inside,left foot , curler , and BANG! The net dances, Morumbi explodes!"
Paulo laughed into the mic, voice cracking with adrenaline. "Luiz, I thought my heart stopped for half a second! You saw the replay , the way he looked up, waited, like the ball belonged to him.
They called him quiet, they called him polite , I call him decisive!"
They both fell silent for a moment, listening to the anthem rising from the terraces, the drums rolling like thunder on concrete.
The producer's voice hissed through the control feed: "Keep going! Give them colour, give them feeling, twenty more seconds!"
Luiz obeyed.
"Folks, it's red, white and black everywhere you look , fireworks above us, flags below us, people dancing in the aisles.
São Paulo have lifted a trophy they've waited years to touch. Their first Torneio Rio-Sao Paulo.
Carpegiani's men delivered, and the boy, the boy who five days ago looked beaten in Rio, he's standing on the shoulders of giants tonight."
Paulo added, softer now, his voice thinning from all the shouting."And that boy's name, for those joining us late, is Ricardo Kaká. Sixteen years old, Morumbi's newest reason to believe."
A door banged open behind them. Two reporters from Gazeta Esportiva stumbled in, breathless, not even removing their rain-spotted jackets.
"You still live?" one joked, dropping a bundle of blank copy sheets onto the console. "We need quotes, fast, coach, Ceni, the kid , anything!"
"Patience!" Luiz snapped good-naturedly, still talking into the mic. "They'll bring them up soon."
The younger man peered through the window, eyes wide. "Look at him, Paulo, they've got the boy surrounded already."
From up here, they could see it clearly: Kaká at the centre of a knot of cameras, medal glinting against his tracksuit.
Flashes went off like lightning; security guards tried and failed to keep the reporters back.
Paulo leaned toward the glass. "He's smiling. He knows they lost the battle in Rio, he was kicked, couldn't perform, but here he wins the battle. Spectacular display."
Luiz murmured, almost to himself, "Reminds me of the first time I saw Ra… no, no comparisons. Let him be who he is."
He cut his mic for a second, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We're getting old, Paulo. Kids these days talk less, do more."
The producer waved frantically for them to stay live.
Luiz flicked the switch again. "Listeners across Brazil, you're hearing history in real time.
São Paulo's players are circling the pitch, fans lighting flares in the north stand.
I can see banners , 'Orgulho Tricolor,' 'Obrigado, Carpegiani,' and there,look!,'Kaká 22!' written in red tape on a white sheet."
Paulo laughed. "Somebody painted that on a bedspread!"
"Doesn't matter! It's their flag now."
The noise below surged again as the trophy appeared on a small platform near midfield.
Captain Rogério Ceni climbed first, hoisting the silver cup high, confetti cannons bursting at either side.
Players jumped, waved shirts, the coaching staff cheering like children.
"Beautiful," Luiz whispered, forgetting the microphone for a heartbeat. Then he remembered and leaned in again. "The captain lifts it high, and the crowd answers with thunder! For everyone listening from the hills, from the south zone, from the workshops, from the kitchens, this is your night, São Paulo!"
Paulo elbowed him lightly, grinning. "Don't start crying on air, old man."
"Too late," Luiz said, voice trembling with laughter.
After the live feed cut to commercials, the booth went half-dark, lit only by the screen glow from their monitors.
Outside, the pitch lights stayed blinding white.
The two men sat back, finally exhaling.
Paulo pulled off his headset, rubbed his ears. "You think they'll bring him up for the interviews tonight?"
Luiz nodded. "Press office can't hide him now. They'll do it tonight, or the papers will riot."
He reached for his cigarette pack, found it empty, cursed softly.
From somewhere down the hall came the echo of chanting,staff, security guards, maybe even journalists.
"Tricolor! Campeão!"
Paulo grinned. "Listen to that. Sounds like the whole city's in the building."
Luiz leaned forward, staring down through the glass again.
Kaká had moved closer to the centre circle now, where Ceni and Serginho stood arm-in-arm for photos.
