Corinthians vs São Paulo (January 28, 1999, Pacaembu)
The morning before the match, I was early at Barra Funda. Most of the guys had already filtered in, Rogério sipping his habitual black coffee, Edmílson reading the sports section, França doing small stretches by the treatment table.
When I walked into the corridor that led to the manager's office, the door was half-open.
Paulo César Carpegiani was inside, hunched over a set of match diagrams and small magnetic pieces on a whiteboard. He noticed me hovering, smiled slightly, and waved me in.
"Bom dia, Ricardo," he said, motioning to the chair. "Sit. I wanted a quick word before training."
I sat, trying not to fidget.
"We have been having a discussion about what to do with you. And I have decided, we'll manage your minutes carefully. I'll start you tomorrow, but you'll rest in some others. It's not a punishment. It's part of growing the right way."
I nodded. "Yes, coach. I understand."
He smiled faintly. "Good. You don't have to prove everything in one game. Just play the football you've been playing. Quick, clean, intelligent." He stood, picked up a magnetic piece, and pressed it on the board at the right side of midfield. "Here's your spot. You'll link with Marcelinho, track back when needed. They'll press hard, you'll have to breathe under pressure."
"Got it."
He clapped my shoulder. "Boa sorte, garoto. Make everyone proud."
Walking out of the office, I felt that same tightness in my chest that I'd felt before my debut months ago. The nerves hadn't gone away, they'd just changed shape.
Later that day, training was sharper than usual. Short drills, tactical rehearsals, finishing exercises. França stayed after the session to work on shooting from crosses. I joined him, running a few plays we'd practiced during preseason, cut inside, low ball to the near post.
"Coach trusts you," França said, between breaths.
"I hope I don't squander it."
He chuckled. "Then don't. Simple."
Simple indeed.
Matchday
Pacaembu was split down the middle, half black and white, half red and white. You could taste the rivalry in the air. São Paulo versus Corinthians wasn't just football; it was a civil war in ninety minutes.
In the locker room, Carpegiani was calm as always.
"Patience and tempo," he said, marking gestures on the board. "They'll try to unsettle us with early pressure. We respond by controlling the rhythm."
He pointed at me again. "Ricardo, you don't rush. Make them chase the ball."
I nodded. "Yes, coach."
"Boa sorte a todos." (Good luck, everyone.)
When we walked out, the noise hit like a wall.
Flags, drums, chants that rolled from one end of the stadium to the other. I spotted our section, Mamãe, Papai, and Digão were there, high in the stands, waving when they saw me look up. I waved back once, then forced my focus on the field.
The whistle blew.
Corinthians pressed us immediately , two forwards harassing our defenders, trying to force mistakes.
For the first ten minutes, we barely crossed midfield. Rogério had to make a diving save early, and even from halfway, I could hear him barking instructions.
"Close them down!"
But we settled. Edmílson started breaking their lines with short, vertical passes. Miguel and Serginho spread the ball wide. I drifted infield, received a diagonal ball, and flicked it to
Marcelinho, who turned it straight to França.
His shot deflected, and Dodô followed it up. Goal. 1–0.
The São Paulo end exploded. I could feel the vibrations through my boots.
Carpegiani gestured a calm-down motion from the touchline, palms down.
We controlled the rhythm after that. Corinthians were physical, throwing bodies into every duel. I took a few hits, but nothing serious. Still, you could sense their frustration building.
Halftime came at 1–0. Inside the locker room, the noise of the crowd above us filtered faintly through the concrete.
"Good," the coach said, voice level. "But remember, they'll come out swinging. Stay compact. When you attack, finish the play , don't lose it cheaply."
Ten minutes into the second half, they equalized. Corner kick, header, near post. Nothing Ceni could've done. 1-1.
The home fans roared, and suddenly it felt like every touch was heavier. I miscontrolled one pass, got clattered from behind. The referee waved play on.
Carpegiani didn't yell, he simply gestured for me to look up and breathe.
In the 68th minute, Edmílson stole the ball near midfield and sent a short pass my way. I looked up and saw França darting diagonally behind their defenders. I threaded it perfectly through the channel. One touch, low shot. Goal. 2–1.
I took off running towards him and slid next to him, and roared.
I was immediately subbed off after that, and K expected it as well because I was running on fumes by then. I really need to work on my stamina and strength.
The final whistle came what felt like hours later.
_________________________________________
In the locker room, laughter and relief filled the air. Ceni was already shouting at the defenders for conceding on a corner.
"Next time, I'll go up and head it myself," he said furiously. No one said anything.
Carpegiani entered last. "Good work," he said simply. "Enjoy it, but stay humble. The tournament just began."
As we left, he caught my arm lightly.
"Remember what I said. Some matches you'll start, others you'll watch. That's how we'll build your foundation. Entendido?"
"Entendido, mister."
He smiled. "Then good job today."
_________________________________________
That night, we drove home through the São Paulo traffic. Mamãe had brought sandwiches for after the match, she always did, just in case the club meal wasn't enough.
When we got home, Mamãe turned on the small kitchen radio. The late-night sports show had already started.
"São Paulo wins the derby at Pacaembu! Highlight of the match , young Ricardo Kaká, whose perfect assist sealed the victory."
Another journalist added,
"Carpegiani's team shows balance and intelligence. The kid Kaká fits right in, mature beyond his age."
