The bar on Rua Domingos de Morais reeked of beer. Every table was taken long before kickoff, men in red, white, and black jerseys pressed shoulder to shoulder, shouting over the sound of the TV.
A fog of cigarette smoke hung low near the ceiling fans, blurring the bright green of the Maracanã pitch on the old box screen.
Roberto Alves da Costa had claimed his seat hours earlier, an elbow on the table, a half-empty bottle of Antarctica beer sweating in front of him.
He was a São Paulo man down to the bones. His father had raised him in these colours, through the highs of Telê Santana's teams and the long, stubborn droughts that tested faith.
Tonight, he'd brought the same energy , but he wasn't alone.
"Zé, sit down, you're blocking the screen," he muttered.
Zé Paulo, taller and louder, ignored him. "You see this crowd? Look at Maracanã! The boy's gonna feel it tonight, you'll see."
Toninho, their friend from the bus depot, waved his hand. "Ah, the kid's fine. That Kaká, calm as a priest. He'll handle it."
"He's sixteen," Zé shot back. "You handled what at sixteen? Homework?"
The men burst out laughing. Roberto smirked but didn't join in. He was watching the screen too closely.
The camera panned over the São Paulo lineup. Ceni, Edmílson, Serginho, França, and there , number 22, the kid. Ricardo Kaká. Calm face, long limbs, a quick cross before kickoff.
Too thin for his shirt still, but there was something in how he moved, like he saw more than the others.
The anthem finished, the whistle blew, and the bar fell quiet except for the TV.
For the first twenty minutes, it was tense, even. São Paulo passed neatly, Kaká drifting between midfield and the right side, quick one-twos with França. Every time he touched the ball, Roberto heard murmurs ripple through the room, curiosity, not yet belief.
Then came the first Santos attack. Alessandro broke through on the wing, the shot deflected wide.
A few men groaned, another cursed.
After half an hour, it stayed 0-0. But, they were very physical. The midfielder Sandro is roughing up the kid.
Half time came and it stayed 0-0. Everyone was still positive. We were singing and chanting loudly.
That happiness lasted until the 48th minute when they broke through.
A quick turnover, a diagonal ball, and Alessandro found space behind Serginho. One touch, a low shot under Ceni.
1–0.
"Where's our midfield?!" someone yelled.
"Too slow!" another snapped.
Six minutes later, Serginho equalised, our first clean move of the match. Marcelinho carried forward, slipped it down the line, and Serginho smashed one low into the far corner.
Beer was flying everywhere. We were jubilant. We got the away goal and we had the momentum now.
Santos turned vicious.
Their full-backs pushed high, their midfielders started clipping heels. Kaka was getting beaten up. He earned a free kick, but the kid cannot be allowed to continue for longer.
Then, in the sixty-third minute, Sao Paulo was punished again.
They pushed forward for a corner. The ball cleared, Santos' winger burst down the right side, cut inside.
Three passes later, Eduardo Marques side-footed it in.
2–1.
Roberto clenched his jaw. The camera showed Kaká running back, trying to cover ground. He looked tired, knocked down twice in quick succession.
Zé slapped the table. "See? He's too soft! That's what I said. The boy's talented, but this is a man's game!"
"Let him breathe," Roberto muttered. "You think you'd stand up after that hit?"
"He doesn't have to stand up, he just needs to show up!"
The words stung, maybe because they were half true. Roberto saw the boy limping slightly, pulling at his sock, face tight. A few minutes later, the fourth official held up the substitution board: number 22 off.
The bar fell into murmurs. Some men clapped politely, not mockery, just pity. Others turned to their beers.
Roberto exhaled slowly. He wanted to believe this was strategy, not surrender.
When the final whistle blew, Santos had won 2–1. Bottles were empty, ashtrays full, and no one sang on the walk out.
Outside, rain had started, that slow, sticky kind São Paulo gets in late summer. Roberto shoved his hands into his pockets and walked home.
Zé caught up with him halfway down the block. "You think Carpegiani starts him again?"
Roberto didn't answer right away. He watched the rain fall through the yellow glow of the streetlight.
"He's young," he said finally. "You can't teach calm like that. But…"
"But?"