The boy's tracksuit was half-unzipped; his hair stuck to his forehead.
He looked tired but untouched by the chaos, eyes bright, smile steady.
Luiz said quietly, "He doesn't look like he's trying to belong. He just belongs. It's effortless"
Paulo hummed in agreement. "Carpegiani's got a problem now, how do you keep the world from spinning too fast for him?"
"The world doesn't know his name yet."
Paulo shrugged. "Give it until Sunday."
Down by the sideline, the press officer waved for the post-match conference lineup to gather.
Luiz's earpiece buzzed again.
"Coach Carpegiani, Ceni, Serginho, and the boy in fifteen minutes. We'll feed the audio directly," said the producer.
"Got it," Luiz answered. He flipped through his notes, circling one line: 'Calm under chaos , remember that phrase.'
He turned to Paulo. "When we write this tomorrow, keep it simple. No fairytales. Just facts: he lost five days ago, learned, came back, scored the winner."
Paulo smiled faintly. "And maybe one line about the future?"
Luiz hesitated. "Maybe. Let the kid sleep first."
_________________________________________
In the locker room, the noise changed.
It wasn't the roar of celebration anymore but the hum of exhaustion, relief, and disbelief all tangled together.
Some players were already in towels, others in full tracksuits.
The smell of champagne and muscle spray mixed into something sweet and heavy.
Edmílson was joking loudly about Serginho's goal celebration; someone threw a boot at him.
Ceni poured water over his head, muttering, "Hot as Rio in here."
Kaká slipped in quietly, sitting on the edge of a bench, untaping his ankles.
The skin beneath was pink, raw, but he didn't flinch.
Across the room, Carpegiani was talking to the club doctor, voice low but steady.
He turned when he saw the boy. "Good work, Ricardo." There was a genuine smile and affection on his face.
Kaká nodded. "Thank you, coach."
Carpegiani studied him for a moment. "You played smarter today. Quieter, but smarter."
He let the praise hang there, then added, "That's what wins games , not noise. Remember that."
"I will."
Ceni walked past, towel around his shoulders, grinning. "He's right, but don't let him fool you , noise wins fans."
The locker room laughed.
The laughter lingered a little longer, then faded into the slow rhythm of water running in the showers, tape ripping, lockers slamming.
A team official poked his head in. "Press conference in ten minutes. Coach, Rogério, Serginho, and number 22."
Carpegiani nodded. "He'll come."
Kaká sighed softly and stood, pulling on his clean tracksuit. "Do I have to talk?"
"Just be honest, no nerves," the coach said, smiling faintly. "That's enough."
The corridor leading up to the press room was a tunnel of lights and cables.
Cameramen adjusted tripods, interns ran with armfuls of wires, microphones were labeled with stickers , BAND, GLOBO, FOLHA.
The air smelled like burned plastic and deodorant.
Someone had set up a small table with water bottles and white paper cups.
"Come on, gentlemen, let's move," the press officer said, clapping his hands.
"Keep the answers short," the officer whispered. "Let the coach handle the heavy ones."
The club's logo shone behind them, red, black, and white stripes perfectly lit.
The PA crackled: "Press conference beginning shortly."
_________________________________________
The air inside the press room was thick with heat and cigarette smoke.
The walls were white but yellowing under the halogen glare; the São Paulo crest behind the table gleamed red and black, its edges curling slightly from the humidity.
Every chair was taken. Some reporters crouched along the aisles, others stood at the back, balancing recorders on their knees.
A low hum of conversation filled the room,snippets of radio intros, whispered translations for foreign correspondents, the whir of old tape decks spooling.
The door creaked open.
Instant silence.
A dozen cameras rose in unison, flashes firing in the same heartbeat.
First came Carpegiani, jacket unbuttoned, still looking every bit the calm architect of victory.
Behind him walked Ceni, hair slicked back, towel around his neck; Serginho, grinning like he hadn't stopped since the final whistle; and finally Kaká, medal hanging loose over his white tracksuit, blinking once as the light hit his face.
