Joao Carlos
The TV replay still shimmered across the living-room wall long after the match had ended.
São Paulo's players were making another slow lap around Morumbi, gold ribbons fluttering through the floodlight haze.
On the screen, the camera lingered on the boy wearing 22 , sweat-slick hair, medal around his neck, eyes bright but steady.
The commentator called him "o garoto de ouro do Morumbi." (The golden boy of Morumbi)
In the small apartment at Teresópolis, João Carlos leaned forward, elbows on his knees, pen balanced across his notebook.
He rewound the tape once more, letting the scene roll from the build-up: Kaká shifting his run half a second earlier than the full-back expected, glancing twice before receiving, then the subtle change of stride and that curl into the far corner.
No rush, no panic.Only calculation.
He wrote two words in neat block letters: "tempo + leitura."
Timing and reading.
The rarest gifts in youth football.
He'd seen the same boy at Granja Comary the previous July , quieter then, slighter, eyes too serious for his age.
Sixteen now, not even seventeen yet, and already dictating the rhythm of men.
The land-line rang.
He picked it up before the second ring.
"Eduardo," he said, recognizing the voice the moment he said hello.
"I know you're watching the same thing," his assistant laughed.
João Carlos smiled. "I am."
"So?"
"He's ready."
Eduardo's tone changed. "You'll never convince São Paulo. He's playing senior ball every week."
"I don't need to convince them," João Carlos said, jotting down discipline under pressure. "I'll ask. The flag carries weight."
"Carpegiani will talk your ear off about fatigue and injuries."
"Then I'll listen. And still take him."
The screen cut to post-match interviews.
Kaká, standing beside Rogério Ceni, speaking softly into a mic.
'People can expect what they like. My job is to train well, listen to the instructions and play.'
João Carlos nodded to himself. "He speaks like he plays. No decoration, just clarity. Calm. Collected. Deadly. You cannot teach that."
Eduardo chuckled. "You're already writing his name on the list, mister."
"I've been saving the spot since July," João Carlos replied.
He underlined the name once. Ricardo Izecson Leite (Kaká).
_________________________________________
Kaká
The morning after the win began in silence.
No alarms. No noise from the street yet. Just a pale sliver of sun leaning through the curtains, finding its way across the desk, the notebook, the medal still sitting there.
For a long moment, I didn't move. The body ached,not the heavy pain of fatigue, just that dull hum that follows when you've emptied yourself out completely. My legs had that pleasant heaviness of having run for something that mattered.
I blinked, stretched, and let the memory replay.
The final whistle, the red-and-black shirts colliding in celebration, the glint of the trophy in Carpegiani's hands. I could still smell the wet grass and sweat, and still hear França's laugh echoing down the tunnel.
A slow smile found its way across my face.
We'd done it. São Paulo, Champions.
And me, somewhere in that story.
The thought brought a warmth that filled my chest.
I sat up and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. The air was still cool, faintly scented with last night's rain. My jersey hung from the back of the chair, still damp around the collar.
One mission completed.
Win a trophy with the Sao Paulo FC first team.
Reward: One stat point. One medium injury protection card.
Congratulations!
The glow pulsed once and faded into my body like breath sinking into lungs. A soft warmth spread through my chest, settling deep in the muscles and spine.
I exhaled slowly.
For a moment, I couldn't even speak. I just sat there with my palms open, like I was afraid the feeling would slip away if I moved too fast.
Then it hit me all at once, the memory of Diego, his voice on the phone months ago. Fratura distal do rádio.(Distal radius fracture) The way he'd tried to laugh through it. The way I'd promised myself I'd never take my health for granted.
I remember the previous cards. The feeling I had when I was tackled and heard the chime from the System. If I was out for even a week or two then, I wouldn't be playing in the first team as I am now. I wouldn't have been able to win this trophy.
My throat tightened.
"Thank you," I whispered again, quieter this time. It wasn't just a reward. It was a kind of mercy.
A layer of invisible armor between me and everything that could have ended this story too soon.
I sat there for a while, staring into the quiet. The room was dim, only the faint hum of the fan breaking the stillness. Even after all this time, it hit me differently. The weight of it, the absurdity of it. I still hadn't come to terms with any of it. Some days, it felt like a story someone else had lived. Other days, it was too real. Too close.
A Medium Injury Protection card. It felt unreal , something… priceless.
For a long time, I just sat there, letting the thought settle. Then, almost by reflex, I opened the System.
It blinked awake like an old friend I'd forgotten about. I hadn't checked it in months. Training, travel, matches, the rhythm of it all, the System had slipped quietly into the background. I'd been living too much in the real world to remember the digital one that lived with me.
My stats glowed on the screen. Familiar numbers, some slightly changed, some still the same. I scrolled through them slowly, half-curious, half-detached. It was strange, these numbers defined me once. Now they only felt like shadows of what I'd already lived.
There was one unused stat point. I let my thumb hover over it, thinking. Physicality, Pace, Passing, Shooting, Dribbling, every category pulled at me. I'd been stronger lately, sharper, but there was always more to do. In the end, I went with instinct. Pace.
Strength, technique, those I could grind. Those had no ceiling if I kept at it. But speed… that was different. You could build muscle, you could polish touch, but pace? That came with time and vanished with it.
So I pressed it. Sprint Speed +1.
The number ticked upward, a soft chime marking the change.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and smiled faintly. It was small. Almost nothing. But it still felt like progress, the quiet kind that didn't need an audience.