"He needs to get angry," Roberto said. "A little fire never hurt a champion."
They parted ways at the corner. Zé ducked into a bus shelter, still grumbling.
Roberto walked the last few streets alone, the sound of rain echoing off the tiled walls. When he reached home, the lights were off. His wife and kids were asleep.
He stood for a moment under the porch roof, watching the water run down the driveway.
From somewhere far off, a radio replayed the commentary, "Goal by Alessandro! Santos take the lead!", the words distant, hollow.
Roberto sighed, went inside, and turned off the porch light.
Tomorrow, he knew, the newspapers would say the same thing every losing fan already feared: Too young, too soon.
He poured himself a glass of water, sat in the dark kitchen, and muttered softly, "They'll see. The boy's got something."
But he wasn't sure if he even believed it fully, not yet.
_________________________________________
The next morning, he stood at the corner kiosk, fifty cruzeiros in hand, waiting for the vendor to stack the day's papers. The metal shutters creaked open, revealing a wall of headlines that stung like an open wound.
"Too Young, Too Soon?"
"Santos Expose São Paulo's Fragile Midfield."
"Carpegiani's trust in the youth Backfires."
And below the masthead of O Estado de São Paulo: a photograph of Kaká walking off the field, jersey dark with sweat, eyes down.
The vendor grinned sympathetically. "Hard night, huh, Seu Roberto?"
He nodded, took his paper, and tucked it under his arm. "Every team has one."
But his stomach twisted as he walked toward the bus stop. The ink smell clung to him, sharp and wet.
At the depot, work began before sunrise.
Engines coughed, metal clanged, and the faint scent of diesel filled the hangar.
The radio was already on, a sports station giving its verdict between weather reports.
"...and the young Kaká looked lost at Maracanã, a reminder that potential isn't performance. São Paulo needs muscle in midfield, not poetry."
Toninho, his coworker, wiped grease from his hands and smirked. "Hear that, Beto? They roasted your golden boy."
Roberto pretended not to care. "Paper sells better when it bleeds."
"Still," Toninho said, leaning against the bus door, "maybe the coach should bench him for the next one. Give the kid time."
Zé Paulo joined in from under a lifted hood. "Time? You don't get time in finals. You win or you cry."
Roberto tightened a bolt, keeping his eyes on his work. "He's sixteen, not a magician. Let him learn."
Zé snorted. "Learn in the reserves."
The argument grew, loud enough for the foreman to yell at them to shut up. When they scattered,
Roberto stayed by the open bus door, listening to the rain hit the metal roof.
He remembered the look on the boy's face as he'd walked off, not scared, not angry, just hollow. The kind of silence men carried when they didn't know what to say to disappointment yet.
At lunch, the depot canteen smelled of beans and sweat. Workers crowded around one of the old TVs mounted near the ceiling. The afternoon show replayed the match highlights. The commentators picked apart every missed pass.
"Here! He hesitates. See? The touch is too soft."
"He's not ready for big games. Not yet."
A few of the younger mechanics cheered ironically each time Kaká appeared on screen.
Roberto didn't look up. He focused on his rice and beans, chewing slowly.
"Don't let it bother you," Toninho said, sliding into the seat across from him. "You take this too personal."
"I don't," Roberto said. But he did.
He'd seen too many players crushed by noise like this, boys with skill who got swallowed by headlines.
São Paulo had calmed down a little by the next few days. Newspapers started running training photos again: Kaká jogging beside França, Ceni yelling instructions.
Still, the stories stayed the same. "Carpegiani Considering Changes for Second Leg.""França and Dôdo to Lead Attack."
At the depot, Toninho cornered Roberto again. "You think he starts?"
Roberto shrugged. "If Carpegiani's smart, yes."
"You're sentimental."
He grinned. "Maybe. But sometimes that wins games."
That night, at the small bar across from the bus line, the regulars were already debating the lineup.
The bartender, Mauro, wiped glasses and said, "Ceni should captain the team and scream them awake."
Zé Paulo banged the counter. "We need a midfield that bites. None of this pretty passing."
Someone down the counter muttered, "That Kaká's good, but he disappears when they kick him."