The press officer pointed to their seats , four microphones lined in a row, each marked with peeling black tape.
The players sat. The sound of a hundred recorders clicking on filled the space like rain.
Carpegiani leaned toward his mic first. "Good Evening, or shall I say a very good night!."
It was enough to cue the room back into motion.
Reporters shot up their hands, calling questions over each other, the officer trying to keep order.
"Mister Carpegiani, what did you change after the first leg?"
The coach's voice stayed level. "We played simple football. They were physical in the first leg. We were quicker today."
"Was it always the plan to start Kaká again?"
"Yes," Carpegiani said. "A player learns more in defeat than in rest."
Flashes burst again.
He nodded toward the boy beside him, almost as punctuation.
The moderator gestured. "Next question, Ceni."
A man from Folha shouted, "Captain, that free-kick,how many times do you practice those?"
Ceni grinned. "Until my forwards complain."
Laughter rippled through the room.
He added, more seriously, "It isn't the number of times I practiced, it only matters if I could deliver when it matters. Today, I did."
Someone asked Serginho about his goal.
He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling wide. "That ball from him," he pointed at Kaká, "I didn't even need to look. It just arrived."
A chorus of chuckles followed. "Was the run pure instinct then?"
"Trust," Serginho said simply.
The focus inevitably shifted to the youngest man at the table.
"Kaká, you looked more confident tonight. What changed?"
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice calm but clear.
"Preparation," he said. "We trained for their press. I knew I'd have space only once or twice. You wait for the right one."
"And the goal?" another asked quickly. "Walk us through it."
He nodded. "Edmílson intercepted, passed to me. Sandro closed fast; he'd been tight all game. My mother said it the day after the game, if they can't catch you, they can't kick you, So I ran with the ball, saw some space, so I shifted left, saw the corner open, and struck before he set his foot. Simple football"
The note-takers scribbled furiously.
One of the radio men muttered into his mic, "Sixteen years old, and already talking like a veteran."
A voice from the back, more aggressive: "Do you realise this was the moment everyone expected you to crumble again?"
A few heads turned , blunt, but fair.
Kaká looked straight at him. "People can expect what they like. My job is to train well, listen to instructions, and play."
No bravado. No hesitation.
Just a line that landed like a hammer because of how softly it was said.
The moderator called on another. "Question for the coach."
But the floodgate was open now.
Reporters kept circling back to the boy.
"Did you hear the criticism after the first leg?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"I listened. I trained. And today, I delivered"
Laughter again, this time genuine, admiring.
Someone from the TV side leaned in. "Do you understand what this means for São Paulo fans?"
He blinked, thoughtful. "I think they waited longer than I was even alive. I am glad I could play my part in bringing joy to them. They deserve it."
That earned an approving murmur around the room.
Ceni looked down the table and smiled faintly, pride hidden in his eyes.
Halfway through, the press officer called for order.
"We'll take a few more, then close."
Sweat glistened on every forehead. The fluorescent lights hummed like insects.
A reporter from Gazeta Esportiva lifted his recorder. "Mister Carpegiani, how do you manage expectations around such a young player?"
Carpegiani tapped his fingers on the table before answering.
"I don't manage expectations; I manage work. He trains like everyone else. We manage his workload so that he isn't injured. Results? If they come you raise the expectations, if we lose, you write us off. It is normal"
It was a gentle jab, and the room laughed, even the reporter.
The coach continued, glancing sideways at Kaká. "Talent is one thing. Understanding the rhythm of a match, the responsibility, that's what separates potential from performance. He's learning fast."
"Faster than you expected?" someone asked.
"Faster than most."
Serginho clapped softly, grinning. "He'll be giving us orders soon."
"Never," Kaká said, laughing under his breath.
Another question from the left side: "Rogério, during the game, what did you tell him after the equaliser?"
Ceni leaned into the microphone, voice warm. "Nothing fancy. Just told him, 'We still have time , go make it count.' He did."
A ripple of applause followed; not something you often heard in a press room.
Someone at the back , the same reporter from earlier , raised his hand again.
