Thursday, 18 March 1999 - First Friendly vs Fluminese B
Morning came thin and bright over the mountains. From the bus window I could see steam lifting off the pitch, slow as breath. Granja Comary always looked peaceful from a distance, trees mirrored in the lake, roofs glinting, but up close you could already feel the noise waiting to happen.
No one talked much. The bus hummed. I watched the fog slide past the glass and tried not to think about who might be watching from the fences. Scouts, journalists, maybe a few fans who'd heard the national youth team was training here. Ronaldinho was two seats ahead, headphones on, nodding to something only he could hear.
When we stopped, João Carlos stood, clipboard under one arm.
"Meninos!" (Boys!)
He looked down the aisle, his tone easy but sure.
"Remember what we worked on, tempo and patience. No one wins a match in the first twenty minutes. Find the timing first."
Outside, the air was a bit cool and clean. Wet grass, chemicals from sprays, coffee from somewhere near the dorms, every smell felt sharper than usual. A few journalists waited by the fence already, notebooks half-open. Further back, a cluster of men in plain tracksuits: scouts.
We jogged to the field. The ground gave slightly under our studs, damp from last night's rain. The ball skidded low during the warm-up, slick as soap. I mis-controlled the first pass and heard Ronaldinho laugh softly.
"Still waking up?" he said.
"Trying," I muttered, grinning despite myself.
João's whistle cut through the chatter. "Compact. Stay connected."
We ran the usual patterns, press, recover, shift, release. My lungs found their rhythm, heart settling into the familiar drum. The sky opened pale and blue as we formed the circle around him.
"They came to watch football," he said, nodding toward the fence. "Let's give them something worth writing."
Fluminense's reserves were already on the far touchline, maroon and white, tidy, calm. They looked like they'd done this a hundred times together. We still felt like a song being tuned.
Kick-off.
The first few minutes scraped by. Passes half a beat late, touches uncertain. Fluminense pressed high and fast, forcing us sideways. Every time I looked up, a defender was already closing. Ten minutes in, a diagonal ball found their winger free behind Fábio Aurélio. The cross came hard across the box; Júlio César flung himself and blocked it out with one glove. The thud echoed.
João's voice carried from the touchline: "Calma! (Stay calm!) Think!"
We tried, but they smelled blood. Fifteen minutes. Our line pushed too far, the gap behind us yawning open. Their striker darted through it, one pass, one finish.
1–0.
The sound of pens scratching came from the fence. I felt heat crawl up my neck. Ronaldinho jogged back beside me, shoulder bumping mine.
"Relax," he said quietly. "Still plenty of time."
We restarted. Slower, steadier. Matuzalém began calling the plays from deep, short passes to Alexandre, one touch, then out wide. The ball started to stay ours for longer than three passes.
Twenty-five minutes. The ball came to me near halfway. I turned fast, saw Ronaldinho drifting right, Baiano peeling off his marker. One quick pass split the line. Ronaldinho flicked it first time back into the middle. Edu arrived late, struck clean. The keeper blocked with his chest; the rebound bounced away. Close. But it felt like air returning to the room.
João clapped once. "That's it...again."
We pressed higher. The grass dried under the sun; passes began to sing. Alexandre stepped into midfield to win a loose ball, played it straight to Ronaldinho. One glance, a shimmy, then a pass between two defenders. I ran onto it and squared it early. Edu met it on the slide.
GOAL!
1–1.
For a heartbeat we all froze, just breathing. Then noise, pats on backs, shouts that dissolved into laughter. Ronaldinho jogged over, grin wide.
"Told you," he said.
I laughed, breathless. "Good to be awake now."
The rest of the half swayed back and forth. Fluminense still pressed, but our lines held. Matuzalém's voice anchored everything, calm, constant.
When the whistle came for half-time, the relief was almost physical. We walked off together, boots knocking against the path.
Inside the locker room the hum of the fluorescent light filled the quiet. João drew two arrows on the whiteboard, quick and sure.
"They're pressing in threes," he said. "So we move in twos. Simple. Kaká, don't drift too deep. Trust the space, it will find you."
"Yes, coach."
He capped the marker and looked at us. "It's not about playing beautiful," he said softly. "It's about playing right."
We nodded. No one clapped. It wasn't that kind of speech.
I sat down, unlaced one boot. My socks were soaked, grass stuck to my shin. For a second, I thought of Mamãe, she'd be finishing breakfast, the radio on, hoping to hear a mention of us. Papai would be reading at the table, pretending not to listen.
Ronaldinho tossed me a bottle of water. "Job half done," he said.
"Let us finish it then," I replied.
Outside, another whistle blew on the far pitch, clear and sharp, like a reminder that the second half was already waiting.
I tied my laces tighter.
The whistle brought us back to the light.
I blinked once, twice. The air outside had changed; the sun was higher, the mist gone. The grass had turned from silver to bright green, and every bootprint shone dark with water.
We walked out together, shoulder to shoulder.
Ronaldinho tapped the ball twice with his heel before the kick-off, smiling at nothing in particular.
João Carlos's voice trailed behind us from the touchline.
"Organização primeiro!" (Structure first!)
He wasn't shouting, just reminding.
Fluminense restarted fast. Their midfield pressed high again, but we had adjusted. Alexandre dropped five steps deeper, close enough for Matuzalém to find him with one touch. They looked like gears turning in sync. I stayed wider than before, almost hugging the line. João had told me at halftime: trust the space, the ball will find you.
Five minutes in, it did. Matuzalém clipped a pass toward me, just enough air to skip over a defender's head. I controlled it with my chest, felt the ball stick, and slid it down the line to Índio, already overlapping. His cross sailed too long, but we all applauded the idea. Small things build confidence.
For ten minutes, both sides traded ground. The noise from the fence grew, metal rattling, shouts from journalists comparing notes. One of them called, "Ronaldinho, over here!" when the ball went out of play. He just winked, spun it back into touch with his foot.
At the next break, I jogged close to him. "They love you already."
He laughed. "Why wouldn't they? I am awesome!"
Fifty-fifth minute.