Roberto finally spoke. "You'd disappear too if Sandro tackled you."
The men laughed, easing the tension.
Mauro poured him another beer. "You really believe in the kid, don't you?"
Roberto nodded slowly. "He plays with his head up. That's rare. And he shows up. Even when he got kicked, he never backed down. He always showed up."
"Showing up doesn't win trophies," Zé said.
"No," Roberto replied, raising his glass, "but it helps."
Next day, another paper, another opinion.
This time the tone softened.
"São Paulo Ready to Strike Back."
"Rumours say that Youngster Kaká Keeps Starting Spot."
Roberto read it twice at the café before work, the corner of his mouth lifting. So, Carpegiani hadn't given in to the noise after all.
He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
That night, when he came home, his son Gabriel was waiting on the couch, watching the evening sports show.
The boy's São Paulo flag was draped like a cape over his shoulders, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the floor.
"They're showing the goals again," Gabriel said, eyes glued to the TV.
"I've seen enough goals," Roberto said, dropping his lunchbox on the table.
"But they said he might start again! The coach trusts him!"
Roberto looked at the boy, at the spark in his eyes. Seven, full of belief, too young to understand how the world could turn on you overnight.
"He'll start," Roberto said finally. "And maybe he'll finish this time."
Gabriel grinned. "He'll score, you'll see."
Roberto laughed quietly. "You sound like your grandfather."
The boy nodded, serious. "Grandpa said São Paulo doesn't lose at home."
The simplicity of it hit Roberto harder than he expected. He reached out, ruffled the boy's hair, and said, "Then I'd better buy us tickets."
The next afternoon, he stood in line outside Morumbi's ticket booth. The sun burned low, the crowd restless but excited.
Vendors shouted prices for churrasquinho, whistles, and flags.
Two men ahead of him argued about midfield formations; a boy sold homemade São Paulo keychains.
When Roberto finally reached the window, the clerk said, "East stands almost full."
"I'll take two," Roberto said. "East's fine."
He held the tickets in his hand for a moment, studying the red ink, the official stamp. It felt like holding proof of belief.
At home that night, he placed them on the kitchen counter next to Gabriel's schoolbooks.
The boy's eyes went wide. "For real?"
"For real."
He tried to play it off like nothing, but Lúcia saw through it. "You'll both lose your voices screaming," she said.
"That's the plan," Roberto replied.
Saturday crawled by in nervous hours. The radio repeated the same lineups all day.
"São Paulo must win by two goals to lift the title."
Roberto worked half a shift, but his mind stayed on the match.
By evening, the city felt charged, flags on balconies, kids dribbling makeshift balls in the alleys, fireworks already popping even though kickoff was still a day away.
At the bar, Zé Paulo raised his glass. "Tomorrow we will crush Santos. Three-nil."
"Careful," Mauro said. "Don't jinx it."
Roberto smiled, quiet as always. "Two will do."
He didn't say it aloud, but inside, he pictured that number 22 jersey again, moving with a calm he hadn't seen since the Telê days.
Maybe the kid had learned something in that loss , something pain teaches faster than victory ever could.
When he left the bar, the air was thick and hot, the way São Paulo gets before summer storms.
Somewhere, a television played an old highlight reel, and he heard a commentator's voice echo through an open window:
"Tomorrow, the boy has a chance to answer."
Roberto smiled faintly. "Let him answer," he murmured. "And let it be loud enough for all of us."
He walked home under the flicker of streetlights, the ticket stubs tucked safely in his pocket, the sound of drums already rising from distant neighbourhoods.
The bad press had done its damage. But belief, he thought, was a stubborn thing.
And in São Paulo, belief always wore red, white, and black.
_________________________________________
Wednesday dawned clear, too bright for nerves.
Roberto woke before his alarm, the ceiling fan clicking overhead, his stomach already tight.
Outside, the city hummed differently. Vendors were setting up early, flags hanging from windows, car horns punctuating the morning air.
Even the pigeons on the telephone wires seemed restless.
Lúcia had left coffee on the stove.
"Eat something," she said when he walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "You won't survive four hours on nerves alone."
He smiled, pouring a cup. "Gabriel up?"
