By the end of day 3, the days had begun to settle into a rhythm. Not familiar yet, but recognisable. Wake up with the sun already pressing against the curtains.
Breakfast before the room fully stopped spinning.
A walk outside to loosen the legs.
Training sessions that made us feel every change in the air.
The heat didn't hit anymore; it stayed. It wrapped itself around you the moment you stepped out the door, as if reminding you it wasn't going anywhere.
The small school pitch became our base. Every morning, the same stretch of uneven grass and stubborn dirt greeted us. The same faded white lines that disappeared halfway down the sideline. The same sloped corner where the ball never rolled straight. It wasn't pretty, but it forced us to adjust quickly.
Ronaldinho adapted first. The ground loved his feet. The ball loved him back. Watching him soften his touches to match the slower surface helped the rest of us understand what the pitch wanted. Edu hammered passes early on, frustrated, until he found the weight again.
Even Baiano, who always played on instinct, took extra seconds to judge the bounce before firing off a shot.
For me, the struggle was tempo, learning when the ball would stay under the foot instead of sliding away, how much strength was needed to send a diagonal across the grass, how long to let it run before turning. But each day felt a little easier.
On April 4, the mood changed.
The tournament wasn't approaching anymore. It was here.
After our last training of the day, João Carlos gathered us in a strip of shade by the fence. Sweat dripped down everyone's faces; shirts clung to our backs like second skin.
"Tomorrow," he said, looking around the circle slowly, "we start. Spain is organised. Spain is confident. Spain knows how to move the ball in this heat. So do we. Trust your first touch. Trust the pitch. Trust each other."
It wasn't a speech meant to fire us up.
It was a reminder.
A quiet one.
That evening, we packed our things for matchday. Shirts laid out on chairs, boots cleaned even if the ground would dirty them in five minutes, tape arranged on the table.
We lay in dark for a long time, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and the slow, steady breathing of the city outside. And we dozed off.
April 5, 1999 | Spain vs Brazil | Calabar
The walk from the tunnel onto the UJ Esuene Stadium pitch felt like opening a door into pure sunlight. I'd never seen a crowd so close to the field before. The stands weren't huge, but they were loud, filled with flags and shirts of colours from all the teams, not just ours or Spain's. A kind of shared noise filled the air, drums, whistles, shouts in languages I couldn't name.
We lined up.
National anthem.
Hands behind backs.
Eyes forward.
When the whistle blew, Spain took the ball first, passing quickly and cleanly, their midfield shifting like pieces on a board. We pressed, but not too hard. The pitch would punish impatience.
The first ten minutes were tense. Our touches were a little heavy, theirs a little quick.
Matuzalém kept motioning for calm. Ronaldinho drifted inside, searching for pockets. I tried to keep my body loose, but the heat pushed against my chest in slow waves.
Spain scored first, a low shot from the edge of the box after we failed to clear properly. For a moment, all I heard was the thump of the ball against the net and the sudden shift in crowd noise. Just like that, the tournament felt real.
But we didn't panic.
Soon after, a loose ball popped out wide. I stepped toward it, let it roll across my foot, and drove forward. Their defender followed tight, but the pitch helped me, the ball stayed close. I cut inside, slipped a pass through the smallest gap, and Ronaldinho met it in stride.
He didn't force the shot.
Didn't rush. Just placed it. Far corner.
1–1.
He pointed back at me and laughed as if we'd been doing this for years.
Spain pressed harder after that. We held. The heat helped us now, it slowed the game into something we could read better. When the second half began, we found openings behind their lines.
We countered fast, Edu played the early ball, I caught it, spun, and passed it to Ronaldinho and he released Baiano with a perfect tap. I wasn't even in the frame when he finished it, but I'd been in the build-up. Enough!
2–1 Brazil.
The noise behind our bench erupted.
But Spain didn't go away.
They pushed.
Hard.
A cross slipped between two defenders, a header, clean and direct.
2–2.
The final minutes were a test of patience. We held shape, didn't chase shadows, didn't open gaps. When the final whistle blew, we exhaled as one.
Not victory.
Not defeat.
Something in between.
Back in the tunnel, Edu passed me water without saying anything.
Ronaldinho bumped my shoulder. "Small steps, Paulista"
We walked off into the heat again, shirts soaked, lungs tight, spirits steady.
We weren't perfect. But we were in it.
_________________________________________
We left Calabar the morning after the Spain match.
No rush, no heavy steps. Everyone moved slower than usual, but not from defeat. A draw in the first match didn't rattle us. It sharpened us.
The buses rolled through Calabar's streets, past the same shops and markets we'd walked through days earlier. The noise outside felt lighter, maybe because we'd already lived our first ninety minutes, maybe because part of the weight had lifted. I leaned my forehead against the window and watched palm trees sway in a wind I couldn't feel.
Ronaldinho sat a few rows up, humming again, tapping rhythm on the back of a seat. Edu slept for half the ride, his head bouncing lightly with every bump in the road. Some players talked about Spain's goals, others replayed our own chances. No one argued.