**********G.O.A.T System**********
Stats Missions Training Cards
**********G.O.A.T System**********
Stats
Name: Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite (Kaka)
Age: 16
Height: 181.5cm
Weight: 73.8kg
Position: Attacking Midfielder/ Winger
Preferred Foot: Right
Weak Foot: ****
Skill Moves: ****
Work Rate: ****
Overall Rating: 75
Potential: 94
Pace: 87
#Acceleration: 88.3(+2.3)
#Sprint Speed: 87.3(+3.3)(1 stat point used)
Shooting: 75
#Positioning: 80(+7)
#Finishing: 73.6(+6.6)(1 stat point used)
#Shot Power: 75(+6)
#Long Shots: 74.8(+4.8)
#Volleys: 72(+9)
#Penalties: 80(+12)
Passing: 77
#Vision: 83(+8)
#Crossing: 74(+8)
#Free Kick Accuracy: 76(+8)
#Short Passing: 77.8(+5.8)
#Long Passing: 76(+9)(1 stat point used)
#Curve: 76(+7)
Dribbling: 86
#Agility: 87.8(+3.8)
#Balance: 84(+4)
#Reactions: 80(+10)
#Ball Control: 86(+6)
#Dribbling: 88.4(+4.4)
#Composure: 72(+12)
Defending: 44
#Interceptions: 42(+12)
#Heading: 62(+14)
#Defensive Awareness: 42(+6)
#Stand Tackle: 40(+8)
#Slide Tackle: 40(+12)
Physical: 62
#Jumping: 70.5(+12.5)
#Stamina: 72.4(+12.4)
#Strength: 64.6(+18.6)
#Aggression: 42(+4)
Traits:
#Speed Dribbles
#Playmaker
#Technical Dribbler
#XFactor
The numbers glowed softly for a moment before dimming into stillness.
I didn't rush to close the screen. I just looked at it, the neat, cold precision of it, every line a measure of something that used to be a dream.
Sixteen years old.
Playing in the first team.
A trophy on the shelf.
And now, protection from fate itself with the medium injury protection card.
I leaned back against the headboard and let out a slow breath.
"Not bad for someone who couldn't kick a ball to save his life," I murmured.
The digital light faded, leaving the room quiet again. The city outside was waking now,car horns, a dog barking somewhere down the street, the faint sound of Mamãe's sandals on the kitchen tiles.
I got up, stretched, and felt the stiffness in my calves. My body was learning the rhythm of grown men's football,the weight of contact, the pace of the league. But beneath the soreness there was strength too.
I pulled on a clean shirt and padded barefoot to the window. The sky was turning gold.
Out there, the city looked ordinary again, but I knew something had changed inside me.
The card wasn't just a safeguard,it was a reminder. I'd been given something rare: another layer of time.
I thought of all the ways it could have gone wrong,the awkward tackles, the twisting runs, the countless small accidents that could derail a career. I'd seen too many players lose years that way.
Now I had something to guard against it. Something no one else could see.
I smiled faintly, half in disbelief. "A cheat code from heaven," I whispered.
My stomach growled softly, and I laughed.
Even heroes needed breakfast.
In the kitchen, Mamãe was already setting out plates. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, thick and sweet.
"Good morning, meu campeão,"(My Champion) she said, eyes warm with pride.
"Morning, Mamãe" I replied, trying not to grin too much.
She poured me coffee without asking, just the right amount of sugar, the way she always did.
Papai came in next, still in his undershirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stopped when he saw me at the table, smiled, and ruffled my hair the way he used to when I was little.
"So this is what a champion looks like, hm?"
"Just hungry," I said.
"Hunger for food or hunger for more trophies?"
I just laughed and said "Both!"
He poured himself coffee, and for a moment the three of us sat there in easy silence, the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the radio filling the space.
Then Mamãe reached over and touched my hand. "You made us proud, filho."
"I know, Mamãe," I said softly.
Digão came clattering down the stairs then, wearing my old training jacket, sleeves rolled halfway over his hands.
"Bom dia, craque!" (Good morning, star) he said with a grin.
For a moment, everything felt weightless again,no stadiums, no pressure, just family.
I finished breakfast, leaned back, and looked at them all taking in their faces.
There were mornings you remembered for life, not because of noise or glory, but because they made you see how far you'd come.
This was one of those.
__________________________________________
3rd POV
Two mornings later at Barra Funda, the fax machine whirred and spat out a sheet headed Confederação Brasileira de Futebol.
Paulo Carpegiani frowned even before reading the text.
Subject: Request for player release, Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite , Brazil U-20 pre-World Cup camp, Granja Comary, March.
He sighed, turning the paper in his hands.
They always came for the good ones.
Milton Cruz leaned over his shoulder. "Already?"
"They move fast when they smell a champion," Paulo muttered.
"He's sixteen, Coach. He just finished a tournament."
"Exactly. That's why I'd rather keep him resting."
The office door creaked open.
The club director, Carlos Augusto, stepped in holding another phone, dragging the wire behind him.
"Coach João Carlos on the line. Wants a word."
Paulo Carpegiani pinched the bridge of his nose before taking the call.
"João, congratulations on your shortlist," he began, voice measured. "But you understand our concern."
"I do," came the calm reply. "He'll train under medical supervision. Two weeks only."
"We start the Paulista in April."
"He'll be back for that. Stronger."
Carpegiani turned toward the window, watching the youth side scrimmage on the far pitch.
"Strong is one thing. Broken is another."
"I won't break him," João Carlos said evenly. "I'll shape him. The nation needs him"
There was a long pause.
Finally, Carpegiani exhaled. "All right. But you owe me his fitness report every week."
"You'll have it," João Carlos promised.
"And if he steps off the plane limping, I'm sending you the bill for my headache medicine."
João laughed quietly. "Deal."
When the line clicked dead, Carpegiani looked down at the fax again and shook his head.
"Sixteen," he murmured. "Already too good to hide."