"Counting his coins since six. He wants to buy a flag."
Roberto chuckled. "Good. Let him."
He kissed her cheek, grabbed two sandwiches, and checked his pocket for the tickets for the fifth time.
The red stamps gleamed faintly in the kitchen light.
By mid-morning, Morumbi already echoed with distant drums. By evening the streets were packed with people going to the stadium.
They could hear them all the way from Vila Mariana: boom-boom-boom, the heartbeat of Tricolor.
Gabriel bounced beside him as they took the bus, clutching a rolled-up homemade banner.
Painted in black and red letters across an old bedsheet, it read: "Vamos Kaká!"
The bus filled quickly, jerseys everywhere, the smell of sunscreen, cheap beer, sweat.
Someone at the back started a chant and within seconds the whole bus was shaking.
"Tricolor! Meu amor! São Paulo é o melhor!"
Gabriel joined in, his small voice lost in the rhythm.
Roberto just smiled, tapping his fingers against the window glass. He'd sung that chant since he was a boy.
Now he was bringing his own son to add another voice.
When they stepped off near the stadium, the air was thick with smoke from grilled linguiça and the crack of fireworks.
Vendors shouted prices for shirts, whistles, and churrasquinho.
A man with a bucket of ice called out, "Cold Guaraná! Two reais!"
Roberto bought one for Gabriel, one for himself.
The boy's eyes darted everywhere, the sea of flags, the hawkers, the old men waving drums.
"Big, huh?" Roberto said.
"It's… gigantic."
The Morumbi towers rose ahead like a fortress, red-white-black banners rippling from every tier.
Even after decades, the sight still hit Roberto in the chest.
He had come here as a boy, with his father's hand on his shoulder. Now he placed his own on Gabriel's.
They entered through Gate 15. The concrete smelled of wet dust and beer.
Security guards checked tickets, smiles tense but friendly.
When they climbed the last steps and the pitch came into view, Gabriel stopped dead.
The green stretched wide, perfect, alive.
"Meu Deus…" he whispered.
Roberto grinned. "Your first final. Remember it."
They found their seats halfway up the east stand.
To the left, drums rolled like thunder; to the right, thousands of white shirts moved as one wave.
The stadium wasn't full yet, but it already sounded alive.
A man two rows down turned, spotting Roberto's plain work shirt among the jerseys.
"Hey, brother, you forgot your colours!"
Roberto laughed. "They're under my skin."
"Good answer!" the man shouted, raising his beer.
Gabriel leaned forward, eyes glued to the pitch where players were warming up.
He pointed. "There! Number 22!"
Kaká jogged near the sideline, thin frame glistening under the sun. He did a quick step routine with the ball, flicked it up, trapped it dead, then jogged on.
The crowd cheered even for that.
"He looks calm," Gabriel said.
"Calm's good," Roberto replied. "Means he's ready."
When Ceni jogged across to stretch, the north stand roared.
Flags whipped, drums pounded, flares popped red smoke into the sky.
The announcer's voice echoed:
"Senhoras e senhores! Sejam bem-vindos ao Estádio do Morumbi!"
The cheer that followed felt like an earthquake.
Sixty thousand throats, one heartbeat.
As kickoff neared, Roberto could barely hear his own thoughts.
He felt every vibration through the concrete under his shoes.
Gabriel clutched the railing, banner ready.
The teams emerged from the tunnel , São Paulo in white, Santos in black and white stripes.
The anthem rolled across the stands; some sang, others just shouted the last line, voices cracking.
When the whistle blew, the roar was pure release.
The first ten minutes were chaos. Santos pressed high, testing every pass.
França tried a header, wide.
Then Kaká touched the ball for the first time, a simple turn, a small pause, a quick pass that switched play.
It drew a ripple of approval from the crowd, a low oooooh like wind through leaves.
"See that?" Roberto nudged his son. "He makes time look slower."
Gabriel nodded without looking away.
A Santos defender slid hard into Serginho; whistles exploded from every corner.
Ceni gestured angrily from his box, shouting instructions lost in the noise.
The match swung back and forth.
Each tackle rattled the crowd's nerves tighter.
At one point, Kaká took a heavy hit from the same Sandro who'd bullied him in Rio.