Port Harcourt felt different from Calabar the moment we arrived.
Busier. Wider streets. More dust.
Different smell, a dry, metallic scent mixed with the closeness of the river. The heat felt flatter too, less humid but heavier in its own way.
Liberation Stadium looked bigger in person than it had on TV, tall stands rising over uneven ground, painted walls baking under the sun. We wouldn't play there that day, but the auxiliary pitch next to it was ours for training.
The grass was cut shorter, but patches of firm dirt peeked through. Balls ran quicker here, unpredictable at times. When we trained under the late afternoon light, the bounce shifted depending on where it landed. João Carlos liked that.
"If you can control it here," he said, "you can control it anywhere."
We ran light drills, passing rhythm, short diagonals, one-touch sequences. My legs felt less heavy than the day before, able to match the speed the ball wanted in this place. Ronaldinho drifted freely as always, and even on uneven ground his movement seemed to find its own gravity.
After training, we walked a slow lap to cool down.
Baiano nudged me with an elbow.
"You ready for Honduras?"
"Yeah."
"They defend tight," he said. "We just have to break the first block."
He talked like a forward who'd played this tournament ten times already, even though he was barely older.
Back at the hotel, the staff had prepared a simple dinner. After eating, I showered long, letting the water wash away the dust that clung to my legs. When I lay down that night, the hum of Lagos traffic far in the distance made it feel like the match was coming closer, even in the dark.
April 8, 1999 | Honduras vs Brazil | Port Harcourt
Matchday arrived warm and bright. When we entered the stadium, the noise felt rounder, echoing through the wide bowl of concrete. Not full, but full enough to feel it.
Honduras warmed up on the far side, their lines tight, their movements crisp. We stretched in the shade near the tunnel, loosening our legs, checking boots, adjusting tape. My pulse stayed steady. Not calm, just steady.
When the whistle blew, everything settled.
The first minutes were cautious. Honduras sat deep, two lines compact, waiting for mistakes. We pushed the ball side to side, waiting for the shape to open. The pitch moved faster here, and our touches adjusted naturally, especially Ronaldinho's.
He kept drifting into half-spaces, pulling two defenders with him without trying.
The breakthrough came early.
Edu found a pocket just outside the box and played a simple pass to me. I didn't have room for a turn, but I saw his run. One touch to settle, another to push wide, a quick slip between two defenders, and he met it perfectly. First time. Low. Clean.
1–0.
He pointed at me, tapping his chest once, grinning like he'd just remembered something important.
From there, Honduras cracked.
Matuzalém controlled everything, timing, tempo, the direction of play. He struck a long shot from outside the box after a loose clearance, the ball cutting low through a crowd and skipping past the keeper's glove.
2–0.
Then Ronaldinho.
A free kick just off center.
Not far enough for power, not close enough for a tap. He shaped one of those curling balls that bent around the wall just enough to kiss the far post.
3–0.
He didn't celebrate much. Just jogged back smiling at the goalkeeper, as if apologising for the trouble.
My goal came in the second half.
Ronaldinho dribbled between two defenders, slowed suddenly, and rolled the ball into my path. The space opened like a breath. One touch, then a strike low to the left. Clean. It felt good the moment it left my foot.
4–0.
The last came after we broke down the right. Baiano cut a pass across the box, not perfect, a little behind Edu, but he adjusted, swung his foot around, and buried it.
5–0.
After the whistle, the air felt thick from heat and sweat, but lighter inside us.
Not because of the score. Because the rhythm felt right now. Because the team felt like one body.
In the tunnel, Edu slapped my shoulder.
"Valeu (nice)," he said. "Good ball on the first one."
"It was your run."
"And your touch."
We left it at that.
Back at the hotel, the evening breeze felt almost cool for the first time since we'd arrived in Nigeria. Dinner tasted better when eaten after a match you controlled from first to last whistle.
The two days between Honduras and Zambia felt shorter than they were.
We trained lightly on the first day, lots of passing rhythm, lots of movement without overloading the legs. João Carlos broke down Zambia's tendencies in a meeting: fast wings, strong transitions, confident after their last result.
"They will run," he said. "So we run first and faster."
The second day was sharper, finishing drills, half-field scrimmages, set pieces. The body felt good. The legs felt ready.
That night, the room stayed warm but my thoughts stayed clear. I didn't think about scoring. Didn't think about winning by a margin. Just thought about movement, the little spaces between lines, the way the ball bounced on this pitch instead of the last.
Zambia would test us. I knew that.
But we were ready.
April 11, 1999 | Zambia vs Brazil
Port Harcourt was even louder for this match. The early afternoon sun turned everything bright, too bright. The crowd buzzed. Zambia warmed up quickly, sharp steps, sharper touches. They looked confident. Dangerous.
We lined up.
Anthem again. The familiar weight in the chest. A moment of stillness before the noise rose back up.
When the match started, Zambia came at us immediately, quick, vertical, fearless. And before we could settle, they caught us. A long ball from deep, a flick, a shot angled hard to the left.