__________________________________________
That evening, at the Leite household, the television was still tuned to sports news.
A short segment ran clips from the final; a scrolling banner below read: CBF to announce World Youth Camp list this week.
Simone stood behind the couch, arms folded, eyes bright.
She knew what that meant.
The phone rang then.
Bosco, half-buried behind the evening paper, mumbled, "If that's another journalist asking for an interview, hang up. We're not running a press office."
Simone gave him a look.
The ring kept going until she answered.
"Boa noite?"
"Senhora Simone? João Carlos speaking. I hope I'm not calling too late."
Her tone softened instantly. "Not at all, coach."
"I wanted to tell you personally, Ricardo is on the list for the national U-20 camp. We'll start next week at Granja Comary."
For a moment she couldn't find words.
Then: "Thank you, coach. He'll be ready."
"I know he will. Please remind him this is not Nigeria yet, just the preparation phase. We'll decide the final selection after the friendlies."
"Yes, coach. He'll understand. Let me get him on the line"
"Ricardo! It's for you. It's coach Joao Carlos"
She handed the receiver to her son.
Kaká's hair was still damp from his shower, white T-shirt sticking to his shoulders.
"Coach João?"
"Parabéns, garoto. You're on the list for the national U-20 camp. We'll start next week at Granja Comary. Pack lightly and bring discipline."
Kaká grinned. "Always, coach. Thank you!"
"Don't thank me yet, kid. See you soon."
When he hung up, the house felt unusually quiet.
Bosco lowered the paper. "Well?"
"I'm going to camp again," Kaká said.
"Already?"
"It's for the national U-20. They're building the team for the World Cup in Nigeria."
Bosco raised an eyebrow. "Sixteen and already 'building the team.'"
Simone swatted his arm with the dish towel. "Don't make fun."
Her eyes glowed with that proud, almost reverent light she always carried when the topic was the Seleção.
"You realise what this means, Ricardo?"
He nodded.
"Playing for Brazil," she said softly, almost to herself. "That's the dream."
Digão, sprawled on the couch, lifted his head. "So you're leaving for Nigeria?"
"Not yet," Kaká replied. "Just camp. Teresópolis."
The banter loosened the air.
Simone disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a small plate of pão de queijo, still warm.
"Eat," she said. "Champions don't starve."
He laughed, taking one. "You're acting like I'm leaving tomorrow."
She looked at him, eyes soft but fierce. "It doesn't matter when. Every time you wear that yellow shirt, it's the same, you carry all of us with you."
Bosco watched the exchange over his reading glasses, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He didn't interrupt; he'd learned long ago that national-team news belonged to Simone first.
She had followed the Seleção since the seventies, could still list every goal of '82 from memory.
For her, this was sacred territory.
When the TV shifted to a replay of Brazil's senior team training ahead of Copa América, she pointed with the remote.
"See? That's the same crest you'll wear."
"I know," Kaká said quietly. "It's heavy."
"It's supposed to be," she answered.
The rest of the evening unfolded slowly , no speeches, no fuss.
Bosco retreated to his drafting table, muttering about structural loads; Digão raided the fridge again; Simone sat beside her eldest, asking small things: "Will Ronaldinho be there? How's Coach João?"
"He will," Kaká said. "And coach João seems happy. He told me to pack discipline."
She smiled. "That's a good thing to pack."
Later, when everyone drifted toward their rooms, Simone lingered in the hallway.
Through the half-open door she saw her son at the desk, writing in his small notebook , the same one he'd carried since last season.
From the doorway she heard him whisper, almost a prayer, "I will make it count"
She closed the door quietly and whispered her own.
"Protect him. Let him shine, but keep him safe."
_________________________________________
Kaká
I arrived at the training ground before most of the squad.
Morning mist hung low over the fields, turning the sprinklers into faint silver arcs. The place looked almost peaceful, if you ignored the smell of fuel from the mower and the echo of a whistle somewhere near the gym.
I hadn't trained with the group since the Rio–São Paulo final. The next match wouldn't involve me; the federation had already called.
Today was just a stop, a check-in before joining the youth setup again.
Inside the locker room, the air was damp with soap and fabric spray. Rogério Ceni sat on a bench, wrapping fresh tape around his fingers. He looked up, nodded once.
"Morning, garoto."
"Bom dia, Ceni."
He studied me for a second, then said, "So it's official, you're off to the World Cup?"
"Coach João Carlos confirmed it yesterday."
He tied the tape off neatly and flexed his hands.
"Congratulations. But remember, it's not Morumbi you're walking into. Pitches there bite back. Cracked soil, uneven bounce. Keep your passes short, your stance wider. Don't plant too early when you strike; your ankle will pay for it."
I nodded. He'd spoken like a man remembering pain, not giving advice.
He reached for his gloves. "Learn to read the ground before you trust it."
He stood and left without another word.
A few minutes later, Edmílson came in from the gym, sweat darkening his shirt. He dropped onto the bench beside me, catching his breath.
"You look half-asleep."
"I slept too much," I said.
He chuckled. "National team lives on buses and planes. Get as much sleep as you can now."
"Let me show you something"
He pulled off his boots slowly, stopping at a scar near his shin.
"That from training?" I asked.
"Bahia, three years ago. Pitch looked like pasture. I went in for a slide, hit a hidden stone. Stitches. Missed two months."
He glanced at me, serious now. "They'll tell you to play brave, to prove you belong. Do it smart instead. You can't impress anyone from the medical room."
I nodded.
"You're light on your feet, that's good. Just… don't stay light when you land. Ground yourself. That's how you survive those fields."
He clapped my shoulder, the way older players do when words feel too heavy, and went off toward the showers.
Carpegiani arrived last. He was carrying his usual notebook, the one with coffee stains on the cover.