He bounced up fast, face steady, jaw tight.
Roberto found himself grinning. "That's it, boy. Don't let him see you hurt."
Half an hour in, São Paulo began to settle.
A free kick thirty metres out , Ceni stepped up.
The entire stadium held its breath.
He took four steps, struck clean.
The ball curved like it had a mind, past the wall, kissing the net.
Explosion.
Red smoke, drums, grown men hugging strangers.
Gabriel screamed so loud Roberto laughed until he coughed.
"One-nil!" someone shouted. "O goleiro é craque!"
Roberto's ears rang. His heart raced.
He grabbed his son by the shoulders. "Remember this sound. This is what winning feels like!"
Short passes clicked together, the shape finally holding.
The chants grew rhythmic again, confidence returning.
Halftime. 1-0. People surged toward concession stands; the air filled with steam and arguments.
Roberto stayed in his seat, wiping sweat from his neck with a folded handkerchief.
Gabriel bounced in place, still chanting even while eating peanuts.
"Think we'll win?" the boy asked.
"We will," Roberto said.
When the players re-emerged, the roar doubled.
But football never rests.
Four minutes later, Santos equalised.
The silence that followed felt heavier than noise.People cursed, threw their hands up.A man two seats over punched the railing.
Roberto clenched his fists, muttering. "Come on, not like this."
The crowd sagged for a minute, then found its voice again, louder.
Drums rolled. The chant began:
"Vamo, vamo, Tricolor! Não para de lutar!"
In the 67th minute, Kaká received the ball, cut inside in the middle, turned sharply between two defenders, and found a diagonal ball across to Seginho, who made the run.
The left-back's first touch carried him wide, his second smashed across goal, and the net bulged.
2–1.
The roar was primal. Roberto's beer went flying as Gabriel jumped into his arms.
"That's him! That's the pass!"
Roberto laughed through the chaos. "The boy saw it before anyone!"
Now the stadium shook. Every footstep trembled through concrete.
Kaká pointed to the sky before jogging back, face calm again, all business.
Roberto couldn't stop watching him. The kid moved differently now, quicker, freer. Every touch clean, confident.
He was no longer playing against Santos; he was playing with the rhythm of the stadium itself.
Time crawled.
Santos threw everything forward. Ceni punched one corner clear, Edmílson blocked a shot with his thigh.
Then, the moment.
Edmilson intercepted a pass near midfield, nudged it toward Kaká.
The crowd surged to its feet as he sprinted down the right, Sandro chasing but too slow this time. Kaká carried it 20 or 30 metres and cut inside at the edge of the box, feinted once, twice, then curled a left-footed shot toward the far post.
It was perfect.
The keeper dove. Too late.
3–1.
For a heartbeat, silence, that stunned breath before belief catches up.
Then Morumbi erupted.
Flags whipped, flares burst, drums thundered.
Roberto's vision blurred with tears as he yelled until his throat burned.
Gabriel clung to him, both screaming, "Kaká! Kaká! Kaká!"
The boy ran to the corner flag, arms wide, face lit with disbelief and joy. His teammates swarmed him.
From the stands, it looked like light exploding inside a storm.
Roberto felt something shift in him then, not just pride, but faith reborn.
This wasn't luck. The kid had become part of São Paulo's story.
When the kid was subbed in the 80th minute, the stadium stood as a whole and applauded him. The boy showed up today and silenced many voices who doubted him.
The final minutes were a blur of noise and heartbeats.
When the referee finally blew for full time, strangers embraced, bottles clinked, someone fell to their knees in prayer.
The scoreboard glowed red against the night: São Paulo 3 – 1 Santos.
Roberto held Gabriel tight.
"Remember this night," he said, voice rough. "You saw a boy become a man."
_________________________________________
The drums pounded one last rhythm.
People sang the club hymn, arms around each other, voices hoarse but proud.
As they filed out, Roberto turned back once. The pitch below shimmered under floodlights, players still hugging, confetti drifting like snow.
He smiled, exhausted, full.
For the first time in a long while, everything felt exactly right.
The streets were alive before they even reached the bus stop.