Goal.
1–0 Zambia.
For a moment, the whole stadium tilted with the noise.
We didn't panic. We regrouped quickly, forming shape, pushing higher. The match hadn't really begun, not for us.
And from that moment, everything shifted.
Ronaldinho took the ball deeper, pulling two defenders with him. Edu pushed higher on the left. I moved closer to the middle, where the spaces opened and closed faster than the eye could follow.
And then it came.
The moment the match settled into our hands.
Ronaldinho drifted inside, nudged the ball between two players, and struck low from the edge of the box. It wasn't his cleanest shot, but it was quick, catching the keeper leaning the wrong way.
1–1.
We didn't celebrate wildly.
Just a few nods, a few slaps on the back.
The match stretched open. Zambia pushed again, not afraid, and we had to run. Harder than we had all tournament. Their wingers were sharp, cutting inside with confidence, but each time we regained the ball, the air felt different, lighter, faster.
Our second came from the left.
Ronaldinho swung a cross that dipped at the last second. Fábio Aurélio met it with his side foot, guiding it past the keeper with the calm of someone tying a shoelace.
2–1 Brazil.
Zambia didn't collapse, but they staggered.
For the next few minutes, we controlled everything.
Baiano scored the third, timing a run between the center-backs and poking the ball past the keeper after a slick exchange with Edu.
3–1.
The noise in the stadium turned mixed, some cheers, some groans, some laughter from neutral fans who just wanted goals.
By then, the pitch felt like ours.
Our passes found rhythm. Our shoulders loosened. Our lungs stopped fighting the heat and moved with it.
The fourth was Mancini's.
It came from one of those rare moments where the ball slows and the world widens. Ronaldinho drew two players in the middle, and when I cut inside, the angle opened, tiny, but enough. I didn't think. I just played the ball blind into space. Mancini met it in stride and finished low.
4–1.
He jogged back pointing at me, but I only nodded. It felt right the moment the ball left my foot.
Ronaldinho wanted another assist, the greedy genius bastard.
He found Edu next, a clipped pass over the top, softer than it looked. Edu controlled with one touch and sent it into the roof of the net.
5–1.
Their defenders looked stunned. Not angry, just overwhelmed. The heat had taken something out of them. Out of all of us, but we hid it better now.
My goal came near the end.
The play built slowly, Matuzalém, then me, then Ronaldinho, then back to me. I pushed into the box, the ball half-stuck under my foot, the defender stepping left instead of right. I struck low. The keeper touched it but couldn't hold it.
6–1.
Not my cleanest, not my best. But it counted.
When the final whistle blew, the match didn't feel like a victory so much as a release.
Ronaldinho walked by with a towel over his head, humming again, the way he always did when he was satisfied.
Outside, the sky had turned gold.
The stadium lights flickered on like lamps waking from long naps.
We boarded the bus quietly. Exhausted, but steady. No one needed to say anything.
We drove back to Calabar the next morning, leaving Port Harcourt behind under a haze of dust and early traffic. The road wasn't smooth, but none of us cared. Most of the boys slept; others stared out the windows, letting the scenery drift past like something half-remembered.
I watched the trees blur together. Watched children in school uniforms walking in groups along the roadside Watched the river appear, then vanish again, then appear once more.
Calabar felt almost familiar when we arrived. Same streets. Same markets. Same quiet confidence.
Back at the hotel, staff greeted us with smiles that felt warmer than before.
Not celebration, just recognition.
We spent the rest of the day resting. Not lying in bed all afternoon, the coaches wouldn't allow that, but resting the way footballers do: slow movements, whispered conversations, long silences, shared spaces.
At lunch, Edu sat beside me, stirring his juice absently.
"Group done," he said.
"Yeah."
"You think the knockouts will feel different?"
"They always do."
He nodded, not worried, just thoughtful.
That evening, we had a short meeting.
Tactical notes for Croatia.
Recovery plan.
Hydration reminders. Small details, nothing heavy.
Afterward, the coaches left us to ourselves. No curfew talk. No speeches. Just a quiet, shared understanding that the next part of the tournament wouldn't allow mistakes.
When I returned to the room, I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling, letting the day settle.
The group stage wasn't perfect. But we are in shape now. Momentum. Something real beneath our feet.
Edu switched off the lamp. "Boa noite, garoto (good night, kid)," he said.
"Boa noite," I answered.
April 13, 1999
We left Calabar early, long before the sun carried its full weight. Bags stacked in the hallway. Boots tied together and slung over shoulders. The air inside the hotel felt thick, as if it already knew we were leaving something behind.
Edu walked beside me down the stairs, rubbing his neck.
"You sleep?" he asked.
"Enough," I said.
He shook his head. "I don't know how you do it."
Outside, the buses were already running, engines humming low. The city was still half asleep, only a few vendors sweeping dust from in front of their stalls, a dog wandering the street, two children in uniforms walking slowly as if morning itself resisted movement.