We built from the back, Bilica to Juan, Juan to Fábio Aurélio, then a quick diagonal inside to Matuzalém. He turned, spread it to me. I felt a defender bite on my first touch, so I dragged the ball backward, inside, and fed Ronaldinho through the middle. He took it on the run, slipped between two men, and laid it off to Baiano without even looking.
The shot came low, skimming the grass. The keeper saw it late.
2–1.
Baiano didn't celebrate much, just pointed at Ronaldinho and jogged back. The rest of us followed, breathing hard but lighter now. João raised a thumb from the sideline.
After the restart, Fluminense tried to hit back immediately. Their striker, a stocky number 9, turned Bilica twice in quick succession and fired over. Júlio César shouted something I didn't catch, angry but focused. "Fecha! Fecha!" (Close him down!) His voice carried all the way to midfield.
They pressed us hard for ten minutes. Matuzalém started anchoring so deep he was almost a third centre-back. I dropped to help, sprinting back into our box twice to cover. My legs burned, but it felt right, honest work, not panic.
Then, a moment that still sits somewhere between luck and instinct.
Seventy-second minute. Ronaldinho drew two defenders to the right and chipped the ball over their line into open grass. I ran onto it, met the bounce, crossed early before the keeper could set. Edu darted across the front post, flicked it once.
3–1.
It wasn't a clean goal, but it was ours.
Edu laughed as he jogged back, sweat pouring down his neck. "About time," he said.
João signaled from the touchline, flat palms, slow down. Possession now. The rest of the match was about control, not noise.
Ronaldinho started dropping into midfield, juggling moments between defenders as if to remind them we could hurt them whenever we wanted. When the referee warned him once, he just smiled and lifted his hands.
Time stretched.
The sun dropped a little lower, casting long shadows across the pitch. Every run felt like the last run of the day. We defended deep, moved as a unit, Matuzalém and Alexandre sweeping up loose balls like janitors at closing time.
In the final minute, Fluminense got a free kick just outside our box. Their captain stood over it, right foot loaded. He curled it toward the far post; Júlio César flew and parried it clear. The ball fell to me. I didn't think, just cleared it long. The whistle followed two seconds later.
3–1.
We stood there for a breath, hands on hips, sweat running into our eyes.
Ronaldinho walked past, grinning. "Good practice, hein?" (Right?)
"Not bad," I said.
The journalists were already leaning against the fence, calling questions. João waved them off for now, gesturing us toward the bench. We formed a half-circle near the sideline while the Fluminense players clapped once and left the field.
João's face was serious but calm.
"Better. You adjusted. That's what matters. You can't fix mistakes you don't admit, and you can't learn if you don't make them. Remember that."
He turned toward me for a second. "Good width, Kaká. Keep the ball simple next time you break. You'll have runners."
I nodded. "Yes, coach."
We jogged toward the locker room, the grass dark and heavy under our boots. My shirt clung to my back. When I reached the door, I looked up once, the stands empty now, only a few scouts still scribbling notes. One of them met my eyes, nodded slightly, then turned away. I didn't know if that was good or bad. Maybe it didn't matter.
Inside, laughter came back. The room buzzed with that tired joy that only comes after the right kind of exhaustion. Baiano was joking with Ronaldinho about whose assist it really was; Alexandre and Matuzalém were arguing quietly over which passing lane had opened the second goal. It all sounded like music.
I sat on the bench, unlaced my boots, let my socks steam.
Ronaldinho dropped beside me, towel over his head. "You see that chip?"
"What chip? I thought you mistimed a cross," I said cheekily.
He grinned. "Admit it Paulista, you wish you mistimed it like me. I see it in your eyes."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You should get your eyes tested."
When João called for a cool-down, we went back outside under the fading light. The mountain air felt colder now. I could smell the lake again, faint and clean. We jogged a slow circle, legs stiff, bodies humming.
As we stretched, I looked around at the others, Juan still serious, Bilica joking with Júlio César, Matuzalém wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt. None of it felt like celebration. It felt like a start.
On the walk back to the dorms, João fell into step beside me.
"Tomorrow, recovery. Sunday we play again," he said.
"Yes, coach."
He gave a small nod. "Good first day. Don't lose the simplicity."
I didn't answer right away. We walked the rest of the path in silence, gravel crunching under our shoes.
Back in my room, I dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me. The window was open; somewhere outside a night insect buzzed. My legs throbbed, but it wasn't painful. It was proof.
3–1.
The numbers didn't mean everything, but they meant enough.
We had started slow, found rhythm, and ended looking like a team.
Tomorrow would hurt.
Sunday would test us again.
And we would be ready for it. One step at a time. One day at a time.
_________________________________________
Sunday, 21 March 1999 – Second Friendly vs Vasco B
The morning started slower than usual. My legs felt tight from Thursday, and everyone else looked the same, quiet, half-stretching, minds already on the match we hadn't played yet.
João Carlos had called breakfast early. Nobody complained. He stood near the doorway with his usual calm, checking off names on a clipboard while we filed through.
"Two matches in four days," he said. "You'll feel it. That's normal. What matters is how we think when we're tired."
He didn't raise his voice. He never needed to.
By the time we reached the pitch, the sky had cleared into a pale, hard blue. The grass glistened, damp but firm. In the distance, the mountain ridge looked like it was still deciding whether to hide behind the clouds. Ronaldinho stretched with both hands behind his back, humming something slow. Baiano yawned so wide he almost lost balance.
"Still alive?" I asked him.
"Barely," he said, smiling. "But alive enough."
The warm-up hurt in small ways, hamstrings, calves, back of the knees. We ran short sprints, loosened joints. João moved among us, adjusting a shoulder here, correcting a stance there.
"Today," he said, "we start on the front foot. Let the ball move faster than you do."
He clapped once. That was our cue.
Vasco's reserve team wore black shorts, dark blue shirts that shimmered under the sun. They looked bigger than Fluminense's boys, more direct, more physical. One of them shouted something about "jogar duro" (play hard), and I knew it wasn't a warning; it was a promise.
Kick-off.