Red, white, and black flags spilled out of car windows; horns blared without rhythm.
Someone set off a flare near the bakery, and the air filled with smoke and the sharp smell of gunpowder mixed with grilled meat.
São Paulo had been waiting years for a night like this.
Roberto still hadn't found his voice.
He and Gabriel walked in stunned laughter, shirts soaked with sweat, half-hoarse from singing.
They weren't alone,dozens streamed out of Morumbi, strangers hugging, shouting, crying.
Every corner looked like carnival had arrived early.
"Pai, did you see the curve on that shot?" Gabriel yelled over the noise, arms flailing like he was recreating Kaká's goal.
Roberto laughed, shaking his head. "If you try that in the living room, your mother kills me."
They passed the vendors already cashing in.
A kid maybe sixteen held up homemade shirts: 22 Kaká, letters uneven but proud.
"Can I get one?" Gabriel asked, pointing at the shirts.
"You already have two at home."
"But not the champion one!"
Roberto sighed, smiling. "Fine. One. Tell him to make it small."
The boy grinned and ran off.
Moments later he came back wearing the oversized shirt, sleeves hanging past his elbows.
People in the crowd laughed and cheered for him, patting his head.
That's how São Paulo celebrated,everyone's kid was family.
The bus ride home was pure chaos.
Chants broke out every few minutes, the driver honking in rhythm with the drums someone had carried on board.
An older woman waved a flag through the window; a baby in someone's lap slept through it all.
Roberto leaned back, eyes closed for a moment, letting the vibration of the bus merge with the hum still inside him.
Every shout from the back,"Tricolor! Campeão!",felt like punctuation on years of loyalty.
Beside him, Gabriel was half-asleep against his shoulder, one hand still gripping the crumpled flag.
Roberto looked down at him, smiled.
He remembered his own father carrying him home the same way, sticky with sweat, too happy to care.
Now it was his turn.
When they reached their stop, the streets were still crowded.
Lúcia waited at the doorway, arms folded, face pretending to be stern but eyes shining.
"Look at you two! You smell like fireworks."
"We won," Gabriel announced, chest puffed. "Kaká scored!"
"I heard," she said, holding open the door. "Half the neighbourhood knows."
The TV inside flickered with replay footage.
Commentators talked over each other, voices climbing with excitement.
"What composure from the young number 22! Only sixteen and already decisive!"
"Carpegiani's faith rewarded,São Paulo champions for the first time!"
Roberto dropped onto the couch, kicked off his shoes, and exhaled.
Lúcia handed him a glass of cold water. "Did you cry?"
He laughed. "Maybe."
"You did," Gabriel said, grinning. "I saw!"
"Don't repeat everything you see," Roberto said, but his smile gave him away.
They watched the replay together.
The camera followed Kaká celebrating, teammates piling over him, the scoreboard glowing.
Ceni's free-kick, Serginho's run, the roar of Morumbi,it all replayed in colour and noise.
Even though he'd lived it two hours ago, Roberto felt goosebumps rise again.
When the broadcast cut to the trophy presentation, he noticed something that got to him more than the medals.
Behind the players, groundskeepers were sweeping confetti off the grass, moving slowly, unnoticed.
He nodded toward them.
Later that night, after Gabriel finally fell asleep still wearing his new shirt, Roberto stepped out onto the balcony.
The city shimmered.
You could hear horns from as far as Paulista Avenue, and fireworks lit up the horizon in bursts of red and white.
Somewhere, a group of teenagers sang the club anthem off-key.
He thought of the first time he'd heard the kid's name last year, some youth game on the radio.
He'd been fixing an engine then too.
And now that same kid had carried the club to a title.
Football gave them something to believe in again, a story to tell their sons.
_________________________________________
The next morning came too early.
He woke to sunlight streaming across the living room,Gabriel was already rewatching highlights on the morning show.
The host was nearly shouting:
"And remember, folks, Kaká is only sixteen! Sixteen! What were you doing at sixteen?"
Lúcia muttered from the kitchen, "Studying. Unlike these people yelling at breakfast."
Roberto laughed, rubbing his temples. "Let them yell. They earned it."
The phone rang once, twice,neighbours calling to ask if he had seen the papers.