"Ricardo," he said, motioning for me to follow.
We stepped outside to the sideline. The grass glistened in the sunlight; the groundsman waved from across the pitch.
"I wanted to see you before you go," he said.
"The CBF sent me your travel schedule. You'll join the boys at Granja Comary first?"
"Yes, sir."
He watched the sprinklers turn for a moment before speaking again.
"You did well this tournament. You've got balance, both feet, both eyes. But you're still thin for the punishment those pitches give. The soil's dry, hard, unpredictable. If you try to turn too sharply, it will stick your studs. Twist your knee before you realize it."
He looked at me, face unreadable. "So what do you do?"
"Lift earlier. Let the ball roll. Keep rhythm."
He nodded slowly. "Exactly. Play with your head when the ground doesn't help your feet."
He flipped open the notebook, scanned a page, then shut it again.
"I've spoken with João Carlos. He'll manage your minutes. Don't fight him on it. And if you feel a pull or sting anywhere, stop. Don't play hero. No match at sixteen is worth a career."
"Yes, coach"
He smiled faintly. "Good. Then go enjoy it. Bring back a medal, or at least stories worth telling."
I left the training ground just before noon.
As I walked toward the parking lot, I heard one of the fitness coaches calling after me:
"Ei, garoto! Remember the stretch routine I gave you!"
"I will!" I shouted back.
When I looked over the fence one last time, the team was already training, small figures scattered across the pitch, the same drills, the same rhythm.
I wondered how long before I'd be back in it again.
Then I turned toward the gate, toward whatever waited next.
__________________________________________
3rd POV
At Granja Comary the following week, João Carlos pinned the provisional squad list on the corkboard outside his office.
Twenty-eight names.
He circled six of them in red , the ones still to be trimmed after camp.
Beside Kaká (São Paulo) he wrote: Observe fatigue levels.
Eduardo glanced over his shoulder. "So he's really coming."
"He earned it," João Carlos said.
"Sixteen, coach."
"I know. Let's see how he handles men twice his size in the heat of Africa"
He looked out the window toward the empty pitch.
In a few days, it would be full again , whistles, shouts, laughter, the sound of boots carving through wet grass.
And somewhere among them, that quiet boy from Morumbi, still chasing perfection one touch at a time.
That night in São Paulo, rain began to fall, the kind that pattered softly on tile roofs.
Simone stood by the kitchen window, watching droplets race down the glass.
She thought about her son's words , It's heavy.
She smiled.
So was love. And that, she decided, was what would carry him farther than any airplane.
_________________________________________
The mist was lifting off the mountains when João Carlos walked into the main conference room.
Granja Comary always smelled of wet grass and strong coffee in the mornings; it was a scent that carried the weight of a hundred selections before his.
He tossed a pile of folders onto the table and nodded to his assistants.
"Let's begin."
The room fell quiet except for the scrape of chairs.
Each coach opened the packet in front of him , lists of players, match notes, physical data, and a thick appendix of scouting reports from the Rio-São Paulo tournament.
João tapped the board with his marker.
"This," he said, circling one name, "is what I saw in Morumbi last week."
They knew immediately whom he meant.
Kaká, São Paulo FC, 16 years old.
Valença lifted his eyebrows.
"You're serious about taking a sixteen-year-old again?"
"I am," João answered. "Because he's playing like he's twenty-one."
He uncapped the pen and began diagramming movements on the board , the angled runs, the pause before release, the controlled weight of pass.
"He doesn't run into traps anymore. He creates them."
Tavares, the conditioning coach, flipped through the São Paulo data.
"73.8 kilos, 12.2 body fat. Good conditioning, maybe a touch lean for Nigeria's climate. But nothing worrying."
João Carlos nodded. "We'll monitor him closely."
Eduardo leaned back in his chair. "And what about Diego? The forward from São Paulo's youth team. I see his name in your notes."
João Carlos rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I've only watched him on tape. Good instincts, nice acceleration, but he's been out half the season with that arm fracture and a back issue. I can't gamble on fitness for a World Cup."
He closed the folder.
"The future's open for him, but not this time."
A few hours later, the shortlist was pinned to the corkboard outside his office.
Twenty-eight names under the heading Seleção Sub-20 , Pré-Convocação Mundial de 1999.
Among them, the youngest stood out like a bold accent: Ricardo dos Santos Izecson Leite (Kaká).
By noon the first players began to arrive.
Suitcases bumped across the tiled corridor, the clatter of studs echoing through the hall.
A radio somewhere was already playing pagode; the sound mingled with laughter and Portuguese banter.
Ronaldinho was the first face João spotted at the doorway, curly hair, guitar case in one hand, grin already in place.
"Coach, if you don't like noise, send me back to Grêmio," he said.
João Carlos shook his head. "As long as the noise stays off the pitch."
Behind him came Edu, Baiano, Matuzalém, Rodrigo, Mancini, and the others, each dragging bags that looked heavier than they were.
Then Kaká appeared in his crisp São Paulo tracksuit, a quiet presence among the chatter.
Ronaldinho noticed him instantly.
"Olha só! The paulista arrives!"
Kaká smiled. "Are you still pretending Grêmio invented football?"
"Only perfect football," Ronaldinho shot back, clapping him on the shoulder.
They fell into step together down the hallway. Different accents, different clubs, same curiosity.
"So how's life at Morumbi?" Ronaldinho asked.
"Fast," Kaká said. "They play vertical, always looking forward. I barely have time to breathe."
"At Grêmio," Ronaldinho replied, "we breathe too much. Coach wants us touching the ball twenty times before shooting."
"That explains your dancing," Kaká teased.
Ronaldinho laughed. "And your running. Let's see who lasts longer under João's drills."