We loaded in quietly. No victory noise. No pre-game bravado. Knockouts were different. You could feel it in the way even Ronaldinho sat still, headphones in place but music low.
The road out of Calabar stretched long and empty at first. Palm trees stood tall against the rising light, their shadows thin and wavering. I watched them pass in a blur. The farther we went, the more the trees thinned, replaced by stretches of open ground and clusters of houses with tin roofs glinting sharply under the sun.
Edu fell asleep for a while, head pressed against the window, mouth slightly open. For a moment, the bus felt like any other we'd taken with São Paulo's youth squad, long roads, long thoughts, long silences. But the patch on my shirt said this wasn't that.
We were going somewhere where mistakes ended tournaments.
Halfway through the drive, we stopped at a small rest point, just a wide clearing near the roadside, a concrete building with a fading sign, and a stand selling bottled water that was only half cold. The air smelled faintly of dust and gasoline. I stretched my legs and felt the stiffness in my calves settle.
Ronaldinho stepped beside me, lightly juggling a bottle cap with the inside of his foot.
"You ready for tomorrow?" he asked.
"I think so."
"You don't think, Garoto" he said, flicking the cap into his hand. "You play."
I smiled. "And you?"
He shrugged. "The ball will tell me."
That was all he said. Enough.
It could be just me but the conversations felt dry. We didn't bond much. We didn't enjoy things. It could be the weather, the pressure or the newness of it all, but everything felt robotic. From the way people interacted to the way even small talks happened. I was happy with the wins and my performance, but I haven't really enjoyed myself. I thought that the national team would be better, with a shared goal and unity, we could bond. But, that rarely happened. People stuck to the groups they knew. I would hang out with Edu and Fabio, Sao Paulo boys, and interact with Ronaldinho because of our chemistry since the camp. The others? It was strictly professional.
I enjoyed more in the Sao Paulo first team. May be things will imrove later on. We shall see. For now, I just want to win and get this over with.
Knockout rounds change how everyone behaves, even people who aren't on the field.
That night, after dinner, João Carlos held a meeting in one of the conference rooms. It wasn't long.
"Croatia presses early," he said. "Then they settle into shape. Break their rhythm early, and they lose patience. That's where we live."
He looked at each of us, not for effect, but for confirmation.
"Use the width. Trust the diagonal. Trust each other."
No shouting. No raised tone. He didn't need any of it.
We understood.
_________________________________________
April 14, 1999 | Brazil vs Croatia (Round of 16)
The stadium in Calabar looked smaller on a knockout day. The stands seemed closer to the pitch, the fans louder, the air thicker. The drums had more intent. Even the sunlight felt sharper, like the day itself wanted to test us.
Warm-up felt good. Ball moving fast, legs lighter than they had been in the group stage.
When I struck the first pass of the warm-up, it flew true. Clean. My body felt right again.
In the tunnel, we lined up shoulder to shoulder, Croatia on the opposite side. Their players were tall, broad, quiet. You could tell they were used to cold weather. Here, the heat would decide who suffered first.
When the whistle blew, the match didn't open slowly. It opened like a sprint.
They pressed early, just as João Carlos said they would. Hard. Straight. Trying to force mistakes in our half. But Matuzalém handled it with calm touches, spreading the ball to the sides, letting Ronaldinho drift inside and drag their shape out of place.
Ten minutes in, everything broke open.
Ronaldinho received a diagonal pass near the box. He shaped to cut inside but instead rolled the ball backwards into my path. The defender stepped wrong. I didn't strike hard, just placed it, aiming for the far corner. The keeper got a touch, but the ball bounced in anyway.
1–0.
The noise behind the goal swelled, a full body of sound. I didn't celebrate loudly. Just pointed back at Ronaldinho, who grinned as if he'd known the finish before I even took the shot.
Croatia cracked after that. Pressure turned into gaps. Gaps turned into runs. Runs turned into chances.
The second goal came when Edu drove down the left and cut inside. His shot took a deflection and spun awkwardly. The keeper spilled it, and Baiano lunged, poking it across the line before anyone else could react.
2–0.
The third came from a corner. Our corner, their panic. The ball skidded, someone rose, someone else swung a boot, everything happened too fast to name properly. But it ended in the net.
3–0.
Croatia began losing discipline. Touches grew heavier. Shoulders tightened. Voices rose.
Then came our fourth.
I won the ball near midfield after a loose Croatian touch. Ronaldinho took off immediately. I slid the ball forward and watched him glide past one defender, then another, before cutting inside and finishing with a low strike across goal.
4–0.
By then, the match wasn't about the score anymore.
It was about control.
About sending a message to whoever waited next.
When the whistle ended it, the air felt different, not lighter, but clearer.
We had earned something in that match. Not just a win. A way forward.
In the tunnel, Edu nudged my shoulder.
"That was strong," he said.
"About time. We needed it."
He nodded. "Quarter-finals now."
Ronaldinho walked past us, humming the same tune he had on the bus weeks earlier.
Whenever he hummed after a match, it meant he believed we were going far.