The first ten minutes felt like we were running uphill. Their press was even sharper than Fluminense's. I mis-controlled a pass from Alexandre and had to chase it into touch. Ronaldinho shouted, "Relax!" but I could see the same tightness in his shoulders.
Fifteen minutes in, the punishment came. Their left winger cut inside, dragging Índio with him, and slipped a pass behind. The striker finished clean. One-nil. The sound that followed wasn't disappointment, just irritation, the kind that makes you want to throw a tantrum.
Matuzalém gathered us in quickly. "Hold shape," he said. "Don't chase shadows." His voice had that low gravity that made everyone listen.
We steadied. Pass after pass, small triangles, breathing again through the ball. Fábio Aurélio pushed high on the left, found Edu twice with those curling diagonals only he could hit. The second time, Edu flicked it inside to Ronaldinho, who let the ball roll through his legs and into space. I ran onto it and crossed early. Baiano threw himself forward, the ball glancing off his shoulder and past the keeper.
1–1.
The cheer was raw, short, almost angry. We'd needed it more than we'd wanted it.
João pointed at his head from the sideline. "Inteligência!" (Use your brain.) The word carried across the field like a slap.
From then until halftime, we wrestled control inch by inch. Vasco pressed in bursts; we learned to wait them out, then counter through the gaps they left. Alexandre was everywhere, tackling, covering, shouting. Once he won the ball clean off their captain and winked at me as he passed it. I laughed despite myself.
At halftime, João stood by the board, marker in hand. "They run heavy," he said, drawing arrows. "Let them. Switch sides faster. Edu, start wider; Kaká, drop later. Patience is your weapon."
He looked at me. "Trust Ronaldinho. He sees it before anyone else."
"I do," Ronaldinho said with a serious tone.
I lost it and threw a towel at him.
We went back out into a brighter afternoon. The sun had burned off the damp, and the air shimmered. The first few minutes were scrappy, loose touches, short tempers. Their midfielder caught me late once, studs raking my ankle. I stayed down for a breath, more from surprise than pain. João called from the touchline, "Levanta!" (Get up!) I did.
Fifty-fifth minute. Ronaldinho drifted central, Baiano dropped to pull their centre-backs apart. I slipped into the channel he left. The pass came like a whisper between two defenders. One touch, head up, and I squared it to Edu arriving late. He hit it low, side-footed, perfect.
2–1.
No roar this time, just relief that ran through us like oxygen. Edu pointed at me, grinning. "Good ball," he said.
"Only because you finished it," I told him.
We backed off then, not out of fear but control. Matuzalém anchored deep, dictating tempo with short passes. João's voice came calm from the sideline, guiding shape more than urging pace. "Breathe with the ball," he said once. I understood exactly what he meant.
Vasco pushed hard in the final twenty minutes. Júlio César made two saves, one diving left, one punching a corner clear through a crowd. Juan and Bilica fought for every header like it was a final. Each time we cleared our box, João's thumbs went up.
I started feeling the match in my legs, the kind of tired that lives in your stomach, not your muscles. Every sprint tasted metallic. When João finally called for a substitution, bringing Mancini on for Ronaldinho, the crowd by the fence clapped quietly. The journalists lowered their pens. They'd seen enough.
The whistle blew at ninety. 2–1.
We didn't jump or shout. We just stood there, hands on hips, catching our breath. Two matches, two wins, not perfect but honest. Ronaldinho walked over, hair sticking to his neck. "Better, huh?"
"Yeah," I said. "We look like a team now."
He nodded. "Soon we'll look like Brazil."
We laughed at that, because we both knew what it meant: the real work had just begun.
In the locker room, João didn't talk right away. He let the noise settle first, the thud of boots, the hiss of tape being pulled off, the sighs. Then he spoke, low and even.
"Good. You learned. That's what this camp is for. Remember how Thursday felt? That's gone now. You can play tired, you can play under pressure, and still find solutions."
He pointed at the floor with his marker. "That's maturity."
He paused, looking at each of us. "You have five days now. Rest well, eat well. Remember, the shirt never rests even when you do."
He smiled slightly, and that was all.
Outside, the late sun painted the mountains gold. I stood by the window, half listening to the others packing up. Baiano was teasing Mancini about his missed header during warm-up; Fábio Aurélio was arguing with Bilica about who should've marked their winger. It all sounded like normal football noise, but underneath it was something steadier, a quiet belief forming shape.
I tied the drawstrings on my kit bag and looked once more at the field below, now empty except for two attendants rolling the nets away. The grass shimmered faintly where the light hit it.
Two matches in four days. Two wins. Not perfect, not polished, but real.
Tomorrow we'd scatter for a short break, then meet again to fly across the ocean. Nigeria felt far and close at the same time, like a horizon you could see but not touch yet.
For now, I wanted nothing but a shower, a long sleep, and Mamãe's voice on the other end of the phone.
_________________________________________
Monday, Sao Paulo
We'd packed most of our things the night before, but the rooms still smelled of sweat and detergent, proof that football never really leaves once it settles in.
At breakfast, the clatter of cutlery filled the silence. No speeches this time. João Carlos only lifted his cup and said, "Descansar bem, meninos." (Rest well, boys.) He smiled, tired but proud.
We nodded. Two matches, two wins, no more to be said.
The bus waited at the edge of the gravel road, engine running.
One by one we filed out, duffel bags over our shoulders, half asleep. Ronaldinho was last as usual, headphones hanging around his neck. He threw his bag in the luggage hold and leaned against the door.
"Five days," he said, counting on his fingers.
"Think you'll survive without football?"
"I'll try," I said.
He laughed. "You won't."
João sat near the front with his notes, already writing again. The rest of us scattered in twos and threes. I took the window seat halfway down. Outside, Granja Comary grew smaller, swallowed by mist and trees. I wondered if it would look the same when we came back in a week or if we would.
For the first hour no one spoke. The bus hummed down the mountain, wipers moving slow over the windshield. I watched the wet road coil below us, then flatten out near the toll booths. Somewhere between Teresópolis and Rio, the sky broke open for a minute, a thin beam of sunlight hitting the glass so hard I had to squint.
