28th March, 1999
We left before dawn.The road down from Teresópolis was quiet, mist hanging low enough to touch the windows. João Carlos stood at the front of the bus counting heads again, voice half-lost under the rattle of gears.
Nobody slept. We weren't tired anymore; we were just waiting to leave.
Edu sat beside me, knee bouncing. The others spoke in bursts, quick jokes that died as soon as the bus turned. Ronaldinho had his hood pulled over his face, humming through it. From the window I saw the first streaks of light spread over the bay. Every turn of the wheels felt like a goodbye.
At Galeão, floodlights burned against the fog. Journalists waited behind the barriers, shouting names, flashes bursting white. João Carlos told us, "Keep moving."
So, we moved. Cameras followed anyway.
Inside, the terminal was already awake: voices layered over announcements, footsteps, suitcases. Too much noise. The federation men handled the papers and vaccines; we waited in a line that didn't move.
One of them, a press office guy, always smiling, handed me a rolled copy of O Estado de S. Paulo. "They printed your interview," he said.
"Obrigado."
He grinned. "Front page of the sports. You came across well. Congrats kid!"
I didn't unroll it. I wasn't going to jump in joy.
Edu leaned toward me. "That it?"
"Yeah."
"You gonna to read it?"
"Later."
He smirked.
"Hope they spelled your name right."
Security took forever. Belts off, bags open, belts on again. Through the glass I could see the plane waiting, white, still, indifferent. Heat already shimmered off the tarmac.
When we climbed aboard, the air-conditioning fought a losing battle. I dropped into my seat by the window. Edu sat down beside me, sighing.
"Next stop Africa," he said.
"Let's make sure we land first."
"Why would you say something like that?"
I just shrugged. It was a habit from my past life and also I got to know that he is afraid of long flights over the ocean.
João Carlos walked the aisle, checking belts like a father before a long drive. When the engines roared, everyone went quiet. Edu crossed himself, eyes shut tight through take-off. The city fell away; the sea turned to cloud; the noise levelled out into a steady hum.
"Still alive?" I asked Edu.
He opened one eye and said, "Fuck you, Garoto"
I laughed.
The morning stretched into afternoon without warning. Trays rattled, plastic food, recycled air. Most of the boys slept. I couldn't. My thoughts kept running back to Mamãe and Papai, the kitchen table, coffee cups, the newspaper lying open between them. Digão would be reading each line out loud, pretending he wasn't proud.
Edu poked my shoulder.
"You're thinking again."
"Trying not to."
"Doesn't work when you've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one that wants to be home and here at the same time."
I smiled, but didn't answer. He was right.
Outside, the wing caught a slice of sun and held it. The colour of the sky changed from grey to that impossible blue that only happens above clouds.
Hours later the captain's voice crackled: descent into Lagos. Window covers went up; everyone blinked at the light. The first glimpse of land looked painted, red earth, green everywhere, rivers that twisted like rope. I pressed my forehead to the glass.
Edu leaned across me. "So this is Africa."
"Looks like it's breathing," I said.
The wheels hit hard, bounced once. Someone clapped; others joined. The cabin filled with laughter and relief.
When the doors opened, the heat pushed in like a wall. The smell of dust and fuel mixed into something sharp, but alive. Voices outside, people shouting "Brasil!", flags waving. João Carlos called for order; nobody heard.
We shuffled down the stairs. The sun hit straight in the face. Sweat broke instantly under the tracksuit. Cameras again. The federation's local staff guided us into a small building for passports. Fans spun in the ceiling but barely moved the air. Stamps, signatures, questions repeated until they stopped meaning anything. A soldier waved us through with a grin.
We stayed only an hour in Lagos before boarding the domestic flight south. The second plane was smaller, older, loud enough to drown thought. The propellers spun before we'd even sat down properly. Edu fell asleep again as soon as we lifted off.
From the window, the coast wound away beneath us, sand, forest, scattered villages, the sea returning and disappearing again. The flight lasted less than an hour.
Landing in Calabar felt like stepping into a pause. The air was still heavy but slower, like heat that had learned to settle. The airport was a single low building painted the colour of sand. A few kids stood by the fence holding small flags; one waved until we waved back.