"You did great in the tournament, Paulista. I need to win things to keep up with you. We'll meet soon in the league"
"You watched it?"
"Of course I did. I needed to see if you played like I showed you." He laughed.
They reached the dorm wing, walls lined with yellow jerseys from past generations. On one door hung the roster for Room 7: Ronaldinho + Kaká.
They exchanged a glance that said, this should be interesting.
The next morning, João Carlos assembled the squad on the main pitch.
Dew still clung to the grass, and the mountains glowed pale in the early sun.
The players stood in two lines, tracksuits zipped, a mix of nerves and excitement humming through them.
"Welcome," João began. "Some of you were here last year. Some are new. All of you are here because you've earned the right to fight for that shirt."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"This is preparation, not vacation. We're building a team that can win in Nigeria, not just participate."
A few players nodded; others just stared straight ahead.
João pointed to the assistants beside him.
"Eduardo, fitness. Tavares, tactics. If you have questions, ask before training, not after. You all know each other. Respect each other, compete hard."
He blew the whistle once.
"Warm-up. Ten laps. Go."
The group exploded into motion, boots thudding on wet turf.
From the sideline, João Carlos watched the two playmakers fall into rhythm side by side , Ronaldinho gliding, Kaká's strides longer, measured.
Different energies, but they synced naturally, like twin gears turning the same machine.
Eduardo leaned close. "They balance each other. One plays with joy, the other with order."
João smiled faintly. "That's why it will work."
By mid-day the fog had burned away.
Training moved from laps to possession drills, then to small-sided games.
Every few minutes João's whistle cut through the air.
"Tempo, tempo! Don't chase the ball , make it chase you!"
Kaká thrived in the rhythm. His touch was sharper, his eyes scanning constantly. Ronaldinho flicked passes between defenders, grinning at every nutmeg. The rest of the squad began to see what João Carlos already knew , Brazil had two minds controlling the same heartbeat.
During a short break, João called Kaká over.
"Garoto, you've adapted fast."
"Thank you, coach."
"You know the system? It's four-two-three-one, with Ronaldinho central. You'll start on the right side in the first friendly, drifting in when the ball's on the opposite wing. I want you to link with Edu's runs. Understood?"
Kaká nodded, towel draped around his neck.
"Yes, Coach"
"Good. Now go rest those legs."
That evening, the cafeteria buzzed with noise and the smell of feijão tropeiro.
Players crowded around tables, trading jokes and stories from their clubs.
At one corner, Ronaldinho strummed a quiet tune on his guitar while Kaká scribbled drills in his small notebook.
"You ever stop writing?" Ronaldinho asked without looking up.
"Helps me remember patterns," Kaká said.
"Patterns?"
"You know, spaces. Runs. How defenders shift."
Ronaldinho chuckled. "I just look at their eyes. You think too much."
"Maybe," Kaká said, smiling. "But thinking got us both here."
Ronaldinho plucked a chord. "Touché, paulista."
Across the room, João Carlos watched them from a distance , the future of Brazilian football, one thoughtful, one spontaneous.
Different languages, same purpose.
He turned to Eduardo beside him. "Write this down: we start with them together. From day one."
Eduardo grinned. "It'll be chaos."
"Beautiful chaos," João Carlos said.
Projected Starting XI , Brazil U-20 (Camp Line-Up, March 1999)
GK
Julio Cesar
Flamengo
Commanding in the box, starter throughout tournament
RB
Indio
Corinthians
Overlapping full-back, strong in attack
CB
Juan
Flamengo
Composed ball-playing centre-half
CB
Fábio Bilica
Venezia
Aerial presence, aggressive tackler
LB
Fábio Aurélio
São Paulo FC
Set-piece threat, disciplined positioning
DM
Matuzalém
Bellinzona
Deep playmaker, links defense to midfield
DM
Alexandre
Sao Paulo
Ball-winner, energy engine
RW
Kaká (16)
São Paulo FC
Intelligent movement, late runs, prodigy, fastest
AM
Ronaldinho Gaúcho
Grêmio
Central creator, free role, unmatched creativity
LW
Edu
Corinthians
Two-footed, strong in combination play
ST
Baiano
Corinthians
Mobile striker, presses high, finishes instinctively
Bench: Fabio(GK), Mancini, Fernando, Geovanni, Milton, Ferrugem,Tiago Silva and others from the provisional list.
Formation: 4-2-3-1, flexible into 4-3-3 when Ronaldinho drops deeper and Kaká drifts inside.
That night, as lights dimmed across Granja Comary, João Carlos lingered in his office, studying the names one last time.
A soft wind pushed through the window, rustling the pages of his notebook.
He wrote at the bottom of the list:
"Two creators. One future."
He capped his pen, leaned back, and allowed himself a rare smile.
For the first time in years, he felt that Brazil's next generation might actually surpass the one before.
__________________________________________
By the third morning of camp the rain had gone, leaving the pitches slick and shining like green glass. The fog that usually sat over the mountains lifted early, revealing the full sweep of the valley below. At half past eight, a whistle cut through the air.
"Circle in!" João Carlos called.
The squad jogged toward the semicircle of cones laid out across midfield. Assistants carried a whiteboard onto the pitch, magnets already arranged in neat lines. A few birds scattered from the goal net as the players took their places, hands on hips, breathing softly through the cool mountain air.
"This," João said, tapping the board, "is how we begin. The system will look like this only on paper. Once the ball moves, so must you."
He turned the board toward them: 4-2-3-1.
"Matuzalém and Alexandre sit here." He pressed two blue magnets near the center. "Ronaldinho here,free, not fixed. Edu wide left, Kaká wide right but narrow when we have possession. Baiano leading the line. Aurélio, Indio,you give width, nothing reckless."