I stood there, leaning on the counter, still sweaty from the game, feeling a strange mix of pride and disbelief.
In the newspaper the next morning, the headline was modest:
São Paulo wins with class; youngster Kaká involved in decisive goal.
The smaller print read:
"At only sixteen, the midfielder continues to show composure and tactical understanding rare for his age. Coach Carpegiani emphasizes patience in his development."
I folded the paper quietly and set it aside.
The next day, when I walked back into Barra Funda, the team was already getting treatment and reviewing clips from the match. There were no dramatic reactions, no speeches, just quiet acknowledgment.
Another game ahead in three days.
I tied my laces and joined the warm-up circle, ready to start again.
São Paulo vs Botafogo (January 31, 1999, Morumbi)
We'd won the derby three days ago, but nobody talked about it anymore. There wasn't time to. Botafogo was next.
Carpegiani walked in holding his clipboard, expression steady. "Morning, gentlemen," he began. "We rotate today. Some legs need rest." His eyes moved across the room, stopping on me for a second. "Ricardo, you'll be on the bench. I want your head in the game from the first minute, understood?"
"Entendido."
He nodded. "Good. Watch their midfield spacing when you're out there. You'll come in to fix it if we lose rhythm."
Training was short that morning , tactical review, light rondos, stretching. Ceni called out to me as I picked up stray cones.
"Keep the jacket on today, garoto. You're no use to us catching a cold before you even play," he said, half-smiling.
"Yes, captain," I answered, and he flicked a wet towel at my shoulder before walking away laughing.
Matchday.
The attendance wasn't huge , maybe fifteen thousand, but it felt warm, homey. Our section of red and white flags moved like waves when the teams walked out.
I took my place on the bench, jacket zipped to the collar. From there, everything looked different , slower and louder at once. You heard the shouts, the thud of every clearance, the squeak of wet boots.
Botafogo pressed high from the start. We had a few shaky moments, but Rogério was sharp. At the thirty-minute mark, we scored through Dodô , a curling shot from the edge of the box after Serginho's overlapping run. 1–0.
Carpegiani, arms folded, didn't celebrate. He rarely did. He just made a note on his pad.
"Tempo, tempo," he muttered to himself.
At halftime, we filed into the dressing room. The air smelled of damp jerseys and liniment. Marcelinho was breathing hard, shaking out his legs.
"Too open," he said. "They keep breaking the lines."
Carpegiani nodded. "We'll fix that. Ricardo, warm up second half. You'll come in early."
I began loosening up near the corner flag after the restart. The assistant called over at the fifty-eighth minute. "Kaká, you're in."
I peeled off the jacket, adjusted my socks, and jogged toward the touchline. The stadium announcer's voice rolled through the drizzle:
"Entra com a camisa vinte e dois…Ricardo Kaká!"
The game itself had slowed. Our midfield line was sagging, Botafogo crowding the middle.
My job was simple: link play, hold tempo, find França early.
First touch, a short ball from Edmílson. I laid it off to Miguel, turned, and made a diagonal run. The field was slick; each step sent tiny sprays of water behind my boots.
Ten minutes later, I nearly gave away possession near halfway, but Ceni's voice thundered across the pitch.
"Tranquilo, garoto! Respira!" (Easy, kid! Breathe!)
I steadied, played it back to him, and reset the rhythm.
We began to push.
In the seventy-ninth minute, the move unfolded cleanly, Marcelinho drifted left, drew a defender, and back-heeled the ball my way. I took one touch, saw França cutting across the box, and slipped it through. He didn't hesitate. Low shot, bottom corner. 2–0.
The stadium erupted, rain and all. I jogged over to him, both of us soaked, laughing like schoolkids.
"Boa bola, garoto!" (Good pass, kid!)
"Fácil quando é você," I answered, grinning. (Easy when it's you.)
When the final whistle came, we'd controlled most of the second half. No frantic defending, no late scares. Just solid football.
Inside the locker room, the mood was lighter than last week's, a quiet satisfaction instead of a shout.
França was the first to speak. "That was tidy work from everyone. No drama, just football."
Edmílson added, "We're starting to move like a unit again."
Carpegiani walked in, checked his notes, and said,
"Good. This is how you build consistency. Enjoy the night. Tomorrow, a recovery session."
As everyone packed up, he stopped beside me.
"Exactly what I wanted, Ricardo. You came in, settled the ball, created the second goal. Efficient. That's what wins tournaments."
I nodded, unsure what to say. Praise from him always came quietly but carried weight.
"Thank you, coach."
Marcelinho leaned across. "You see how calm you looked today? That's what confidence does."
I smiled. "It's easier when everyone around you trusts you."
He nodded. "That's football, garoto. No one plays alone."
The next morning, the newspapers were stacked at the training center entrance.
Headlines were still modest, but warmer now:
"São Paulo mantém ritmo: Kaká volta a decidir."
São Paulo keeps the rhythm: Kaká decisive again.
The article inside read:
"Brought on in the second half, the young midfielder organized the play and provided the assist for the second goal. Carpegiani's rotation policy seems to work, with the team staying fresh and composed."
Another paper called me "a calm presence between the lines." Someone had drawn a small cartoon of me next to França celebrating.
At the radio station later that afternoon, a commentator said,
"This kid Kaká, he doesn't rush. He makes São Paulo breathe. Reminds me of a young Raí."
I wasn't listening live, but Rogério mentioned it at lunch.