The bus waiting outside smelled of fuel and dust. We loaded our bags and climbed in. The drive into town was short, roads lined with palms and markets, the scent of wood smoke and fruit mixing in the air. People turned to watch us pass, waved, smiled. A boy ran alongside the bus for twenty metres before giving up, laughing.
Our hotel stood near the river. White walls, balconies tangled with vines, an old banner above the entrance that read Welcome Group F Teams. Inside, fans spun lazily in the corners. The light was soft and dim.
João Carlos gathered us by the front desk. "Dinner, then sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, a walk. No ball yet. We learn the air first. We need time to let the body settle. So, rest well."
Everyone nodded. Nobody argued.
The room I shared with Edu had two small beds, a rattling air-conditioner, and a window that looked onto a courtyard of palms. The walls held the day's warmth. Edu dropped his bag and fell onto the mattress, shoes still on.
"You think they read the article already?" he asked without opening his eyes.
"Mamãe never waits for Sunday coffee," I said.
He smiled. "Mine would've framed it."
"All the moms are the same."
He laughed once and turned onto his side. "Wake me for dinner."
I unpacked slowly, boots, clothes, notebook, and the folded paper. The hum of the air-conditioner filled the silence. From the hall came the sound of running water, voices, laughter.
When I finally lay back, the room tilted slightly, the kind of sway that comes after hours in the air. Outside, a generator started with a low growl.
Ronaldinho knocked once and poked his head in. "They said food's ready. If we're late, Juan eats ours."
Edu groaned into his pillow.
Ronaldinho laughed. "I think he meant it"
I followed him down. The dining hall smelled of spice and rice and something fried. Everyone ate quickly but quietly, half awake, half gone. João Carlos talked about rest, water, and patience. When he finished, nobody asked questions.
Back in the room, Edu was already asleep. I switched off the lamp and sat for a moment in the half-dark. The sound of the city drifted through the window, music, a dog barking, laughter from somewhere close.
I thought of Mamãe again, the paper folded beside her cup, the house quiet except for the radio. It felt distant, but not gone. Just another place holding its breath for us.
I closed my eyes. The ceiling fan kept turning, a slow heartbeat against the silence.
_________________________________________
I didn't sleep well the first night.
No one did, really.
The room felt heavier than it should have, like the heat stayed pressed against the sheets long after I turned the pillow to the cool side.
The air-conditioner rattled in a rhythm too slow to follow, and every few minutes a generator outside groaned back to life.
At one point, I checked my watch and realised my body still thought it was somewhere before midnight in Brazil. Edu snored once, loudly, then went silent again. I envied him for that single moment of deep sleep. Mine came only in pieces, like pages of a book read out of order.
I got out of bed near dawn. The courtyard outside the window was washed in a thin, grey light. A bird I didn't recognise made a long, wavering call, nothing like the ones back home. When I opened the window, warm air slid in immediately, carrying a smell I couldn't name. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.
Edu stirred behind me.
"You awake?" he mumbled into the pillow.
"Kind of."
"Que droga (damn)," he said, rolling onto his back. "Feels like we didn't sleep at all."
"We didn't."
He groaned. "Jet lag is a crime."
We went downstairs late for breakfast. Some of the boys arrived earlier, some later, most moving with that heavy, dragged-through-the-night feeling that comes after crossing an ocean. The dining hall was quieter than I expected. Everyone seemed to be conserving energy.
We had an extended breakfast window, João Carlos told us to come anytime between eight and ten. He wanted us awake but not rushed. The food was simple, bread, fruit, porridge, eggs, but warm and steadying. I forced myself to eat even though my stomach still felt like it was somewhere over the Atlantic.
Edu sat across from me, flipping through the same São Paulo paper I had read on the plane.
"They wrote you well," he said, tapping the page with the back of his knuckle.
I shrugged. "It was fine."
"You didn't sound nervous."
"I wasn't."
"Hmm," he said, and took a bite of bread. "Maybe you should teach me how to do interviews."
I smiled. "That's your first mistake. You should be asking Gaucho, not me"
The coaches made sure no one went back to their room to sleep. Jet lag had to be beaten, not accommodated. They put chairs in the lobby, opened the side doors, told us to sit or walk or talk, anything but lie down.