He paused to scan their faces, making sure eyes stayed on him.
"When you play for Brazil, you play two games at once," he said. "The one the opponent sees, and the one you create."
Ronaldinho raised a hand half-jokingly. "Coach, and the one the fans imagine."
Laughter broke the tension; even João smiled. "Let them imagine. But win first."
He pointed the marker toward Kaká. "Ricardo, your job is to connect Ronaldinho to the forwards. You'll start wider, but not a winger. If Indio overlaps, you tuck in. When Edu drives inside, you stretch. Clear?"
"Yes, coach."
"And when you don't have the ball?"
"Recover behind the midfield line."
"Exactly. You'll learn when to press and when to wait. Patience wins tournaments."
He capped the pen and tossed it to Eduardo, who rolled the whiteboard away. "Enough drawing. Time to run the picture."
The next hour was pure movement,short bursts, recovery jogs, positional grids. João Carlos barked small corrections without ever raising his voice. "Ronaldinho, drop between lines!" "Matuzalém, look before the ball arrives!" "Kaká, faster rotation!"
Sweat darkened the yellow training bibs. The rhythm sharpened. The longer they played, the clearer the shape became,Ronaldinho drifting left into half-spaces, Edu sliding narrow, Kaká ghosting into the seam behind the striker. The ball zipped across the surface like electricity.
During one break João pulled Kaká aside.
"You have a habit," he said quietly. "Every time you release a pass, you stop for half a second. Don't admire it. Move."
Kaká nodded. "Yes, coach."
"Think of football like breathing. You never stop between breaths."
When the whistle blew again Kaká corrected it immediately,pass, pivot, run. João noticed. He didn't shout; just scribbled in his pad.
After ninety minutes they finished with a half-field scrimmage, blue bibs against orange. Ronaldinho wore orange, Kaká blue. The coaches watched from the sideline, hands behind backs.
Eduardo leaned over. "You think they'll clash?"
"They'll learn to listen," João said. "Artists understand each other's silence."
The first internal game ended 2-1 for the orange bibs. Ronaldinho scored one from a chipped through ball; Mancini added the second. The only blue goal came from Kaká, a low shot after stealing possession near the box.
When João blew the final whistle, the players jogged in to shake hands. Ronaldinho grinned at Kaká. "You stealing from bigger midfielders now?"
"Only the slow ones," Kaká said, smiling.
"Then watch your back."
The joke turned into laughter that followed them all the way to the locker room.
Inside, the smell of liniment and wet fabric mixed with steam from the showers. Ronaldinho sat on the bench beside Kaká, towel around his neck.
"You play different than most right-siders," he said.
"How so?"
"You don't run to the line. You wait. Then you cut inside like a knife. It hurts defenders."
Kaká shrugged. "São Paulo trains vertical. Two touches, no time."
"Grêmio trains samba. Too many touches."
"Maybe between us we find the rhythm."
Ronaldinho laughed. "Rhythm and math, huh? I dribble, you count passes."
From the doorway João Carlos interrupted, amused. "If you two can combine as well as you talk, I might start sleeping at night."
"Don't worry coach," Ronaldinho said, "you'll sleep easy in Nigeria."
"Not with reporters calling at dawn, I won't," João replied, walking off to debrief with the staff.
That evening they gathered again in the video room. The lights dimmed; a projector hummed to life. Grainy footage of Brazil's last U-20 match filled the screen,a friendly against Paraguay earlier. João froze the image.
"Watch the gap between lines," he said. "See how our ten is isolated? The midfield stopped ten meters too deep. That cannot happen."
He drew a laser circle around the empty space.
"This is where you live now, Kaká. Between fear and freedom."
The room chuckled softly, but the boy's eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
João switched clips,Grêmio's domestic games, Ronaldinho slaloming through defenders. "Now, this," he said, "is freedom. But notice something: every time he beats one, the others drift too far. We must turn chaos into pattern."
He advanced the tape to a training clip from São Paulo,Kaká threading a vertical pass between two defenders for França.
"Here's our balance," he said. "Vision plus instinct. That's Brazil when it remembers to think."
The projector light flickered across the faces,some half-asleep, others absorbed. Kaká leaned forward, elbows on knees; Ronaldinho twirled the drawstring of his hoodie like a child, humming under his breath.
João let the clip run one more time before switching off the light. "Tomorrow we test it properly. Friendly against Fluminense U-20. Same shape. Learn to trust each other."
He looked at Ronaldinho and Kaká together in the front row. "You're the bridge. Make it walkable."
The following day dawned hot and bright. The practice field at Comary shimmered under the sun. Fluminense's youth side, wearing green and maroon, jogged out opposite the yellow jerseys of Brazil.
It was only a friendly, but the benches were full,CBF observers, scouts, a few journalists. João Carlos stood with arms crossed near midfield.
The whistle blew.
From the start the partnership clicked. Ronaldinho drifted central, pulling markers; Kaká darted into the vacated lanes. Edu hugged the touchline, stretching the defense, while Matuzalém sat deep, dictating pace.
In the twelfth minute, Ronaldinho took a loose ball, spun, and slipped it toward the right edge of the box. Kaká arrived half a step ahead of his marker, side-footed calmly into the bottom corner.
1–0 Brazil.
João allowed himself a small nod.
Fifteen minutes later, another move began on the opposite flank,Edu bursting inside, Matuzalém looping a pass toward Kaká again. Instead of shooting, he squared it across the face of goal. Baiano slid in for 2–0.
By halftime it was 3–0, Ronaldinho curling a free-kick around the wall to the delight of the small crowd.
During the interval, João kept it short. "Good tempo. But remember, the first goal started because you pressed early. Never stop hunting the ball."