"They're comparing you to Raí already," he said, shaking his head. "Don't let that go to your head."
"I won't," I said, seriously. I do not want to be someone else. I want to be Kaká!
"I know. Just keep working. That's what matters."
Training resumed with lighter drills and short scrimmages. We had Flamengo next, another strong side. The weather forecast promised another wet day, Rio's humidity mixed with São Paulo's rain clouds.
As we jogged our cooldown laps, França jogged beside me. "You realize people expect you to create something every match now, right?"
I shrugged. "Then I guess I should try to."
He grinned. "Spoken like a star."
That night, I stayed up watching the replay on VHS. Papai had recorded it as always. We sat together on the couch, no loud comments, just the sound of the rain outside and the faint hum of the tape.
The next morning, back at training, Carpegiani outlined the schedule:
"Travel Wednesday. Match Thursday. Same focus."
I scribbled the notes in my small notebook , warm-up times, hydration reminders, tactical roles. Small habits, but they made me feel grounded.
As we left the pitch, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in days, bright and sharp across the damp grass.
We walked off laughing, and for the first time in a while, the season didn't feel heavy, it felt like it was just beginning to take shape.
Flamengo vs São Paulo (February 3, 1999 – Torneio Rio–São Paulo, Maracanã)
We flew to Rio the afternoon before the match. The air in Congonhas Airport was thick and warm, that kind of late-summer humidity that sticks to your shirt even before you step outside. The trip was short, barely an hour, but nobody said much on the plane. A few of the veterans played cards in the back rows; others dozed with headphones in.
From the window, the coastline appeared in pieces,brown hills, long strips of beach, sudden flashes of blue water. I'd been to Rio before with youth tournaments, but this was different. We were flying in to play Flamengo, at Maracanã.
When we landed, a handful of reporters waited near baggage claim. They weren't there for me, of course; they wanted quotes from Carpegiani and Dodô. Still, one of them caught my name when I walked past.
"É o garoto Kaká, né?" (That's the kid Kaká, right?)
I nodded politely and kept walking.
The hotel was near Flamengo's neighborhood, close enough that you could see the stadium lights from the balcony. Dinner was at seven,grilled chicken, rice, vegetables, the usual pre-match food.
Some of the players went straight to their rooms afterward to call family. I joined França and Edmílson downstairs, watching a replay of another Rio–São Paulo match on the lobby TV.
"Maracanã's pitch looks fast," França said.
"It always looks fast," Edmílson replied. "Wait till the humidity hits you after kickoff. You'll feel like running through syrup."
I laughed quietly.
Matchday morning.
Breakfast at eight. Team talk at nine. Carpegiani stood by a whiteboard filled with small magnets, lines, and numbers.
"We stay compact," he said, tracing his finger along the midfield band. "Flamengo like to overload the left side. Don't bite on the first pass. Force them central."
He looked around. "We'll start with Miguel, Marcelinho, and Edmílson in the middle. Ricardo, you're on the bench again. Be ready second half. Watch their shape."
"Entendido, mister."
He nodded once. "Use your eyes. Learn the flow of big games."
By the time we walked out for warm-up, Maracanã was half-full and already deafening.
The smell of roasted peanuts mixed with fireworks smoke. Red-and-black flags rippled across the stands. I jogged along the sideline, trying not to stare too long at the size of it all. The pitch seemed endless.
Kickoff came fast. The noise swallowed everything. From the bench, I could barely hear Carpegiani shouting instructions.
Flamengo came out pressing high. Their forwards chased every back pass, and Rogério Ceni had to clear long more than once.
We settled slowly. The first twenty minutes were mostly us defending deep, trying to break the press. Dodô had one half-chance,a glancing header that went over.
I watched the midfield closely, noting how Miguel positioned his body before receiving, how Edmílson shielded with his shoulder before turning. It wasn't glamour, but it was learning.
At halftime, still 0–0, the coach went around giving calm, clipped instructions. No shouting. "We're fine," he said. "We keep our patience."
Fifty-five minutes. The assistant tapped my shoulder.
"Ricardo, warm up."
I slipped off the tracksuit and jogged along the sideline. The roar of the crowd felt like wind pushing at my back.
"Number twenty-two replacing Marcelinho," the announcer's voice boomed.
I crossed myself quickly before stepping on.
My first touch was a simple square pass to Edmílson. Clean. Then a small dribble through two markers to relieve pressure. You don't think; you just play.
The tempo of the game changed a little after that. I wasn't creating anything spectacular, but I kept the ball moving, connecting triangles, keeping tempo. A few Flamengo fans jeered when I turned away from a tackle near the touchline, and one threw a rolled-up paper cup that missed me by a meter. I ignored it and played on.
At seventy minutes, the moment came.
Serginho won a free kick on the left. Ceni trotted forward, surveyed the field, and instead of shooting, chipped a short ball toward Dodô. Dodô flicked it back, first-time volley, top corner. 1–0.
We didn't explode, we just gathered, patted shoulders, kept composure. There was still time left.
The final fifteen minutes were heavy legs and tactical discipline. Flamengo threw everything forward, but our back line held firm. I stayed tucked inside, pressing passing lanes, chasing when Carpegiani shouted "vai!" (go!).
When the final whistle blew, I realized my shirt was stuck to my skin with sweat and rain. We'd done it again. Another win, this one away.