Mancini started a soft rhythm on the back of the seat with his fingers. Baiano joined with a whistle. It turned into a quiet beat, like the leftover pulse of the match.
João looked back once, half-smiling. "Even on the way home, you can't stay still."
We reached Rio around noon. Some players got off there to meet family. João shook each hand, the same steady way: eyes, handshake, single nod.
"See you on the 27th," he said to each of us.
"Bring your legs, not your excuses."
When it was my turn, he rested a hand on my shoulder.
"Good week's work, Ricardo. Keep your routine even off the ball."
"Yes, coach."
"Eat properly. Sleep properly. The easy things are hardest to do right."
"I will."
He smiled faintly. "I believe you."
The smaller São Paulo group boarded another bus for the long ride south. By then, the sky had cleared. I pulled my jacket tight and leaned against the window, watching the sea flash in the distance and disappear behind hills. For the first time in days, there was nothing to chase, nothing to win back, just the steady hum of travel.
I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, the bus was stopping at a roadside café. The air that came in smelled of fried pastel and coffee. We stretched our legs, bought bottled water. I called Mamãe from the payphone by the counter.
"Oi, Mamãe," I said.
"Ricardo! Where are you?"
"On the way. Maybe six hours more."
Her voice softened. "We'll be here."
Behind her, I could hear pans clattering and Digão asking something in the background.
"Tell him I am bringing him an extra training shirt," I said.
"You just come home," she replied. "Shirt can wait."
The line crackled once and cut. I pocketed the change and walked back to the bus. The others were already boarding. The driver nodded at me as if he'd seen this a hundred times.
The road to São Paulo stretched straight for miles, fields passing like slow waves. Somewhere near Campinas, the light began to fade. We stopped once for fuel, once more when someone needed air. By the time the city lights appeared ahead, it was past seven.
Traffic thickened. Neon signs, bus horns, the familiar chaos of home. I pressed my forehead to the glass. After the quiet of the camp, São Paulo looked louder than I remembered. Alive, imperfect.
The bus pulled into Barra Funda station. Mamãe and Papai were waiting near the exit barrier. I spotted them before they saw me, Mamãe waving the edge of her cardigan like a flag, Papai standing still beside her, both smiling. I slung my bag over my shoulder and jogged down the steps.
She hugged me first, hard enough to make the air leave my lungs.
"Meu filho." (My son.)
And that was all that was needed.
"Come, dinner's waiting." She said.
We drove home through the evening traffic. I rested my head against the window and watched familiar streets glide past, the bakery at the corner, the newsstand still open, the old man who sold flowers near the underpass.
At home, the table was already set. Rice steaming, feijão thick and dark, chicken crisp from the pan. Digão bounded in from the hallway, taller than I remembered from January, wearing my old São Paulo jacket. He is hitting his growth spurt early I think. Lucky brat!
"Finally," he said. "So, how's camp?"
"Tiring."
"Good tiring or bad tiring?"
"Both."
He sat opposite me, eyes bright. "Tell me about your boyfriend. Ronaldinho?"
I didn't raise to the bait. The best way to answer pests is to not give him attention. This brat is getting better day by day at ruffling feathers.
Digão didn't stop."You think he'll start in Nigeria?"
"I think so. If we all keep our heads, maybe we all will."
Papai joined in. "Do you know where you're going to practice over there?"
"We land in Lagos first," I said. "Then maybe Kano. We'll know for sure next week."
He leaned back, considering that. "Different kind of heat. Good test."
After dinner, Mamãe cleared the table while we stayed talking. She kept glancing at me like she still couldn't believe I was there in front of her again.
When she finally sat, she brushed her hands on the towel and said, "Your coach called this morning. The club wants a small article before you leave. Something for the paper."
"The club?"
"Yes, São Paulo's press people. They spoke to João Carlos too. Said it would be good for everyone. You'll meet a journalist later in the week."
Papai nodded. "Controlled questions, I was assured."
Mamãe smiled. "He said you won't have to talk about money or transfers. Only football. Nothing invasive, nothing private, nothing controversial."
I breathed out. "That's fine then."
Later, when the lights dimmed and everyone drifted to bed, I sat on the veranda with a glass of water.
The city hummed below, distant but alive. Somewhere far north, the team would still be travelling to their homes. We'd be back together in five days, boarding another bus, another plane, another beginning.
For now, I let the quiet hold me.
The air was warm, heavy with the smell of rain on concrete. A dog barked in the alley; a train rattled somewhere beyond the river.
I thought of the pitch at Granja Comary, the wet grass, João's voice saying simplicity.
Maybe that was the hardest thing of all, to keep simple when everything around you started to grow loud.
I finished the water, turned off the veranda light, and stood for a moment in the doorway. My bag was by the stairs, boots still unclean inside. The sound of my family sleeping reached faintly through the walls.
Five days.
Then Rio again.
Then Nigeria.
I smiled, half-tired, half-ready, and went to bed.
_________________________________________
Tuesday, Home
The first sound I heard was the window. It clicked softly against its frame, the morning wind pushing through the crack I'd left open last night. Light fell across the wall in a long, thin line, the kind that moves but never seems to get brighter.
For a moment I didn't know where I was. The ceiling fan turned slow above me, stirring the smell of dust and soap. The bed felt wider than the one in the dorms, softer. It took another breath before I remembered: home. São Paulo. No whistle, no wake-up call, no João's voice outside the door. Just Mamãe moving around the kitchen somewhere below.
The air carried the scent of toasted bread and something sweet, banana maybe. I lay still, listening. Downstairs, the radio hummed softly, one of those morning programs that mixed music with news. The anchor was talking about politics, then traffic, then the weather. I smiled. Normal again.
When I finally sat up, the sheets clung to my legs, sticky from the night. My boots were still by the door, dried mud flaking off. My training bag leaned against the wall where I'd dropped it last night. Half open, smelling faintly of grass and effort.
I showered slowly. The water pressure at home always felt perfect. My ankle still ached from a late tackle in the Vasco game, a small bruise turning yellow. I pressed it once, watched the skin pale and rise back. It would heal.