After an hour of nothing in particular, they gathered us outside for the midday outing.
We loaded into two small buses and drove toward the marketplace. The streets were livelier now, children in bright clothes running between stalls, women carrying baskets on their heads as if they weighed nothing, vendors calling out prices in voices that carried above traffic.
The market itself felt like stepping into another rhythm. Colour everywhere, fabric printed with patterns I'd never seen, piles of fruit I didn't know the names of, radios playing high-tempo songs that kept weaving into each other. The air was warm, but moving. The smell of spices drifted through pockets of shade.
A boy, maybe eight or nine, ran up to us, eyes wide, pointing at the crest on my training shirt.
"Brasil!" he said, full of pride.
I nodded. "Yes! Brasil!"
He grinned like he'd won something.
Edu bought a carved wooden keychain shaped like a football boot. He held it up. "Souvenir for my brother," he said, and shrugged. "He likes these things."
I saw a scarf with bright colors that immediately caught my eye. Mamãe would love it. So, I bought it. I will buy stuff for others if I find something I fancy.
Ronaldinho ended up juggling a small orange someone handed him. He did it without thinking. Every few seconds a different child joined in, clapping or trying to touch the ball. The market kept moving, but for a moment it felt like we stood still in the middle of it, surrounded by laughter.
We left before anyone got too comfortable.
Back at the hotel, the coaches made sure nobody slipped off to nap. "If you sleep now, you're awake all night," one of the assistants warned, clapping his hands loudly every time he caught someone leaning too far into a chair.
By late afternoon, my body felt strange, tired but also restless, like the day hadn't decided what to do with us yet. The sun hung low and heavy, and the courtyard shadows stretched long and thin.
"Jog at six," João Carlos said. "Very light. Only to settle the body clock."
We changed quickly and met outside.
Running shoes only, no cleats.
The jog felt slow at first, then steady. The air clung to the skin, but the motion felt right, like the body finally understood where it was supposed to be. We ran laps around the small practice field, passing by open stretches of grass that would be used by another group next week.
Edu ran beside me.
"How's the jet lag?" he asked.
"Better when I'm moving."
"Same."
He didn't say more, and he didn't need to. Our footsteps did the talking, tapping the earth in a shared beat that kept us awake.
We finished with stretches. The sky darkened by degrees, not suddenly, the way it did sometimes in São Paulo during summer storms. Here, the darkness arrived like someone lowering a curtain slowly by hand.
At dinner, everyone finally began speaking again, voices more alive, jokes thrown across the tables. The worst of the fatigue had faded, replaced by the normal tiredness of evening.
Back in the room, Edu was reorganising his bag, for no reason except that he needed something to do.
"You tired?" I asked.
"Now I am," he said. "Finally."
He set the keychain down on the table beside his bed. The little wooden boot was polished smooth.
"You bought anything?" he asked.
"Yes, a scarf for my mom."
He just smiled and said, "Mama's boy".
"You know that I am. I own it."
We lay down around the same time. My body felt grounded again, not fixed, just more stable. I closed my eyes, and this time sleep arrived without argument.
_________________________________________
April 1st, 1999
By the time I woke, Edu was already sitting on the edge of his bed, tying his shoes.
"You're up," he said, sounding more surprised than impressed.
"I think my body finally realised where we are."
"Mine hasn't," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "It still thinks it's three in the morning. That's why I am keeping myself busy"
We headed down for breakfast. The dining room was louder today, not noisy, but alive.
Conversations overlapped, cut across one another. Someone was recounting a joke from home; someone else was complaining lightly about the pillows. The mood had shifted. We weren't groggy travellers anymore. We were starting to feel like a team again.
Ronaldinho waved us over. He had a piece of bread in one hand and a packet of sugar in the other.
"You boys ready?" he asked, sprinkling sugar as if decorating a cake.
Edu raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Training," Ronaldinho said. "Or the closest thing to training they'll let us do in this heat."
He wasn't wrong.
After breakfast, João Carlos called a short meeting in the lounge area. He stood by the desk fan, which barely moved the air, but he looked calm. Focused.