Inside the locker room, Rogério clapped once, loud enough to get everyone's attention.
"That's how you fight in Maracanã," he said. "Everyone compact, everyone patient."
Carpegiani nodded beside him. "No glamour, just work. That's football. Well done."
He caught my eye for a second. "Good energy off the bench, Ricardo. You calmed the middle when we needed it."
I managed a small smile. "Obrigado, coach."
Edu punched my arm lightly. "Maracanã win, garoto. Not bad for a Wednesday."
I grinned. "Not bad at all."
On the flight home, most of the team slept. I couldn't. The city lights disappeared beneath us, and I kept replaying small moments,the way the ball felt when I first touched it, the size of the stadium, the calm that followed the final whistle.
Back in São Paulo close to midnight, Papai's car was waiting outside the airport. He didn't say much, just patted my knee as we drove.
"Maracanã, huh?" (Maracanã, huh?)
And the conversation flowed.
_________________________________________
The next morning, the papers carried simple headlines:
"São Paulo segura o Flamengo no Maracanã."
São Paulo hold firm against Flamengo at Maracanã.
"Ceni shines again"
On Rádio Bandeirantes, the commentator said about me,
"It's strange to see such composure from someone so young. He doesn't force the play; he reads it."
At the training ground, Carpegiani addressed us before stretching. "We'll rotate again for the next one. Same focus. One win at a time."
I nodded quietly to myself. Two matches, two clean sheets. More minutes coming, but still much to prove.
Botafogo vs São Paulo (February 7, 1999, Away)
Coach Carpegiani had been quiet through most of the trip. He wasn't one for long speeches on matchdays. The talk had happened the night before, after dinner at the training ground back in São Paulo.
He'd gathered us by the whiteboard, calm as always, running through the shape and our defensive pressing lines. When he reached my name on the list, he paused.
"You'll start from the bench this time," he said simply.
I nodded. No surprise there. We'd had three matches in a week, and the travel was starting to show in everyone's legs.
"I'll need you fresh if the rhythm breaks. You'll see the pitch, probably second half. Rest well."
That was it. No drama, no explanation beyond what was needed. That was how he worked. And it made sense , at sixteen, I was still learning how to keep my energy over long weeks like this.
Now, standing at the tunnel of the stadium, the crowd already roaring above, I felt that familiar mix of impatience and control. We'd faced Botafogo before in youth matches; their fans were loud even then, but here it was different , this was Rio. Every chant felt sharper, every boo more personal.
The team talk was brief.
"Keep your lines tight. They play with two up front, both mobile. Don't give them space behind,"
Carpegiani said, pacing once across the room. "And remember, transitions. We've worked on it all week."
He clapped once, hard. "Let's go."
From the bench, I watched the first few minutes closely. The pitch looked heavy, uneven in patches.
Serginho was shouting instructions from left-back,
Edmílson patrolling in front of the defence, trying to calm things down whenever Botafogo pressed.
Dodo and França were both a step slow today. You could see it in their touches, sharp ideas, dull execution.
By the twentieth minute, the crowd was restless. Botafogo pushed high, their number ten finding pockets just behind Edmílson. We couldn't get a rhythm going. The sun didn't help either, it felt like it was sitting on our shoulders.
Carpegiani stood near the edge of the technical area, hands on hips, giving quick cues: "Pressão! Sobe! Fecha o meio!" ("Pressure! Step up! Close the middle!")
At halftime, we were down 1–0. The dressing room was quiet except for the sound of cleats tapping against the tile. No shouting, no anger, just the steady breathing of a tired team.
"Nothing's lost," Carpegiani said. "You know what to do. You've been through worse."
He glanced at the substitutes' bench, and his eyes stopped on me. "Warm up in fifteen. We'll need legs."
I nodded, the kind of nod that hides a spark of adrenaline.
By the time the hour mark came, we had equalised, França with a neat turn and finish from Marcelinho's pass. The bench erupted, but Carpegiani stayed still, only muttering, "Good. Now, breathe."
"Ricardo, com o número vinte e dois, entra no lugar do Marcelinho." ("Ricardo, number twenty-two, in for Marcelinho.")
I peeled off my jacket and jogged to the sideline. My heart was steady, my breathing even.
The assistant clapped my back. "Let's move it, garoto."
The ref waved me on.
The noise hit me first , a wall of mixed cheers and whistles. São Paulo's travelling supporters were packed in one corner, red, white, and black flags waving. I didn't look up, but I could hear their chants.
My first touch was a simple layoff to Edmílson, nothing special, but clean. I always liked starting that way. A soft pass to find my feet. Then came the switch , a wide ball to Serginho on the overlap.
For ten minutes, I just kept it moving. Receive, turn, release. Build tempo. That was the job.
Then came the chance.
It started from Ceni, who'd collected a corner and wasted no time throwing it out to Beletti. One touch, then a diagonal pass to me near halfway. I took it on the bounce, cut inside my marker, and carried it twenty meters before slipping a through ball toward França. The keeper rushed out, the ball spilled, came back to me, open net, right side.
I hit it clean. Too clean.
The ball smacked the far post and spun out.
I froze for a split second, then ran back, cursing myself for missing it. França gave me a thumbs up. "Boa, garoto! Quase!" ("Good one, kid! Almost!")
Carpegiani just raised a hand from the touchline, stay calm.