_________________________________________
We left early the next morning. Knockouts don't give you time to breathe.
The bus ride felt quieter than the one before Croatia. Not tense, just focused. The body knew it had done something big and needed to reset quickly.
Lagos stretched wider than any city we'd been in so far. Traffic everywhere. Markets spilling into the roads. Buildings rising behind thin rows of trees. Even the air smelled different, a mix of salt, heat, and exhaust.
Our hotel overlooked a busy street.
Constant horns.
Constant movement.
No one stood still.
But inside, the rooms were cool enough, and the food tasted familiar enough that no one complained.
The next two days blurred together in repetitions.
Training. Rest. Short meetings. Quiet meals.
Uruguay would be different from Croatia. Different from Spain. Different from anyone else.
Physical. Strong. Stubborn. Proud. Dirty.
And we would have to match all of it.
On the night before the match, I lay in bed listening to the traffic outside, headlights flickering against the curtains, engines idling, the constant murmur of voices. The city felt alive in a way that didn't care about football. It reminded me that winning here meant something more than stadiums and scores.
_________________________________________
April 18 | Brazil vs Uruguay (Quarter-final)
Matchday morning arrived and the breakfast was nearly silent. Not tense, just deliberate.
Everyone's movements slower, more careful, as if the day itself needed to be approached with respect.
Ronaldinho ate quietly, tapping his fingers on the table only once or twice. Edu stared into his cup for a long time before drinking. Even Baiano, usually restless before matches, sat still with his hands folded.
Uruguay wasn't the type of opponent you spoke lightly about.
When the buses arrived, the city outside was already buzzing. Lagos moved as if it was always on fast-forward, cars weaving around each other, vendors calling across the street, kids running barefoot with more balance than we had in boots.
The drive wasn't long, but it felt long enough to make every heartbeat count.
Liberation Stadium was loud before we even entered. Drums. Voices. Whistles and songs from sections that didn't care who won as long as the match had spirit.
Uruguay warmed up with sharp movements, shoulders squared, eyes fixed.
They looked exactly like the stories said, hard to break, harder to discourage.
We stretched near the corner flag.
The ground here was firmer than Calabar, firmer than Port Harcourt, and the ball moved faster on the surface. But the heat still clung, making every breath stick on the way in.
João Carlos gathered us one last time before the anthem.
"Patience," he said.
"And when the space opens, punish."
That was all.
The opening minutes felt like playing inside a furnace.
Uruguay pressed physically, each shoulder heavier, each duel sharper. Their midfielders stepped into tackles early, loud ones, the kind you feel in the ribcage.
I tried to drift into pockets, but each time I turned, someone closed the space faster than I expected. They weren't faster. Just more willing to engage.
Edu took a hit in the sixth minute that sent him stumbling. Ronaldinho took one two minutes later.
Neither complained.
Neither raised a hand.
We adjusted.
Matuzalém began directing traffic, pointing, slowing motions when Uruguay tried to speed them up. Ronaldinho dropped deeper, forcing their midfield line to stretch. With each possession, we gained inches, then metres.
Still, Uruguay struck first.
A throw-in on their right side, a quick combination, and a low shot from distance that skimmed the grass and rattled the side net.
Only the linesman's flag saved us, offside by half a shoulder.
The warning was enough.
We tightened shape.
Rotated quicker.
Pressed together, not in fragments.
And then the first real break came.
Baiano received a pass near the box and tried to spin between two defenders. The ball got tangled in a pair of legs, and he went down. Not dramatically. Just enough contact to fold him.
The whistle came a moment later.
Penalty.
Edu stepped forward immediately, there was a pecking order. Edu, Baiano, Ronaldinho, Matuzalém, Mancini.
He placed the ball. Jogged back three steps.
Exhaled once.
He struck low, inside the left post.
The keeper guessed right but reached late.
1–0 Brazil.
He didn't celebrate more than lifting both arms slightly.
Not arrogance. Just focus.
This was the other thing. No one celebrated the goals. If we scored a goal in a league game, we would be shouting and running. Here, people just nodded and just took it calmly. Weird!
Uruguay didn't back down.
They pushed harder.
They equalised ten minutes later, this time clean.
A long ball diagonally behind our line, a chest control, a strike across goal.
1–1.
The stadium noise swelled like a wave.
You could feel the momentum shift in the ground beneath your boots.
But we didn't drift.
The heat turned harsher, sticking to the skin. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging. My legs felt heavier than they had all tournament, each stride tightening slightly in the thigh.
For a moment, I wondered if everyone else felt the same. The answer came without words, just shared breath, shared effort, shared silence between touches.
Late in the second half, after one of the longest passages of midfield wrestling I've ever lived, the space opened.
Tiny.
But there.
Ronaldinho saw it first. He intercepted a loose pass, lifted his head, and drove forward on an angle that looked impossible until he took the third touch. I followed, lungs burning, legs thick from heat.
He shaped the ball with his inside foot and threaded a pass between two defenders, thin as a needle, perfect in weight.