"Today we start properly," he said. "No intensity yet. Just adjustment, and spacing. The climate is different. The grass is different. The bounce is different. Don't fight the place. Learn it."
His tone was steady, not strict. It settled everyone.
The buses took us away from the main road, down narrower streets where houses stood close together. Children waved, some running a few steps with the bus, sandals slapping the dust. A few adults nodded or smiled, curious but friendly.
The pitch we arrived at sat behind a school compound. It was small, nothing like the pristine training grounds back home, just open earth with patches of uneven grass, a little slope on one side where the ground sank and rose again. The goals were metal frames with nets that sagged as if tired.
But the space was enough.
We stepped down from the bus and the heat hit us immediately, thick, unmoving. I felt it settle behind my knees, at my temples, under my collar. A few of the boys exhaled in the same breath, as if we'd been holding the air inside until that moment.
Edu stretched his arms overhead and shook them out. "Bora (let's go)," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
We jogged a few warm-up laps. My legs felt fine, but my lungs worked harder. Every breath felt warmer than the last. I tried not to think about it.
The grass tugged at our shoes. The bounce of the ball was low, almost flat. When I tried a simple wall pass against the sloping ground, the ball veered slightly right. Not much, but enough to matter.
João Carlos watched us with his hands behind his back. "Feel the surface," he said. "Don't rush. Let the ball tell you what it wants."
We paired into groups of four and began short passing drills. At first everything felt a little sluggish. The weight I normally put into the ball wasn't enough here. Each pass arrived a fraction short. The heat slowed us more than the grass did.
Ronaldinho adapted first. Of course he did. He let the ball run across his foot, took two touches instead of one, waited for the pace to settle. His movements adjusted in real time, fluid and loose.
Edu struggled for the first fifteen minutes, then found his timing.
"I have to hit it like I'm annoyed," he muttered, driving the ball harder.
I struggled too, not badly, but noticeably. My touches were clean, but the ball didn't seem to travel the distance I expected. Cross-field balls felt heavier. Diagonals died early. Even simple give-and-go sequences required more force.
At one point, João Carlos walked past and tapped my shoulder.
"You're thinking of the pitches at home," he said. "This one isn't them. Trust what's under your feet, not what's in your memory."
I nodded, took a breath, and let myself stop fighting the place.
We finished the first part of the session with positional play. The sun had risen a little higher by then; the air wavered over the dirt as if the ground itself were exhaling.
During a break, I sat under a small patch of shade, drinking water slowly. Sweat slid down my spine in slow trails. A few of the boys lay flat on the ground, arms spread, choosing not to waste energy on words.
Edu sat down beside me, breathing heavily.
"It's like running in soup," he said.
The final drill of the morning was a small-sided scrimmage, nothing intense, but enough to get our minds moving. The ball skidded strangely when it hit a patch of hard earth. Ronaldinho laughed every time it fooled someone, even when it fooled him.
I made a run down the right and felt the delayed weight in my legs. Only half a second, but enough to make me adjust my stride. When I received the ball, it stuck slightly under my foot. I kept moving anyway.
By the end of the scrimmage, my entire shirt was soaked.
The coaches called it. Enough for the morning.
We stretched under the shade of a tree that leaned sideways, its leaves trembling faintly though there was no real wind.
When we boarded the bus, the seats felt too hot. Everyone sat carefully.
Back at the hotel, lunch tasted better than breakfast had, maybe because we'd earned it. Rice, chicken, fruit. Cold water that turned warm within minutes.
The room afterwards felt cooler than before. Edu lay on the floor with his legs up against the wall, arms folded under his head.
"This helps circulation," he said.
"Does it?"
"No idea," he answered. "But I read it somewhere , and it feels right."
I laughed, then lay on my own bed, staring at the ceiling. My muscles had that pleasant ache after a first good session in new conditions. The kind that said: you're adjusting, you're getting there.
We rested, not sleeping, because the coaches insisted we stay awake, but resting in that half-dream place athletes live in between training. Some played cards in the hall. Some listened to music. Someone downstairs tried to sing; someone else yelled for him to stop.