We kept pushing, but Botafogo caught us on a counter in the 85th. Their striker split the centre-backs, finished low past Ceni. 2–1.
The final whistle came not long after.
The locker room was quiet again, heavier this time. Shirts clung to skin, the smell of sweat and disappointment mixing with liniment oil.
Carpegiani stood near the door, still calm. "It's a long tournament," he said. "You'll have days like this. What matters is how you respond."
He looked at me briefly. "Good shift, Ricardo. Keep your head up."
I nodded, biting back the frustration. It wasn't about the miss itself, it was the feel of it, the small reminder of how narrow the line was between almost and enough.
On the bus back to the airport, the others dozed off one by one. The city lights blurred through the window, and I kept replaying that moment in my head , the curve of the post, the sound of the ball spinning out.
Not defeat. Just a lesson, loud and clear.
_________________________________________
The next morning, training was light. Recovery jogs, ice baths, then short passing drills. Nobody spoke much, just the quiet rhythm of boots against grass.
França came up beside me as we stretched. "You hit that shot well," he said, grinning. "Next time it goes in.".
I laughed. "Next time."
He tapped my shoulder. "You've got time, garoto. Don't rush the game."
Carpegiani called us together afterward. "We regroup now," he said. "No one dwells on Rio."
That was all it took. The mood began to shift.
By afternoon, when I finally got home, Papai was watching highlights on TV. The commentators were replaying the post I hit, the slow-motion frame freezing right as it bounced out.
"Almost, huh?" he said, looking over with a grin.
I smiled. "Almost."
Mamãe handed me a plate of lunch, shaking her head. "You'll get it next time."
I nodded. "Yeah. Next time."
And deep down, I knew I would.
São Paulo vs Corinthians (February 10, 1999, Home)
By Wednesday morning, Morumbi was already a sea of motion. Vendors setting up, kids waving flags, radio crews shouting over one another. It felt alive in a way only derby days could.
The day before the match, he called me into his office again. He was sitting behind a pile of reports, the team sheet half-scribbled beside him.
"You start tomorrow," he said, eyes on the paper. "Right side of the diamond again. You know the routine."
I nodded, waiting for more.
He finally looked up. "But listen , it's Corinthians. They'll try to rattle you. Stay in the game, not in the noise. And remember what we talked about , manage your legs. You're not invincible."
"Yes, coach."
"Good. Go rest."
Simple as that.
At dinner that night, Mamãe tried to play it cool, but her smile gave her away. "So," she said, stirring the rice, "we'll need to leave early tomorrow, right?"
Papai grinned. "We have the lounge access. We'll be there early"
Even Digão had the look , half-excited, half mischief.
Matchday.
By the time I arrived at the stadium, the noise was already seeping through the concrete walls. It felt like electricity.
Ceni was walking around, fixing gloves, calm as always. Serginho was lacing up beside me, humming a pagode tune under his breath. "Big day, garoto," he said. "Keep it simple. That's how you hurt them."
França, across the room, leaned back in his seat. "Simple and fast. That's the trick."
"Got it," I said, tying the last knot on my boots.
When we stepped out for warm-up, the roar hit me like a physical wave. Forty thousand maybe, maybe more. Morumbi was full, a wall of red, white, and black swaying against patches of blue and white in the visiting end.
The air was humid but sharp. You could feel the heat radiating from the stands, a living thing.
Kickoff came with that deep rumble only derbies have. Corinthians pressed high early, their midfield trying to bully space out of us.
The first ten minutes were rough, tackles flying, whistles blowing, shouts everywhere.
Edmílson dropped deep to help the defenders play out. I moved wide to stretch them, looking for the one-two with Marcelinho Paraíba. It clicked once, twice , but we couldn't break through.
Then, in the 31st minute, they hit us. A loose ball near halfway, their winger darted between Serginho and our centre-back. Low cross, and their striker bundled it in. 1–0.
The stadium groaned.
We gathered back at the circle, hands on hips.
Nobody panicked, but the air got heavy.
Marcelinho clapped his hands. "Let's go. We keep playing."
Carpegiani was shouting from the sideline, short and precise: "Stay compact! Use the lanes!"
I found space again in the 40th, taking a diagonal pass from Edmílson. One touch, turn, quick burst down the right. Their left-back came late, clipped my ankle, but I stayed up and swung in a cross. França nearly got there, sliding inches from the ball.
The crowd roared approval. "Boa, Kaká!"
The half ended still 1–0.
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with sweat and tension. Carpegiani stood in the middle, clipboard in hand.
"We're fine," he said. "They're tiring. Look at their fullbacks , heavy legs. Ricardo, stay wide. Don't drift too early. You'll get your chance."
He turned to Marcelinho. "Keep feeding him diagonals. One will stick."
When we went back out, something in the team felt different. The passes were cleaner, the movement sharper. Corinthians looked cautious now, stepping back a yard.
Then it happened.
Fifty-eighth minute. I took a ball near the right edge of the box, just where the grass looked a little worn. I played it to Marcelinho, who instantly flicked it back.
I didn't think, just hit it first time , low, curving, skipping past two defenders.
It kissed the far post and went in.
The sound didn't come in waves; it came all at once, a wall of noise.
My teammates swarmed me, Serginho first, arms around my shoulders, then Edmílson shouting something I couldn't even hear. I just remember looking up at the stands, seeing the flags, and feeling my chest tighten. I really needed to find a celebration routine. I cannot keep freezing up and do nothing. I look like a clown.