Someone joked that he should frame the edition before they sell out.
He promised he might.
By midday, São Paulo looked hungover from happiness.
Traffic was slower; street vendors waved flags instead of cigarettes.
Even the bus drivers honked the anthem rhythm.
At work, the depot felt lighter.
Someone had hung a São Paulo flag over the office door; Toninho was already blasting commentary clips from his transistor radio.
"There's our man!" he shouted when Roberto walked in. "The lucky charm himself!"
Roberto shook his head, laughing. "If I were that lucky, I'd be playing."
They crowded around the radio, listening to the recap.The announcer's voice rose over the static:
"...and the young midfielder continues his meteoric rise. The name on every scout's lips: Ricardo Kaká. A future for Brazil, perhaps?"
Zé Paulo whistled low. "They'll sell him to Europe before he finishes high school."
"Let the boy breathe," Roberto said, though he couldn't help the swell of pride inside.
He busied himself with a wrench, pretending to focus on the engine instead of the replay running in his head.
That evening, when the day's work ended, he met Mauro and the others at the bar.
It was calmer now,celebration turned into storytelling.
Every man had a theory about when they knew São Paulo would win.
Mauro swore it was Ceni's free-kick.
Zé claimed the moment Kaká squared up to Sandro and didn't flinch.
When they raised their beers, it wasn't for victory alone but for the relief of remembering what hope felt like.
"To the kid," Mauro said.
"To the team," Roberto corrected gently.
Then, after a pause, added, "And to whatever comes next."
Night settled again over the city, the confetti mostly swept away.
Roberto walked home through quieter streets, the echoes of drums still faint in the distance.
He passed a newsstand closing up; the vendor waved, grinning.
"See, Beto? Told you to keep the faith."
Roberto smiled back. "I never lost it. I always believed."
At home, Gabriel's new shirt hung over the chair, drying from another round of wear.
The television played softly,old highlights, the host's voice still excited, already speaking of the next season.
Roberto turned it off, stood for a moment in the silence, and looked around the small apartment that smelled of dinner and detergent.
Everything ordinary, everything enough.
He thought of Morumbi's roar, of 60000 people singing as one, of his son's voice cracking from shouting too much.
And he knew that, come the next match, they'd be there again,because that's what supporters did.
They showed up, rain or shine, win or loss, believing that one match could still make them feel alive.
He folded the newspaper carefully, slid it into a drawer already full of old ticket stubs, and whispered to himself, almost as a prayer,
"Valeu, garoto. You made us believe again."
Author's Notes:
Just a different POV. Not just the press, but a fan.
Let me know if these kinds of chapters are okay.
I am not going to cut down on the human element and rush him to Milan. I have cut down two full seasons, and editing out the rest, but I will have some fan reactions, some slice of life and stuff till 2001 comes. Please bear with me. Story reads different if that goes missing imo.
50 chapters.
I did not think I would be able to do this. I just wanted to go ahead and write it instead of thinking too much and backing out.
I learnt many things. When people talked about bad quality, I did take it as a challenge and worked on it. I will keep working on it. i could see many issues still, I am not blind to it, but in the chase of perfection, I do not want to stop writing.
Thank you for the support and feedback!
I want to shoutout some names, who have been active in the comments and donate some powerstones to keep me motivated to write better.
BadReddy: Dude doesn't talk much but donates powerstones daily. Thank you!
Nebulous_Reads: Thank you for the comments and the support.
Swayam_Patel: Same as BadReddy. Supports with powerstones. Thank you!
Drasmath_Mt: Appreciate the powerstones.
Thinking_ape, EmaCnDf, jccr, 00Sidney00, Victor_De_Paula, a_silva, Brushotti, Igor_Di_Novaes, Bali_King_13, Twilight_2000, Makenzie_Stancer : Thank you for the messages. The powerstones. The feedback. I really do appreciate it.
And I would like to thank Archonstine who took time in the beginning to correct my grammar and for putting me on track to write better. Appreciate it!
To all the others who do lurk around and who do comment and keep the comments active, thank you! It means something.
Here's to another 200 more! Cheers.
https:// discord. gg/8mVhbAXv3C