By late afternoon, clouds gathered over the river, not rain clouds, just the thick kind that hovered without purpose. The heat softened a little.
The evening session was lighter. Touch work, set pieces, runs at 70%. Enough to teach the body today wasn't over, but not enough to pull anything. My legs felt more stable. The ball travelled more honestly. I knew the ground better.
After the final whistle, the coaches let us cool down however we wanted. Some jogged the perimeter. Some stretched. I sat in the grass, head tilted back, looking at the colour of the sky, faint gold fading into deeper blue.
Dinner tasted heavier than lunch. Someone managed to get the kitchen to make extra plantain; Ronaldinho declared it the best thing in Nigeria so far.
We went to our rooms early.
For once, nobody complained.
Before sleeping, I sat at the desk and wrote in my notebook: Training is different here. Slower. Heavier. But not worse. The body learns fast when it wants to.
_________________________________________
We woke up on April 2 knowing the tournament was no longer something we talked about, it was here, around us, pressing on the air. Even the breakfast room felt different. People spoke lower, movements steadier, like everyone had begun measuring their steps.
The morning session was short. João Carlos didn't want to burn legs this close to the opener. We worked on spacing, on the patterns we had repeated since Granja Comary, the little rotations, the lanes Ronaldinho liked drifting into, the diagonal paths for Baiano. It felt more familiar now, even in the heat.
After lunch, the federation staff told us the opening ceremony would be broadcast locally, and they wanted the team to watch it together. Not as a formality, as a reminder of what we were entering. The U-20 World Cup wasn't the senior World Cup, but the meaning of it still carried weight. You could feel it in the hallways already.
They set up a TV in one of the hotel lounges.
A small one, square screen, rounded edges, colours slightly washed out.
The signal flickered every few minutes, a thin line crawling up the screen and disappearing again. It felt almost nostalgic even though I'd never been here before.
We filled the room gradually. Some sat on the chairs, others on the carpet, leaning against tables or each other. The air conditioning hummed, fighting a losing battle, but nobody complained.
The broadcast switched from advertisements to a shot of the stadium in Lagos. The host city looked full, bright, humming with colour even through the old television.
Traditional dancers moved in lines across the field, their clothes bright blues and reds and golds. The drums echoed faintly through the speakers, muffled by the TV's age but steady enough to feel.
Edu leaned forward a little, resting his arms on his knees. "Bonito (nice)," he said softly.
Ronaldinho nodded, eyes following the movements.
"You can feel the beat even from here," he said, tapping his fingers once on his thigh.
The ceremony wasn't long, youth tournaments rarely stretched these things.
A short parade of flags.
A few speeches we couldn't fully hear.
A choir of children dressed in white, singing with a clarity that didn't need perfect audio.
Then the FIFA anthem played, calm, ceremonial, almost still.
Something in the room shifted then.
Not nerves, not yet.
Just recognition.
The broadcast cut to an overhead shot of the stadium again, fans waving, the field lined with volunteers. Then the screen fizzled back to commercials with a soft pop.
Then João Carlos stood, stretching his back.
"Alright," he said. "That's enough ceremony. Tomorrow's ours."
The boys nodded. Some stood slowly; others lingered, as if letting the images settle.
When we left the room, the sun was dropping behind the buildings outside, laying long strips of gold across the lobby floor. It felt like the day had shifted to a different rhythm, quieter, steadier, more focused.
We trained lightly that evening, short accelerations, patterns, a few set pieces. Nothing heavy. The air was still warm, but the body accepted it more easily now. When we finished stretching, a faint wind finally moved through the grass, lifting the ends of our shirts.
Later that night, I called home again.
Only a short call.
Just to hear Mamãe's voice, to let her hear mine.
"Boa sorte, meu filho (good luck, my son)," she said.
When I returned to the room, Edu was already under the covers, hands behind his head.
"Soon," he said, as if the word explained everything.
"Soon," I answered.
Author's Notes:
Short chapter to get back into the writing mindset. Will do some time skips from here on out. Won't be writing all the matches and stuff, just the bare bones.
I am going to have a big skip, almost 2 years, mentions of some trophies and stuff like that and start with his first romance arc and final season at Sao Paulo before leaving.
Let me know your thoughts!