In the kitchen, Mamãe was already dressed, apron tied high, hair pinned up.
"Morning, Mamãe" I said.
"Bom dia, meu filho," (good morning, my son) she replied without turning, stirring something on the stove. "Sleep well?"
"Too well."
"You looked like a rock. I tried to wake you for breakfast earlier; you didn't move."
She slid a plate toward me, scrambled eggs, fresh bread, coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I sat, still half in dreams.
"How's your leg?"
"Fine."
She gave me a look that meant don't lie.
"I mean, it will be fine. Just bruised," I said quickly.
She nodded, satisfied for now.
"Your father left early. Said to tell you he's proud."
I smiled. "He already told me last night."
"He told me to tell you again."
The radio changed songs, Elis Regina's voice, soft and familiar. Mamãe hummed with it while washing dishes. For a while, neither of us spoke. The rhythm of her movements, the sound of the running tap, the clink of plates, it was all the kind of silence that doesn't need filling.
When Digão stumbled in, hair messy, still half asleep, he waved lazily.
"So what are you going to do at home for a week?"
"Sleep. Run. Try to be normal."
"Good luck with that."
He sat opposite me, elbows on the table. "I just read an article this morning, they already wrote about the friendlies."
"Already?"
"Yeah. Said you and Ronaldinho looked good together."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did they also say we lost shape twice and João yelled for twenty minutes?"
"No. They only write about goals."
I smiled. "Then it was a good piece."
Mamãe suddenly remembered something, turned, drying her hands. "Speaking of articles..." She reached to the counter, picked up a folded note beside the phone. "A lady from São Paulo FC called. Press department. She'll call again later this morning. About the interview."
I chewed slowly. "Did she say anything new?"
"She said it was arranged with the national staff. Good publicity, she said. Safe questions."
I nodded. "Okay."
"The media loves a prodigy."
"I'm not a prodigy."
"You absolutely are. Don't be too humble. Be real. You're perfect baby"
I finished my coffee and leaned back. The window was open just enough for the wind to stir the curtains. Outside, the street sounded alive again, buses sighing, kids yelling from the next building's courtyard, a vendor shouting about coconuts.
It felt strange how fast you could fall back into ordinary life. Yesterday, mountains and scouts. Today, laundry on the line.
After breakfast, I helped her carry out a basket of clothes to the balcony. The sun was higher now, warm on the concrete floor. She pegged shirts one by one.
The phone rang inside. She went to answer it, returning a minute later with the receiver held out.
"Press office," she mouthed.
I took it.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Ricardo. This is Daniela from São Paulo FC. We'd like to schedule a short piece for O Estado de São Paulo before you leave for Nigeria."
"Of course," I said.
"It's just a profile, nothing technical. You'll get the questions in advance. We'll send them today and you can look them over. The interview will be Friday afternoon, at your home, if that's all right."
"Yes, that's fine."
She paused. "Our goal is simple: show the fans who you are. Nothing big. Just the boy from Morumbi, the new Seleção hope."
I smiled. "That sounds less simple than it sounds."
She laughed softly. "You'll be fine. Someone will accompany the reporter. And please, get some rest."
"I'm trying."
"Good. We'll call tomorrow to confirm timing."
The line clicked dead. I set the receiver down.
Mamãe was watching me from the balcony door.
"Everything settled?"
"Friday afternoon. They'll send the questions today."
She nodded. "I'll make sure the house looks decent."
"Don't make it look like a set."
"I won't. Just clean enough that you don't look like you live in chaos."
Digão called from the living room, "Can I sit in?"
"No," we both said.
He pouted. "I'll remember this"
The rest of the morning passed slowly. I stretched on the balcony, ran a few laps around the block later, nothing heavy, just enough to keep the legs alive. A neighbor waved from her gate; her son was juggling a ball barefoot, trying to spin it on his toe. I stopped and watched a second, smiling. He dropped it once, scowled, and tried again. The same hunger, smaller, but real.
When I got back, Mamãe had lunch ready, rice, beans, grilled chicken. Simple, perfect. Papai came in just as we sat down, briefcase still in hand.
"Back to running already?" he asked.
"Light," I said. "Just a habit."
Over lunch we talked about Nigeria. He'd already looked up the climate, the stadiums, even the humidity.
"Enugu is high altitude," he said. "Your lungs will work harder."
"I'll be ready."
He nodded, pleased. "Good. Treat every detail seriously. Details win matches."
After lunch, I napped on the couch. The noise of the street filtered through, the hum of a passing bus, laughter from a shop nearby. I dreamed of grass, endless green, the sound of studs hitting wet turf.
When I woke, the living room was half in shadow. The phone sat on the table with a new envelope beside it, São Paulo's letterhead on the corner. Mamãe must have signed for the delivery. I tore it open.
Inside was a short note and a printed sheet titled Interview – Pre-Departure Profile.
Twenty questions.
How does it feel to represent Brazil at such a young age?
What lessons have you learned from the senior players at São Paulo?
Describe your routine outside football.
What are your goals for the year ahead?
.
.
.
Nothing dangerous. Nothing I couldn't answer. Still, reading them made me strangely nervous. Words can be twisted. And I can't take anything back.
I folded the sheet and slipped it under my notebook.
Outside, the day was fading. The neighborhood lights blinked on one by one, soft gold against the gray. I sat by the window for a while, listening to the traffic and the clatter of plates from the kitchen.
The thought crossed my mind that maybe this quiet, the in-between space, was the hardest part of all. Not training, not playing. Waiting.
Friday would come soon enough. Nigeria after that. But for now, all I have got is free time and some tutorials to grind in the System.
_________________________________________
Wednesday, Home
I stayed in bed a while, listening to the steady rhythm against the windowpane. Downstairs, Mamãe was already awake. The smell of coffee found the stairs before her voice did.
"Levanta, Ricardo," (Get up, Ricardo) she called softly.
I smiled into the pillow before swinging my legs out.
The kitchen light was warm, yellow. She was standing barefoot on the tiles, humming something I half-recognized from the radio.
"Morning," I said.