Mancini arrived at the far post. One step. One swing.
Goal.
2–1 Brazil.
But Uruguay didn't accept it.
They came at us with everything they had, crosses, long shots, hard duels, elbows pressed into ribs at corners. The match turned into something raw, something that felt more like survival than football.
I struggled. We all did.
The heat in Lagos felt heavier than the sun in Calabar. My lungs tugged for deeper breaths that wouldn't come. My legs felt close to cramping more than once.
But we held.
Ronaldinho tracked back so far he almost played as a fullback. Edu ran until he bent over with hands on knees. Baiano pressed defenders with the last strength he had left. Matuzalém kept yelling "calma," voice cracking, legs shaking.
I lost the ball once, bad touch, tired mind, but recovered the next moment, throwing myself into the space to win it back.
Every player did something like that in the final ten minutes. Every single one.
When the whistle finally blew, it didn't sound like victory. It sounded like someone cutting a rope that had been pulled too tight.
We didn't yell. Didn't jump. Didn't throw arms in the air.
We just exhaled.
Some of us collapsed to sit. Some bent forward, hands on knees. Sweat dripping from hair, shirts plastered to backs.
Ronaldinho placed a hand on my shoulder, still breathing fast.
"Fizemos (we did it)," he said.
I nodded. Couldn't speak yet.
Edu came over next, chest rising and falling like he'd run through a wall.
"Semifinal," he said, almost dazed.
"Sí," I said, voice rough. "Semifinal."
The walk back to the tunnel felt longer than the match itself. The stadium noise faded behind us, still loud, still alive, but softer now, like it belonged to someone else.
Inside the tunnel, the air felt cooler. Or maybe it just felt quiet.
Baiano leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Mancini wiped his face with his shirt, breathing in long, slow pulls. Matuzalém sat on the ground, stretching out one leg that threatened to cramp.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Not because we lacked words, but because we'd emptied everything we had onto the pitch.
The bus ride back to the hotel stayed silent for the first fifteen minutes. Just the hum of the engine, the occasional cough, the shifting of legs trying not to cramp.
When we reached the hotel, the staff greeted us with small, warm smiles. Not loud, not performative. Just the sort of gestures that felt like a hand on the back, steadying.
I showered long enough for the water to lose its warmth. My muscles trembled under the stream. My head felt strangely empty, in a good way.
Edu lay on his bed afterward, staring at the ceiling as if seeing something there only he understood.
"You know," he said, "this match, it was the hardest one I've ever played."
"Me too," I answered.
I closed my eyes and let the exhaustion pull me down.
Not into sleep yet, just into stillness.
We were in the semifinal.
Another battle waiting.
But that was tomorrow's weight.
Tonight, we finally allowed ourselves to be tired.
_________________________________________
April 21, 1999 | Japan vs Brazil | Semifinal | Lagos
I woke before the alarm, aware of my heartbeat before I opened my eyes. Edu was already up.
Sitting at the foot of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if trying to memorise it.
"Semifinal day," he said without looking up.
"Yeah."
He rubbed his eyes and let out a breath. "Can you believe it?"
"Better believe it now."
He finally looked at me and nodded, slow and deliberate.
The tactical meeting was short.
Surprisingly short.
Japan's strengths were clear:
#quick interplays
#tidy movement
#long, clever switches
#their number 10 drifting into half-spaces
#fast counters, not wild ones, clean ones
João Carlos kept his tone even.
"They play light," he said. "You play steady. Let them move. Don't chase shadows. When the moment appears, you take it."
He looked at Ronaldinho.
"You'll see the moment first."
Then at me.
"You'll be there with him."
Then at the rest of us.
"And when the ball drops, someone finishes."
That was it. That was the whole briefing.
We knew what to do.
The city roared louder than usual.
Market stalls crowded the sidewalks, trucks honked at nothing, children waved at the bus as if they knew exactly why we were here.
I rested my head against the glass and watched the movement blur into shapes, bright fabric, sunburned metal, palm branches trembling in the heat.
Edu sat beside me, tapping his foot without rhythm. He didn't speak.He didn't need to. Every one of us carried something private onto that bus.
When the stadium rose into view, huge against the sky, something clicked inside me. Not sudden. More like a door opening by itself.
This was the match players remembered years later, even if they never said it out loud.
The tunnel in Lagos always felt colder than the field. That contrast made the entrance sharper.
We stood in two lines, Japan next to us, calm faces, clean posture, boots tied neatly, jerseys tucked tight.
They looked focused, not intimidated.
Ronaldinho stood ahead of me, rolling a ball under his foot in tiny circles. Edu adjusted his shin pads for the fourth time. Baiano cracked his knuckles one by one.
I bounced on my toes once, testing the weight in my legs. They felt heavy for a moment, then loosened.
The announcer's voice echoed faintly through the tunnel, names, countries, whistles already rising.
The referee lifted his hand.
"Ready."
We stepped out.
The noise hit first, high, sharp, layered.
The sun hit second, bright and direct, no mercy.
Then the ball moved.