1–1.
We pushed again after that, but the game levelled out. Corinthians tightened their lines, started wasting time near the corners. Carpegiani made a few changes late on , Warley for me, Eduardo for Marcelinho , to stabilise things.
By the 90th, both sides were running on fumes.
When the final whistle came, it felt almost peaceful. Not the relief of survival, but the calm after release.
As we walked off, Carpegiani caught my arm.
"Good finish," he said. "You read it right. Now we just need you to last longer next time. Keep the legs."
"Yes, coach."
He smiled faintly. "You're learning fast."
In the tunnel, I could still hear the crowd singing. Papai and Mamãe would be somewhere in there, waving the flags, shouting my name even if I couldn't hear them.
In the dressing room, the mood was mixed , not disappointment, but something quieter. We hadn't won, but we hadn't lost either.
França was wiping sweat from his forehead.
"You hit that one perfect, garoto," he said. "Post loves you now."
I laughed. "About time it did!"
The reporters waited outside, but Carpegiani blocked their path. "Ricardo's still a kid," he told them firmly. "He did well, but the whole team worked for that draw. It's about the group."
Later that night, Papai replayed the highlight twice on TV. Digão pretended to critique my run.
"You see, if you'd opened your body more…"
"Shut up," I said, throwing a pillow at him.
Mamãe smiled softly from the couch. "It was beautiful, filho. You looked happy."
"I was," I said simply.
And I was. Not just for the goal, but for the quiet nod from the coach, the trust of my teammates, and the feeling that I belonged , truly belonged, in that moment, under the Morumbi lights.
I was rested for the copa do Brasil match. We won 4-0. I enjoyed a week long break and rest. I needed that. My body is not yet ready for this load. I was burning myself out. Next game is on the 21st. I will go with fresh legs.
Vasco da Gama vs São Paulo (Semifinal, First Leg, February 21, 1999 )
We arrived in Rio two days before the match. São Januário isn't like Morumbi. It's tighter, steeper, noisier in a more dangerous way. You can hear individual voices in the crowd, people shouting names, insults, jokes, everything at once.
By then, the routine was familiar: light jogs, stretching, tactical briefings in the hotel conference room. Carpegiani's tone that week was clipped, almost surgical.
"They press early, but they lose shape fast," he told us, pointer tapping on the magnetic board.
"Ricardo, you'll start again. Right side, but I want you cutting inside when França drifts. Space opens there."
He glanced up at me. "You good?"
"Yes, coach."
"Good. You've done enough now to stop being surprised by starts, right?"
I smiled. "Trying to, at least."
He grinned faintly. "Then do your job. That's all I ask."
At dinner, I sat with França, Edmílson, and Marcelinho Paraíba. The talk drifted between football and nothing, a movie someone had seen, a restaurant someone recommended.
But when the plates were cleared and the table was quiet, França looked across at me.
"Don't overthink tomorrow. If you see me moving, just play what you see. Don't wait for perfection."
"I'll find you," I said.
He laughed. "I like that confidence."
The next afternoon, matchday, everything felt louder. The locker room at São Januário was cramped, chipped tiles, low ceiling, the faint smell of damp wood. You could hear Vasco's fans stomping on the stands above, their drums like thunder.
Ceni moved around the room, calm, almost unbothered. He tied his gloves, glanced at the rest of us, and said, "Don't let them dictate tempo. If you panic, they'll feed on it. Control what you can."
That was Ceni, no big speeches, just quiet authority.
When we walked out, the noise hit like a wave. The pitch looked small from the touchline, the kind of place where every mistake echoes.
Kickoff.
Vasco started strong, their wingers wide, trying to isolate our fullbacks. Ten minutes in, a deep cross slipped past our defence, their striker rising higher than everyone. Ceni got fingertips to it, pushed it onto the bar, and Edmílson cleared. We all exhaled at once.
Carpegiani shouted, "Push higher! Don't hide!"
We responded. I dropped deeper to link play, passing into space for Marcelinho to spin and pull defenders. In the 18th minute, it worked.
Marcelinho carried it down the middle, slipped it to me on the right. One glance, França's run split their centre-backs. I curved a pass just behind their line, weight perfect, and França buried it low past the keeper.
1–0.
We didn't celebrate wildly. Just high-fives, a few claps, but the look between us said everything.
"Nice ball," França murmured as we jogged back.
The crowd turned on us then. Whistles, boos, the lot.
But Vasco were too experienced to fold. Just before halftime, a miscue from our left side let them equalise , a sharp volley from the edge of the box.
1–1 at the break.
Inside, the air was tense. Shirts stuck to skin, sweat dripping onto the floor tiles. Carpegiani stood near the door, clipboard in hand.
"Good tempo," he said. "But stop giving them time between the lines. Ricardo , when you receive, trust your body. They're lunging at you. Use it. Draw them in."
He turned to the group. "They think we'll sit back. Let's prove them wrong."
We came out sharper, pressing higher. Beletti overlapped constantly now, giving me space to drift inside. Ten minutes in, he earned a corner.
Edmilson went over to take it. I was there at the edge, for a short corner. The crowd jeered, but I blocked it out. Deep breath. One hand signal to Ceni, who had jogged halfway up the pitch , that was his trademark.
I whipped it toward the near post, lower than planned. Dodo flicked it , França again, volley, goal.