"Bom dia, meu amor." (Good morning, my love.)
She pushed a plate toward me. "Eat. You look thinner."
What is it with mothers and food? I am a professional athlete. My weight is managed by professionals and here she is telling me that I look thinner.
Toast, papaya, and eggs. The kind of breakfast that tastes like a restart.
"How's your ankle?" she asked.
"Better," I said.
"Show me," she said.
"You don't trust me?"
"Not when it comes to your football injuries." she said it sternly leaving no room for argument.
I showed her the bruise.
She nodded. "You'll have to keep it that way. They'll need all of you in Nigeria."
The word hung there for a second, Nigeria, like a door we hadn't opened yet.
I took a sip of coffee. "The coach said we fly Sunday."
"I know. The papers said the same."
The radio murmured in the background: weather, headlines, then sports. The announcer mentioned the youth friendlies, voice bright with hope.
"...a promising start under João Carlos, with Ronaldinho Gaúcho and young Kaká of São Paulo showing maturity beyond their years..."
Mamãe smiled without looking at me. "They noticed."
"They notice more when we don't win" I mumbled.
She laughed quietly. "Then keep winning."
Digão wandered in, hair damp, schoolbag slung half-open. He was humming the same tune as Mamãe, badly.
"You're awake," I said.
"Barely," he replied, grinning. He poured juice, sat down. "They'll show your games on TV, right?"
"I think so."
He nodded like he'd already checked. "Good. I'll record them. Then when you get back, I'll tell you what you did wrong."
Mamãe raised an eyebrow and snorted "Helpful brother."
"I'm just maintaining standards," he said.
I flicked a crumb at him. He dodged. "How's school?"
"Boring," he said easily. "But everyone knws that you're going to play in the youth World Cup, so now I'm extra popular. Before it was Sao Paulo crowd, now everyone."
We laughed. It felt good, light, ordinary.
After breakfast, the rain stopped completely. The air smelled like metal and wet leaves.
I helped Mamãe carry the laundry to the balcony.
The shirts flapped lazily in the breeze. She watched the clouds, thoughtful.
"Your father said João called the club this morning," she said. "Everything's set for travel. They'll send the itinerary tomorrow."
"Good."
"And Friday, the interview?"
"Friday afternoon. At home."
She nodded. "Then I'll polish the table."
"Don't," I said quickly. "It'll look like we're trying too hard."
She smiled. "We are trying hard."
Inside, Digão was on the couch with the sports section spread open across his knees.
"They printed the U-20 schedule," he said.
"Already?"
"Yeah. CBF released it yesterday."
He folded the page and handed it to me. "They also wrote about how hot it'll be. So drink water."
"Thanks for the tip, coach."
"I charge for advice now," he said, pretending to look serious.
I read the short article, three paragraphs, a photo of Ronaldinho smiling. My name somewhere near the bottom. I traced the letters once, more curious than proud.
The day drifted easily. I jogged a few laps around the block after lunch, just enough to feel the ground again. The pavement still slick, the sky still undecided. A group of kids were playing with a half-flat ball near the bakery. One of them called my name when I passed; I waved, embarrassed.
Back home, Mamãe had music playing softly, Elis Regina again. I stretched by the window while she ironed. She looked over once, her eyes soft. "You used to dance when you heard her," she said.
"I still might," I joked.
"Please don't, stick to football," she teased.
Evening came faster than I expected. Papai returned with the smell of rain still on his jacket. We ate together, rice, beans, and grilled tilapia. The windows were open, city lights reflecting off the puddles outside.
Papai spoke first. "Coach João told the press you adapted well. That's good. They'll start expecting more now."
"I know."
He nodded slowly. "Expectation isn't pressure. It's attention. Use it."
I didn't answer right away. I just pushed rice around the plate and said, "I'll try."
He smiled. "That's all anyone can do."
Digão leaned forward. "So what will they ask you in the interview?"
"I have the list," I said. "They want to know about my childhood, training, favourite players, that kind of thing."
"Favourite players? Easy question."
"Is it?"
He looked surprised. "Of course. Everyone knows it is Ronaldo."
"I will mention him," I said. "But my favourite's Van Basten."
He frowned. "Who?"
"Dutch striker. Retired now. Elegant. Thought two moves ahead. I watch his clips on VHS at the club. He was a legend at Milan. You don't remember him?"
"No, I don't watch your Milan matches. I am a proud Brazilian"
"I'll still mention Raí," I added. "He's closer to home. And Ronaldo, he's... different. He belongs to another world."
Digão nodded, impressed in his own way. "Van Basten, Raí, Ronaldo. Good list. Balanced."
"Balanced?"
"Yeah. Europe, Brazil, São Paulo. Global coverage."
We laughed.
After dinner, Papai stayed to read at the table while I helped Mamãe with dishes. Water ran warm over my hands, the sound filling the pauses between our words.
"You always come home quieter after good matches," she said.
"Maybe I'm just tired."
"No. It's the calm after noise. You keep it better now."
I thought about that. "Maybe that's what experience is."
She smiled. "Then you're learning fast."
Later, I sat by my window again. The street was still damp, lights shimmering in small puddles. Digão's room glowed under the door, the sound of a TV turned low.
Somewhere outside, someone honked twice, then the city settled again.
_________________________________________
Thursday, Home
The alarm went off, but I was already awake.
The light in my room had changed; a thin bar of sunshine slipped through the curtain and touched the wall. Somewhere outside, a car started, a dog barked twice, and then the street settled back into the morning.
For a minute I just listened.
Four days of quiet and already my body wanted the whistle, the call, the weight of a ball against my foot. Habit turns into hunger faster than anyone warns you.
After breakfast, I pulled on my tracksuit, the São Paulo one, faded at the cuffs, and laced my trainers. Mamãe looked up from the sink.
"Running again?"
"Just to the training ground," I said. "They asked me to check in."
She nodded. "Tell everyone I said hello."
"I will."
The air outside was crisp, not cold. Clouds drifted over the city like slow ships. The taxi driver had Jovem Pan on; football talk as always. The host was already arguing about Corinthians' form. It felt good to hear people complain about something that wasn't mine to fix.