Japan took the first touches, crisp and clean, switching sides with two passes, finding angles that made us shift faster than we wanted. Their number 10 moved like he wasn't touching the ground.
We took a few minutes to read it. To settle. To feel the weight of the pitch beneath us.
Ronaldinho dropped deeper than usual, pulling their midfield with him. Edu pressed their right-back, forcing a hurried clearance. Matuzalém stayed calm, intercepting, redirecting, slowing the pace at exactly the right moments.
But the first chance was theirs. A low drive from outside the box, clean, sharp, too quick for comfort.
Our keeper parried. I felt the jolt in my chest as the ball bounced away. "Vamos, vamos (come on, come on)," Edu muttered.
We tightened shape.
And then the rhythm changed.
Ronaldinho took the ball between two players, shifted weight once, twice, then split them.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
Not Brazilian, universal.
He rolled a pass into my stride.
The angle was narrow.
I hit it hard, hoping for deflection.
It flew over. Not wildly, just enough.
I felt the disappointment like a stone dropped in water, quick, deep, then gone.
Ronaldinho clapped my shoulder as we jogged back. "Boa, Paulista (good try). Next one."
The next one came sooner than expected.
A quick triangulation down their left. A cut inside. A low, curling shot toward the far post.
Our keeper got fingertips on it. Not enough.
1–0 Japan.
The stadium erupted.
My breath caught for one second.
We reset and we pushed.
Ronaldinho called for the ball more often now.
Matuzalém anchored deeper.
Edu flicked a pass behind their right-back.
Baiano muscled into space.
The match was turning.
We could feel it.
The ball moved faster under our feet now, not because the pitch had changed, but because we had. The heat didn't feel as heavy anymore; the crowd didn't feel as loud.
Everything narrowed into the lines between passes, the pockets that opened for half a second, the way the ball settled after the first touch.
We retook control inch by inch.
In the twentieth minute, I broke into a small gap between their midfield lines. Matuzalém saw it first.
The pass he played wasn't fast. It wasn't even sharp. It was correct, just enough.
I caught the ball on my right foot and nudged it forward, leaning into the run. Their defender hesitated, not enough to lose the duel, just enough to break the moment. I cut inside and struck from the edge of the box, trying to beat the keeper low.
He saved it.
Good save.
Strong wrists.
But it told me something important: the space existed. I only had to find it again.
Japan countered immediately after.
A long ball down the left.
A cutback.
A shot that skimmed wide.
Pressure met pressure.
Sweat met sweat.
Even the air felt like it vibrated.
Then the equaliser came, and it felt like a breath we'd held too long finally released.
We won a corner. A messy one, earned through force rather than finesse.
Ronaldinho jogged over, wiping his forehead with the inside of his wrist. He placed the ball gently, stepped back, and sent a looping, dipping cross into the box, one of those awkward ones that never arrive where defenders expect.
It bounced once.
Twice.
Then chaos.
Someone swung a leg and missed.
Someone else stooped too low.
The ball ricocheted into the space just outside the box, my space.
I stepped forward before thinking.
The ball rolled to my right foot a little too far ahead, but the timing felt right. I struck it clean, not with power but with intent, low and skipping. A defender's calf touched it, slowing it. The keeper reacted late, caught off balance by the tiny deflection.
It hit the net like a whisper.
1–1.
I roared out loud and took off running. I needed this goal. The match against Uruguay drained me.
Ronaldinho sprinted toward me, laughing.
"Aí, garoto! (There you go, kid!)"
Edu pulled me into a quick hug and thumped my back twice.
The crowd behind the goal roared, not a Brazilian roar, not Japanese, something broader, hungry for drama. Even neutral fans love a goal that pulls a match into balance.
We jogged back to position.
Japan looked rattled, not yet broken, just surprised that their early advantage hadn't lasted long. But they weren't going to collapse. You could see it in the way they regrouped immediately, shoulders squared, eyes focused.
They pushed again in the minutes that followed.
Sharp passing.
Quick triangles.
A long-range shot that whistled over the bar.
But the pitch felt different now.
Ours.
Not by possession.
By intention.
Every touch we made felt connected to the next.
And then came the moment the match would be remembered for, the moment that made time slow in a way football rarely allows.
We earned a free kick just outside the box, slightly right of centre.
Not too close, not too far.
The kind of distance that punishes hesitation.
Ronaldinho picked up the ball before anyone else reached it. He just placed it down and stepped back, eyes narrowed, shoulders loose, body relaxed in a way that only he could be relaxed in a semifinal.
I stood near the wall, ready for a rebound.
Edu stood beside me, hands on hips.
The referee blew the whistle.
Ronaldinho took four short steps, one, two, three, four…and struck the ball with his instep, not with power, not sharply, but with a whip-like curve that made the ball rise unnaturally fast before dipping even faster.
The wall jumped.
The keeper stretched.
Neither mattered.
The ball bent over, then snapped down into the far corner like it had been pulled by a string.
Time actually paused.