Second half brought rotations, but the pattern stayed. When the final whistle went, the scoreboard read 3–0.
As they walked off, Eduardo whispered, "He looks older than sixteen."
João replied, "That's what happens when talent learns humility."
Evening descended cool again, crickets loud beyond the open windows of the dormitory block. Inside Room 7, Ronaldinho sat on his bunk, guitar balanced on his knee, picking a soft rhythm. Kaká leaned against the opposite wall, notebook on his lap.
"You ever think we'll play together in the seniors?" Ronaldinho asked suddenly.
"Maybe," Kaká said. "If we keep listening."
"To coaches?"
"To the ball," Kaká answered.
Ronaldinho smiled, strumming once. "You talk like a priest sometimes."
"And you play like a poet."
"So we're even."
From down the hallway came the echo of laughter,Edu and Mancini arguing over who had scored the prettiest goal. Someone shouted for silence; no one obeyed.
Kaká closed his notebook and glanced toward the small window. The mountains outside were dark shapes against the moonlight. "Tomorrow's another friendly?"
"Botafogo," Ronaldinho said. "Coach wants to test rotations."
Coach's Notes – Training Week 1
(Filed 10 March 1999, Granja Comary)
Formation: 4-2-3-1 functioning as 4-3-3 in transitions.
Observations:
1. Kaká , strong tactical understanding, anticipates second ball; decision speed excellent; developing chemistry with Ronaldinho.
2. Ronaldinho , creativity unmatched; must improve defensive recovery.
3. Edu , high work rate, covers overlaps well.
4. Matuzalém & Alexandre , balance midfield, anchor transitions.
Areas for improvement: set-piece defense, stamina under heat.
Next objective: friendly vs Botafogo U-20; evaluate squad depth.
At the bottom João Carlos added a single handwritten line:
"Harmony growing. Let's not rush genius."
The Friday sun hit Granja Comary like a hammer.
By mid-morning, heat shimmered above the grass and the air smelled of resin from the pine trees behind the main pitch. The players squinted as they stepped out from the tunnel, blinking against the brightness. A few pulled their shirts to wipe the sweat already starting on their faces.
João Carlos clapped twice. "Focus, boys! Last test before we pick the twenty!"
That sentence travelled down the line like a charge. The joking stopped; even Ronaldinho went quiet for once.
The opponent today was Botafogo U-20, lean and hungry, all black-and-white stripes and restless energy. They had arrived two hours early and were already warming up, driven by the chance to show they could unsettle Brazil's chosen ones.
João divided his squad into two groups. "Team A starts. Team B after halftime. Keep intensity."
Team A was close to the real starting XI. Kaká's bib was blue again , that meant he was first string.
Ronaldinho jogged over, bumping shoulders. "Hotter than Rio," he said.
"Better than rain," Kaká answered, tying his laces tight.
"You sure? Rain hides bad touches."
"I don't plan on having any," Kaká shot back, and Ronaldinho laughed, flashing those teeth that made every photographer love him.
The whistle blew.
From the first minute, the pace was frantic. Botafogo pressed high, swarming Matuzalém whenever he tried to turn. The first few passes went astray; João Carlos folded his arms, watching, saying nothing.
Then Kaká adjusted. He dropped ten metres deeper, giving Matuzalém a passing option, taking pressure off the pivot. Twice in two minutes he received under pressure, spun away, and slipped vertical balls between lines. The second pass reached Baiano, who drew a foul at the edge of the box.
"Good, Ricardo!" João barked. "Keep angles alive!"
Ronaldinho stood over the free-kick, twenty-three metres out.
"Want this one?" he asked Kaká.
"Your range," Kaká said, stepping aside.
The ball sailed over the wall, clattering off the bar and out. The crowd , a few local kids perched on the hill behind the fence , groaned in unison.
Ronaldinho turned, grinning. "Half a centimetre!"
"Next time aim half a centimetre lower then," Kaká replied.
Twenty minutes in, Botafogo countered through their winger, slicing through Indio and cutting inside. Fábio Costa parried the shot wide.
Ronaldinho jogged back shaking his head. "We sleeping?"
Kaká shouted, "Shape!" and the midfield closed ranks. That shout surprised even João. The quiet São Paulo kid, ordering teammates around. He scribbled another note on his pad.
Moments later, Brazil struck.
Matuzalém won the ball near halfway and immediately released Ronaldinho down the middle. Three defenders collapsed on him. Just before they reached, he rolled it right. Kaká was waiting, the angle perfect.
One touch, then a diagonal across goal , Baiano arrived first. Tap-in. 1–0.
The bench erupted. João didn't smile, but his shoulders relaxed.
"Beautiful triangle," Eduardo whispered beside him.
Second half began after a quick water break. Team B lined up, but João left Kaká and Ronaldinho on for fifteen extra minutes. "I want to see control under fatigue," he said.
The sun was lower now, shadows stretching long.
Botafogo pushed harder, rougher. One midfielder caught Kaká late with a sliding tackle. Grass and dust flew; Kaká rolled, sprang up instantly, jaw set. The referee whistled, warning the Botafogo player, but Kaká waved it off.
Ronaldinho jogged over. "You all right?"
"Fine," Kaká said, brushing dirt off his knees.
"Next time, dribble him so he remembers your number."
"I'd rather he forget it."
The restart brought a small masterpiece.
Ronaldinho feinted left, glided past one, and chipped a lofted pass that hung in the air. Kaká timed his run behind the full-back, cushioned the ball with his chest, and volleyed first time across goal. The keeper barely saw it.
2–0.
Even João couldn't hide his satisfaction. He turned to his staff. "That's understanding," he said. "Not luck."