2–1.
The celebration this time was louder. Our bench was up, even Carpegiani with a fist pump.
Vasco started throwing men forward. You could feel the tension grow. Tackles heavier, shouts louder. In the 70th, they broke through. A long ball to the right, low cross, and somehow it slipped through Ceni's legs.
2–2.
For a few seconds, silence. Then the stadium exploded.
We didn't panic, though. We regrouped. I caught Carpegiani's gesture from the sideline , palm down, settle.
Three minutes later, I got the ball just inside our half. França peeled wide, dragging a defender.
I drove forward, slipped it diagonally to Marcelinho, who instantly returned it. One touch, then a through ball straight between their defenders.
França timed it perfectly. One-on-one. Goal.
3–2.
He turned and pointed at me, laughing. "See? I told you, don't wait for perfection!"
We held on after that. Vasco pushed, but we stayed compact. Every clearance felt like it weighed a ton. When the whistle blew, the bench poured onto the field.
Carpegiani met me near the halfway line.
"That," he said, clapping once, "was a complete performance. Smart. Composed. No fear."
"Thank you, coach."
"Enjoy it tonight. Tomorrow, recovery."
As we walked off, I could hear the commentators through the stadium PA summarising the match ,
"Two assists from the young Ricardo Kaká, São Paulo take the advantage to Morumbi."
I caught myself smiling.
In the tunnel, França threw his arm over my shoulders. "That's what we call chemistry, garoto."
"Guess we make a good team," I said.
"Guess we do."
The plane ride home was quieter than usual , tired laughter, quiet satisfaction. I looked out the window as the lights of Rio faded behind us. The reflection on the glass showed a face still flushed from the game, still learning, still young , but starting to look like it belonged out there.
That night, when I finally got home, Mamãe was still awake. "You played well," she said simply, setting down a cup of tea.
"Thanks Mamãe," I said, easing onto the couch.
"Everytime you're on the pitch, you make us so proud, baby" she was getting emotional.
"And I would do it over and over again mamãe. I know what would make you the most proud, I'll give it to you."
São Paulo vs Vasco da Gama (Semifinal, Second Leg, February 24, 1999)
You could feel the pulse of the city in every shout, every drumbeat. São Paulo already had a one-goal cushion from Rio, but nobody in this stadium was here for math. They wanted a statement.
Carpegiani's voice cut through the chatter in the locker room. "Same shape. Same hunger. Don't play to protect something, play to win it again."
I was already in my kit, pulling up my socks, hands slightly shaking. Not nerves exactly,just that buzz, that tight coil inside before kickoff.
He looked around the room, eyes lingering on each player. "Ricardo, you start again. Same role, same freedom to move between lines. If you feel space, take it."
I nodded. "Got it, coach."
"Good. You've earned the trust; now earn the result."
França stretched his legs out next to me.
"They'll chase hard early. Don't get caught helping too deep. You'll need that energy later."
"I know," I said, checking the laces on my boots again.
When we walked out, the noise hit like thunder. Red and white flags waved in the stands, the banners. Somewhere in the corner, I spotted Mamãe and Papai standing together. Digão on his tiptoes beside them.
Warm-ups blurred into kickoff. The whistle blew, and the game began.
Vasco pressed like madmen in the first ten minutes. They'd come to break rhythm,shoulder checks, late tackles, shouting in your ear. One of their midfielders tried to rattle me early, clipping my heels after a pass. I just glanced at him, said nothing, and kept moving.
Then came the 14th minute.
We'd worked the ball from the back, patient touches through Edmílson and Marcelinho. I drifted inward, caught the ball on the half-turn, and saw space open. França dropped off to pull a defender. I slipped past the first challenge, took a second touch, and hit it before I could think.
Low, curling, just outside the keeper's reach.
1–0.
For a second, the sound vanished,the kind of silence only adrenaline makes,then it hit, a roar so loud it shook my ribs.
I barely remember the celebration. França was shouting in my ear, someone grabbed me from behind, and Ceni was clapping from his goal line. Carpegiani just nodded once, like he'd expected it.
The next twenty minutes felt different. Vasco pushed higher, leaving gaps everywhere. We punished them. Serginho and Beletti kept overlapping, stretching their lines. Marcelinho found me twice in the half-space, both times pulling defenders out.
In the 37th minute, it happened again.
We broke on the counter,Edmílson to Marcelinho, quick switch to me. França sprinted diagonally between their centre-backs. I feinted left, took it right, then chipped a delicate pass over the last defender. I found Marcelinho perfectly. He squared it off to Franca, who scored calmly.
2–0.
Morumbi went wild. Drums, chants, scarves waving in waves. França ran straight to me.
"That's you again, garoto! You see everything!"
I laughed, chest still burning. "You just make it look easy."
Halftime came at last. Inside, sweat stung my eyes, but the air in the locker room was light. Carpegiani walked in last, let the noise settle.
"Perfect half," he said. "Now finish it. Don't let the score make you lazy. Keep pressing, keep passing. They'll come desperate. That's when we hit them."
He turned to me. "How's your gas?"
"I'm good," I said honestly. My lungs were burning, but my legs still wanted more.
"Then give me twenty more like that, and we'll see."
Back out again. The crowd still buzzing.
Vasco changed their shape, threw on a fresh striker, started swinging crosses early. Ceni handled two, punched one away. At the other end, we nearly got a third when Serginho burst down the flank and fired across goal, missing by inches.