Just a second. Just enough for the crowd to realise what had happened.
Then the stadium erupted.
Not a cheer.
A detonation.
I felt it in my ribcage.
In the bottoms of my feet.
In the space behind my eyes.
Ronaldinho ran toward the sideline, arms wide, laughing with a kind of disbelief that somehow still felt like confidence.
We caught him near the corner flag.
He hugged Edu first, then me, then the whole team piled on.
2–1 Brazil.
Japan stood frozen for a few seconds, stunned, not beaten. But you could feel the match's shape change permanently.
Something had shifted. The momentum didn't just tilt; it collapsed into our favour.
For the first time that afternoon, I allowed myself to think: We're going to the final.
But the match wasn't over.
And Japan wasn't done.
Their midfield began to move faster, the passes hit with more zip. Their fullbacks pushed higher, sending crosses early, forcing us to run backward more than we liked. You could see the urgency in their eyes, not desperation, but belief. Semifinals do that to a team. They give even the smallest spark room to grow.
Around the sixty-fifth minute, Japan built a sequence that stretched us wide. Their number 10 received the ball just outside the box and shot hard and low. Our keeper dropped and parried it out. The rebound spun toward the edge of the area, exactly where a second attacker waited.
I reacted late, half a second behind him. He struck first-time. For a moment the ball seemed destined for the corner.
It skimmed wide by inches.
That close. That unforgiving.
We reorganised. Juan shouted something sharp at our back line. Matuzalém clapped once, loudly, as if calling our attention back into our bodies. Ronaldinho dropped deeper again, signalling for calm with a small gesture of his hand.
But it was exhausting. Even standing felt like effort.
Every run felt slightly shorter. Every acceleration needed an extra breath.
Uruguay had drained us four days earlier, and the Lagos heat now pulled at the legs like invisible hands. My calves burned with each sprint; my shoulders tightened every time I turned.
And Japan kept coming.
Cross after cross.
Switch after switch.
Sharp cutbacks, quick one-twos, a shot that thudded into a defender's thigh.
The kind of pressure that doesn't overwhelm at once, it erodes. Slowly. Patiently.
In the seventy-first minute, I tracked back so far I ended up inside our own box. I cleared a ball with my weaker foot, and my right leg cramped almost immediately after. A long, tight pulse locked my muscle in place for two seconds that felt like twenty.
I bent over, breathing hard.
Fabio came over.
"You okay?"
"I'll be fine."
He nodded. "Stay inside more. We'll cover outside."
I nodded, though I knew my legs were telling a different story.
Japan grew desperate near the eighty-minute mark, not reckless, just sharper. Their shots came earlier. Their passes came flatter. Their runs came with more force. They wanted one moment, any moment, to pull the match level.
One nearly came.
A long ball floated behind our right side.
Their winger broke free and hit a half-volley that screamed toward the top corner.
Our keeper leapt and pushed it over the bar with the faintest brush of fingertips.
The entire stadium gasped. Some shouted. Some held their heads.
We formed a defensive line for the corner, sweat dripping into the dust at our feet. My pulse hammered in my throat, loud enough to hear. The ball swung in, heavy and spinning. We rose together, a tangle of arms, shirts, and noise, and cleared it far enough to breathe again.
Time slowed.
Not on the clock, inside us.
With five minutes left, we managed to pull the match back into manageable rhythm.
Short passes.
Small steps.
Nothing rushed.
Just enough to settle the team.
Japan tried one last surge, a long diagonal, a cut inside, a shot that skidded along the ground, but our keeper fell on it cleanly.
And then it came.
The whistle. Just a clean, sharp sound that cut through the air and dropped something heavy inside my chest.
We'd done it.
Final.
For a moment, no one moved.
We just stood there, breathing hard, bent slightly, sweat dripping off our faces, staring at the field like it had become unfamiliar.
Some of the Japanese players sank to their knees, a few covering their faces. Others shook our hands quietly. They had played with a kind of discipline and bravery I couldn't help but admire. The match had demanded everything from both sides.
We walked off together, slow, drained, steady.
Inside the locker room, we sat where we could, on benches, on the floor, leaning against lockers , letting the reality settle in.
Some players stretched in silence, grimacing in pain.
Some lay flat on the tiles, arms spread, staring at nothing. One or two cried quietly, not from emotion alone, but from exhaustion that had nowhere else to go.
The coaches didn't speak right away. They let the room breathe.
When João Carlos finally stepped forward, he didn't raise his voice.
"Vocês lutaram (you fought)," he said. "Every step. Every breath. That's what brings you to a final. Not magic. Not luck. Work."
He paused.
"Rest now. Tomorrow...we prepare."
He walked out without saying more. He didn't need to. We knew what awaited us.
The finals! A shot at glory. Not big, but enough to matter.
Author's Notes:
I started this chapter thinking that I would keep it short and give a summary. But, somehow I ended up writing and kept it in.
I wanted to treat it as a practice for the world cups later on.
I am still getting back into my usual routine. So excuse any errors or changes.
Thank you for the support!