At the Barra Funda gate, the guard recognized me.
"Olha quem voltou," he said, smiling. (Look who's back.)
"Só por hoje," I replied. (Just for today.)
He waved me through.
The pitches looked smaller than I remembered, the grass shorter. A few of the reserve players were already warming up. They nodded as I passed, polite but curious. I'd changed somehow in the weeks away, though I couldn't name how.
Inside, the smell of turf and sweat hit me like a memory you don't expect.
Carpegiani wasn't there, but one of the assistants, Marcos, came out of the office, clipboard in hand.
"Ricardo," he said, shaking my hand. "Proud of you, Garoto." (kid)
"Thanks, Marco."
He gestured toward the field. "You want to stretch your legs?"
"Light jog, maybe."
"Go ahead. Just don't ruin my morning with an injury."
I laughed, stepped onto the grass.
The field had that morning hush I always loved, mowers distant, birds in the rafters, the steady thud of a ball two pitches over. I jogged the perimeter, each step loosening something in my chest.
Halfway through the second lap, Marcos called out, "When's your interview?"
"Tomorrow."
He nodded. "The club wants you calm. Talk about football, family, nothing else."
"I saw the questions," I said. "They're simple."
"They're never simple," he replied, walking alongside me now. "They're the start of everything that comes next."
I slowed. "Meaning?"
"Meaning people will start imagining who you are. That's fine, as long as you know who you are first. Don't lose who you are in all this noise."
He said it casually, but it stayed in my head long after.
We talked a little more, training rhythms, how Ronaldinho looked sharper than ever, how travel would change everything for us. Then he clapped my shoulder and sent me inside.
In the locker room, I sat on the bench for a while.
On the far wall, someone had pinned a newspaper clipping of our Rio–São Paulo final from two weeks ago. My own face was half visible behind Ceni's arm. I looked younger.
When I left the complex, the sun had climbed higher. Traffic hummed along the main road. I stopped at a kiosk for water; the vendor recognized the crest on my jacket.
"You're with São Paulo, right?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He smiled. "Play like they used to, Menino." (boy)
"I'll try."
Back home, Mamãe had lunch ready, rice, beans, and sautéed vegetables. Papai came in midway through, papers under his arm.
"How was the club?" he asked.
"Good. Marcos talked about the interview. Mostly PR."
He poured himself water. "It'll teach you more than training sometimes. Talking is its own discipline."
Mamãe frowned slightly. "He's sixteen, not a politician."
Papai smiled. "He's both, sometimes. Every athlete is."
I pushed my food around the plate. "It's strange. I don't even know what they want to hear."
"They want to hear sincerity," Mamãe said.
"They want to hear stories," Papai countered.
"Then I'll try to give them both," I said.
After lunch, I sat on the balcony with Digão. He was barefoot, spinning a ball slowly under one foot, just came back from school.
"You nervous?" he asked.
I looked at him. He was pretending not to care, but the question was genuine.
"A little," I said.
He nodded. "They'll like you. You don't talk too much."
"That's not always good in interviews."
He shrugged. "Then smile. It does half the work."
I laughed. "You sound like Mamãe."
"She's right most of the time."
We watched the street below, delivery bikes weaving through cars, a bus stopping with a sigh. Somewhere a radio played pagode, bright against the afternoon heat.
"You ever think about it?" he asked suddenly.
"What?"
"Leaving. Being away for so long."
"Sometimes."
"And?"
"It feels like something you prepare for your whole life but never get ready enough."
He nodded slowly. "Just don't forget to come back."
"I couldn't if I tried."
He rolled the ball to me. "I do like it when you're here, so that I could annoy you."
That's his way of saying he misses me when I am gone. It hit hard. I love this little shit as well.
I caught his head in a lock and ruffled his hair.
Later, I read through the interview sheet again, the paper already creased from folding. The questions seemed softer this time, less like traps, more like doors I could open carefully. I rehearsed answers in my head, not word for word, just tone, calm, measured, honest.
By evening, clouds had gathered again. Thunder somewhere far off.
Dinner was quieter than usual; everyone thinking about the days ahead. Mamãe broke the silence first.
"I bought a new shirt for your interview," she said.
"Light blue. Brings out your eyes."
I smiled. "You're turning into my stylist."
"Someone has to."
Papai chuckled. "Just don't wear those old São Paulo sandals."
"Don't worry," I said. "I will be presentable"
After we ate, I helped clear the table. The plates clinked softly, the water running steady in the sink.
Mamãe looked at me sideways. "You're quieter tonight."
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
"Tomorrow. The flight. Everything."
She dried her hands, placed the towel down. "Remember, it's just football. Important, yes. But it doesn't have to own you."
I nodded. "I know."
Papai joined us, leaning against the counter. "You're ready," he said simply. "It is time you stopped thinking too much and started enjoying and let go a bit"
The rain started again as if on cue. Slow, deliberate drops hitting the balcony rail.
We stood there a while listening.
__________________________________________
Friday, 26 March 1999
The day began warm, too warm for March.
Mamãe had been cleaning since breakfast, humming under her breath, the smell of floor polish trailing behind her. Papai had gone through three shirts before noon, none of them right.
"They'll take pictures," he'd said.
"You're not the one being interviewed, we agreed that we are not in the pictures" she'd replied, but still ironed his collar.
I tried to stay out of their way, upstairs with my notebook open on the desk. I wasn't writing anything, just turning the pen between my fingers. Every few minutes the sound of the broom or a drawer closing echoed up from below.
The house looked different today.
Same walls, same furniture, but neater, brighter.
The kind of clean that means we're expecting someone important.
I didn't like how that felt. It wasn't nerves; it was exposure.
At two-thirty, Mamãe called from the stairs, "They're on their way."
I changed into the new shirt she'd bought, a pale blue one that made me feel older than I was. The collar still smelled faintly of soap.
When the bell rang, she was already halfway to the door. I heard voices: polite, low. The door creaked, hinges stiff.
Then footsteps.