"Kaká, last one. What does this win mean for you?"
The boy hesitated this time, maybe for the first time all night.
He looked at the row of flashing cameras, then down at his medal resting against his chest.
"It means," he said slowly, "I can go home tonight and sleep without replaying the first leg in my head."
The room went quiet for a beat, then someone exhaled loudly.
"Good answer," muttered one of the veterans as he switched off his recorder.
The press officer checked his watch. "Okay, last question. For all four."
A woman from Rádio Bandeirantes stood. "What would you like to say to the supporters who stayed until the last whistle?"
Carpegiani gestured for Ceni to begin.
Ceni cleared his throat. "Thank you for believing. Football belongs to them."
Serginho raised his hand, still grinning. "And sorry to whoever cleans the seats tomorrow. They're soaked."
The room laughed again.
When it reached Kaká, he didn't lean forward this time.
He looked straight ahead and said quietly, "We heard you all night. Every minute. Thank you!"
Simple. No flourish. And somehow it carried more weight than all the noise before it.
The press officer ended it there. "Obrigado, senhores. That's all."
The players rose from their seats to the soundtrack of camera shutters.
As they turned to leave, one journalist called out, "Kaká, one photo?"
He turned, smiled, raised the medal briefly in acknowledgment, not to pose, just to thank them.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Ceni draped an arm over his shoulder as they stepped off the stage.
"See? Not so bad."
"I'd rather just play," Kaká murmured.
"Get used to both," Ceni said.
Serginho jogged ahead, still humming the club hymn under his breath.
Carpegiani followed last, shaking hands with a few reporters at the front row before the door closed behind them.
Inside, the room exhaled in unison , pens scratching again, recorders rewinding, phones ringing as editors barked for copy.
One veteran journalist leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette despite the no-smoking sign.
He turned to the younger writer beside him and said, "Write this down: The boy speaks like he plays, clean, no waste."
The younger one grinned. "You think he lasts?"
The old man exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "If he keeps his feet, yeah. If he listens more than he talks."
He stubbed out the cigarette, stood, and walked toward the door, leaving the smell of burnt tobacco and ink behind.
Outside the press room, the corridor was quieter now.
Most of the crowd had gone, leaving only the hum of maintenance crews and the faint echo of brooms on concrete.
The stadium above still flickered with a few lights, the last flares burning out beyond the gates.
Kaká walked ahead of the others toward the locker room, medal cool against his chest, the echo of his boots soft against the floor.
He could still hear the faintest chant drifting down from somewhere in the night:
"Tricolor! Campeão!"
He smiled, not at the noise, but at the thought that tomorrow, the world would move on, papers, opinions, stories, but tonight belonged only to those who'd lived it.
When he reached the end of the corridor, Ceni called after him.
"Hey, Garoto , you've got one last thing to do."
Kaká turned. "What?"
Ceni tossed him a marker pen. "Sign the match ball."
He caught it, blinking. "Me?"
"You scored the winner. It's yours. I pulled some strings."
He hesitated, then wrote slowly along the white panel, the letters uneven from tired hands: "Morumbi. 3/3/99." and signed it.
And just like that, the night at Morumbi finally exhaled, the echo fading, the air cooling, leaving behind nothing but the soft rustle of flags outside and the quiet certainty that something had changed forever.
Author's Notes:
I am increasing the pace up, because I know people want to see Milan arc, so I had to make him win trophies now itself. If he is to leave in 2001 summer window, we only have two years.
For it to feel proper, he needs to lose some trophies as well. And in reality, Sao Paulo reached semi finals in almost all of their competitions in 1999, so it would make sense to win some trophies this year as well.
The press couldn't ask any controversial questions or about personal life and all because Sao Paulo is notorious for protecting their younger players. All questions are pre approved by the press officer. No surprises to the players. Those kinds of stuff will come later on in his life, when journalism changed. In England, In Spain, where they look for sensationalism.
Kaká has the xfactor.
Thank you for the support!
Do leave some feedback about the chapters.