He substituted both immediately after. "Leave while they still applaud you," he murmured as Kaká passed. The boy nodded, lungs heaving, smile modest.
After the final whistle, Brazil 3–1 Botafogo, the players collapsed on the grass. João gathered them near the centre circle.
"Listen up," he began. "Good pressing, better spacing. Still too open on counters. Tomorrow, recovery. Sunday, we name the twenty."
Someone asked, "Coach, when do we fly to São Paulo?"
"Patience. You'll have home leave before Nigeria."
That answer set off a low buzz of talk , who they'd visit, what they'd eat, promises to bring guitars or radios.
Kaká sat beside Ronaldinho, stretching hamstrings.
"You think we both go?" he asked quietly.
Ronaldinho grinned. "If we don't, they cancel the tournament."
"Serious question."
"So is my answer," Ronaldinho said, laughing. "You worry too much, paulista."
Two days later, Sunday afternoon, the conference room looked nothing like when João had first filled it with folders. The big board now showed only twenty names. Reporters weren't allowed in; the door was guarded by staff.
João read them out in no particular order, voice steady.
"Baiano…Bilica… Juan… Fábio Aurélio…"
He went on, down the list , Matuzalém, Mancini, Ronaldinho, Edu, Alexandre, Fábio Costa.
Kaká's name came near the end:
"Ricardo Kaká."
There was a small murmur, a few pats on the back. Kaká exhaled.
When the reading finished, João said, "Those not listed remain on standby. You trained well. Your time will come. For the twenty called, congratulations. You represent the flag now. Rest tomorrow. Tuesday, we train again. Wednesday, travel to São Paulo for the CBF send-off event."
Applause filled the room , not loud, but rhythmic, a release of weeks of tension.
That night, the dorm hallway was alive with movement. Players packing, trading shirts, scribbling autographs for each other on training tops.
In Room 7, Ronaldinho tuned his guitar again" Told you we're going to Nigeria"
Kaká folded his jersey carefully. "Feels far."
"It'll feel closer once we smell the food on the plane," Ronaldinho joked.
There was a knock. João Carlos stepped in, casual in tracksuit pants, a folder under his arm.
"Boys, quick word."
They straightened.
"I won't keep you long," he said. "Ronaldinho, keep your creativity but respect the shape. Ricardo, you're my balance. You keep our rhythm steady when matches get wild. Understand?"
"Yes, coach," they said together.
João smiled faintly. "Good. Now sleep. Tomorrow you'll have a thousand reporters waiting to steal your calm."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Ricardo."
"Sir?"
"That shot today. The second goal. Keep it up. Don't chase applause. Chase repetition"
Kaká nodded. "I will."
João closed the door behind him.
Ronaldinho let out a long breath. "He scares me sometimes."
"He scares everyone."
"Good coach, though."
"Yeah," Kaká said.
Ronaldinho grinned. "My grandma's still number one."
They both laughed, the sound echoing down the corridor long after lights-out.
Press Note – CBF Official Announcement (Excerpt)
(15 March 1999, Rio de Janeiro)
The Brazilian Football Confederation confirms the final list of 20 players for the 1999 FIFA World Youth Championship in Nigeria. The squad, led by head coach João Carlos, includes attacking midfielder Ronaldinho Gaúcho (Grêmio) and the youngest player of the group, Ricardo "Kaká" Leite (São Paulo FC, 16). Brazil will depart for Lagos following final preparations at Granja Comary and a short domestic farewell match.
Home Reaction
At the Leite household that evening, the phone hadn't stopped ringing.
Bosco sat on the couch, glasses slipping down his nose, pretending to read the newspaper while Simone darted between kitchen and living room answering calls.
"Simone! You must be proud!" a neighbour's voice shouted through the line.
She laughed. "We are! He is our pride."
When she hung up, she turned to Bosco. "Did you see the broadcast? They showed his name on television, right after Ronaldinho."
Bosco smiled behind the paper. "I saw. You almost screamed the roof down."
"I did not!"
"You did."
Digão emerged from his room, São Paulo shirt half-tucked, hair messy. "Mamãe, Papai, are we going to the airport when they leave?"
"Maybe not the airport," Simone said. "But we'll see him before he flies."
"Can I skip school that day?"
Bosco raised an eyebrow. "Nice try."
The TV in the corner showed highlights from training, Kaká and Ronaldinho jogging side by side, laughing. A banner scrolled across the bottom: "Brazil's New Generation Ready for Nigeria."
Simone folded her arms, eyes bright. "You think he'll start?"
Bosco shrugged. "Depends on the coach. But if he does, he'll make it count."
Digão grinned. "He always does."
For a moment the house was quiet except for the television sound , the commentators repeating his name, the camera catching his smile. Simone whispered almost to herself, "Sixteen, and already wearing yellow."
João Carlos's Personal Notes – After Camp Evaluation
Camp concluded successfully.
1. Ronaldinho and Kaká partnership exceeding expectations; positional fluidity effective.
2. Both disciplined in recovery and attitude.
3. Squad morale strong, unity visible.
4. Heat adaptation program begins next week before travel.
5. Objective: World Title.
6. Observation: "Kaká's maturity belies age. Continue gradual exposure , no overload."
He closed the notebook, exhaled, and stared out the window toward the darkening pitch.
Somewhere out there, under floodlights, the young ones were still kicking a ball they couldn't stop touching , a game older than all of them, waiting for its next storyteller.
Author's Notes:
I'm trying out something. I'm trying to write differently for different POVs. Let me know if it works. I want the Kaka 1st person POV to be more intimate, self reflective and focused on the family and feelings. This chapter, I wanted more of a historical summary/official. I don't know if it is too bland.
Please let me know how it came off.