The journalist was younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, tidy hair, kind eyes that scanned the room like he was memorising it. Behind him, the photographer carried a small bag and a camera that looked heavier than it should.
"Boa tarde," (good afternoon) he said. "I'm Marcos, from O Estado."
"Ricardo," I answered, shaking his hand.
His grip was firm, quick, professional warmth.
Mamãe ushered them in. "Would you like some coffee?"
Marcos smiled. "Please. We never say no to a home coffee."
They sat at the table while I hovered for a moment, not sure whether to sit first or wait. The photographer crouched near the window, adjusting the curtain to let in more light. Every movement made a small, deliberate sound, camera strap, shutter test, pen click.
I sat opposite them.
Marcos glanced around. His gaze wasn't intrusive, just curious. The framed picture of our family at the beach, the São Paulo crest keychain on the shelf, the rosary hanging near the door, he saw everything. I realised then that an interview didn't begin with the first question; it started the moment they walked in.
Mamãe returned with a tray, coffee, small biscuits, a folded napkin.
"Thank you," he said politely.
"My pleasure," she replied, smiling, then slipped back toward the kitchen, though I could feel her listening from behind the wall.
Marcos took out his notebook but didn't open it yet. "So," he said lightly, "you've had quite a week."
I shrugged. "Busy."
"Two matches, two wins?"
I nodded. "Yes, but it's the way we came together as a team that's important."
"You must be tired."
"A little. But that's a good. Hard work tires you."
He smiled, as if testing how much small talk I could manage.
The photographer crouched again, pointing the lens toward the corner. The shutter clicked once, soft, discreet.
"Sorry," the photographer said. "Light looks good there."
"It's fine," I said, though it wasn't. Having someone look through glass and catch you in a moment you didn't choose always felt strange.
Marcos leaned back. "We won't keep you long. Just a short conversation."
I nodded, noticing how his pen hovered over the blank page before even asking anything. His calmness was deliberate.
The room itself felt alive.
I could hear the refrigerator hum, the faint ticking of the kitchen clock, the muffled voice of a street vendor outside shouting "pão de queijo." (cheese bread)
Everything felt slower than usual, like the world was waiting for something to begin.
Marcos finally flipped his notebook open, but he looked up before writing. "You can relax," he said kindly. "It's not an exam."
"I know," I said, smiling faintly. "It just feels like one."
"That's normal. First time is always strange."
He glanced toward the photos on the shelf again.
"This one, your family at the beach?"
"Guarujá," I said. "Last year."
"You look taller now."
"More tired," I corrected.
He laughed softly. "Tired means you're doing something right."
He clicked the pen once more, eyes narrowing slightly like he was studying not just what I said, but how.
I wondered if he could tell I'd rehearsed not to sound rehearsed.
From the kitchen came the faint clink of a cup. Mamãe pretending to tidy but staying close enough to hear.
Marcos looked at me again, head tilted, as if framing the next thought. "How old are you again?"
"Sixteen."
He nodded, as if confirming a rumour. "Still in school?"
"Homeschooling now since joining the first team. But I still meet my school friends every time I have time."
"Good. Don't let football eat everything."
He didn't say it like advice. More like experience.
The photographer shifted position, crouched lower, took another shot, click, click, then silence. The sound went straight through me, a reminder that this moment would outlast the day.
I tried not to stare at the notebook, but it drew my eyes. The pen moved quickly whenever I spoke, slower when I hesitated. I wondered what it would look like when printed, how much of what I meant would stay. Words have their own habits; they wander.
At some point Papai appeared at the edge of the room, pretending to check a light switch that didn't need checking. Marcos greeted him with a handshake.
"You must be proud," he said.
"Always," Papai replied. His tone made it sound both true and careful.
The questions came and went, light, conversational. I answered honestly but never fully. I could feel how each word might become a headline if I wasn't careful. Not because I had secrets, just because meaning travels badly once it leaves your mouth.
When Marcos finally closed his notebook, he didn't stand right away. He looked around again, eyes soft now, less professional, more human.
"You have a good family," he said.
I smiled. "I know."
He extended his hand. "Thanks for your time, Ricardo. You spoke well."
"Thank you for coming."
Felipe slung the camera back over his shoulder, nodding once. "Good light today. Good photos"
"That's a compliment, I think," I said.
"It is," he replied, already halfway to the door.
They stepped outside into the heat. Mamãe followed to see them off. The door shut softly behind her.
For a moment the house was silent again.
I sat back in the chair, exhaling without meaning to. My shirt stuck slightly to my back. The coffee on the table had gone cold, a small skin forming on the surface.
Papai came over, resting a hand on my shoulder. "That's done."
I nodded. "Feels strange."
"It should."
He straightened the cup, aligning it with the saucer.
"They saw what they wanted. Make sure you keep what's yours."
Mamãe came back, smiling faintly. "They were polite."
"They were," I said. "He looked at everything."
"That's their job."
"I know. It just felt like… being studied."
"Better that than ignored," Papai said.
Digão appeared from the hallway. "So? Did you survive?"
"Barely."
"One day you'll learn from me," he said, grinning.
We laughed. The tension slipped away.
Later, after dinner, the day felt lighter again. The table was cleared, and the house returned to its usual shape.
In my room, I placed the shirt back on the hanger. The collar was still neat, the smell of coffee clinging faintly to the fabric.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on. A bus rumbled past.
I sat by the window, notebook open, pen hovering.
Author's Notes:
I couldn't write two chapters. This chapter took time. The other chapter is half ready, so I will post the full chapter tomorrow.
I had a rough time writing this. Especially the home part when he had nothing to do. When there's something to do, it is easier to write for me, but this part? I don't know how it comes across to you.
I hope you like it.
Like I said before, I am not going to skip all these chapters and just pack him up to Milan. I want a proper story, so I am sticking to these little chapters and moments. Hopefully you read these as well and come to like them.
There are timeskips coming after this. I am just going to skip over the matches at the world cup, and other tornaments. I'll write the finals, celebration. Most probably by chapter 75 he will be in Milan.
Let me know your feedback, your thoughts, suggestions.
Thank you for the support.