In the 61st minute, they finally pulled one back. A deflected shot wrong-footed Ceni.
2–1.
You could feel the tension ripple through the stands. One goal and everything could change.
Carpegiani gestured wildly from the sideline. "Patience! Patience!"
We slowed it down, stretched them again. Then in the 72nd, the chance came.
Beletti threw in a quick pass down the right. I took it in stride, spun away from the defender with a little flick, and found myself running at the box. França peeled left. I pretended to square it to him and instead cut inside, one touch, then another. The defender lunged. I dragged the ball past him and hit it hard, high, near post.
Goal.
3–1.
For a heartbeat, I stopped, but then I took off towards the corner flag and slid down. Then I saw Ceni sprinting from his goal, arms raised. My teammates swarmed me near the corner flag.
It wasn't a fluke. It was instinct, all those hours of repetition, the play carved into muscle.
Carpegiani smiled from the touchline but didn't cheer. He just turned to his staff and muttered something. I knew what was coming.
I was taken off. Protect the lead. Protect my legs.
The crowd rose up, everyone cheering me on. I clapped them and took my sweet time enjoying this.
After that, the game slowed. We managed it well, moving the ball around, drawing fouls, staying compact. Every pass from Edmílson or Serginho felt measured, deliberate.
When the referee finally blew the whistle, it sounded almost soft under the roar of Morumbi.
We'd done it. 3–1 on the night, 6–3 on aggregate. São Paulo were through to the final.
The stands were still shaking as we walked off. I caught sight of my family again, Mamãe wiping her eyes, Papai clapping slowly, Digão shouting something I couldn't hear.
Inside the locker room, the music came on almost instantly. Someone had dragged a speaker from the physio room. França and Marcelinho were already singing, arm in arm.
Ceni tossed his gloves into his bag and said, "Two for the kid, huh? Guess I'll be fielding more free-kick requests now."
I grinned, still breathing hard. "Only if you teach me how to score them first."
"If you beat me in shooting drills 10 times in a row, I will" he said, smirking.
When Carpegiani walked in, the noise dropped just enough for him to speak.
"That," he said, pointing at the group, "is what a team looks like. Everyone worked, everyone pressed, and when the moment came, you took it."
He looked at me for a second, then nodded once. "Good job, Ricardo. You grew today."
"Thank you, coach."
"Don't thank me. Thank the hours you put in."
Someone turned the music up again.
Later, outside the stadium, the reporters were already gathering near the bus, flashbulbs popping in the night. They called out questions, mostly for Carpegiani and Ceni. I slipped through the group quietly, head down, still soaking in the noise.
A few fans reached over the barriers. "Boa, Kaká!" (Good one, Kaká!) "Dois gols, moleque!" (Two goals, kid!)
I smiled and waved, unsure what else to do.
On the bus ride home, everyone was tired, quiet in that satisfied way after a job done right.
"Better get used to it, garoto," he said. "They'll all be watching you closely now."
I didn't answer. Just kept looking out the window as the city blurred by, a smile tugging at my lips.
_________________________________________
The next morning, São Paulo woke up buzzing. Every corner of the city seemed to hum with the same rhythm , "Kaká, o garoto do Morumbi."
The newspapers sold out faster than usual at the kiosks. Papai had gone out early and returned home with three different ones tucked under his arm, still warm from the press. He dropped them on the kitchen table where Mamãe was making coffee, the headlines big and bold.
O ESTADO DE SÃO PAULO
KAKÁ LIGHTS UP MORUMBI, 16-YEAR-OLD MIDFIELDER SENDS SÃO PAULO TO THE FINAL.
"With two goals and a role in the third, in the decisive leg against Vasco da Gama, Ricardo 'Kaká' proved that São Paulo's faith in youth is paying off. Calm, elegant, and intelligent on the ball, he played with the composure of someone twice his age."
Mamãe read it aloud, her voice proud but steady. "They called him elegant," she said, smiling as she passed the paper to Papai.
FOLHA DE SÃO PAULO
THE PROMISE DELIVERS: KAKÁ GROWS INTO HIS ROLE UNDER CARPEGIANI.
"It's not just talent, it's temperament. Kaká doesn't celebrate like a teenager who's just scored in front of thousands; he reacts like a professional who's been here before. São Paulo's midfield diamond looked sharper with him linking play, and his energy changed the pace of the match."
"Temperament," Papai repeated quietly.
"That's what I told him. Keep your head, and the rest will follow."
From the living room, Digão had already tuned the radio to Rádio Globo Esportes. The commentators were in full swing, dissecting the match as if it had just ended.
"Let's talk about the kid, Kaká. Sixteen years old, folks! And he's not just running around , he's deciding games. That second goal last night, the composure he showed, the way he shaped his body before striking? That's pure class."
"Absolutely. You can tell he's been learning from the veterans , you see glimpses of Marcelinho's vision, França's timing. But the kid has his own style, light on his feet, sees the play before it happens. São Paulo might just have found their next star."
"Star," Digão said, grinning wide. "They said star, Mamãe!"
She shook her head, though she couldn't hide her pride. "They say many things on the radio, meu amor. It's what you do next that matters."
Papai adjusted his glasses, flipping to Gazeta Esportiva. The tone there was more measured, the kind of old-school football writing that mixed praise with perspective.
"Kaká's rise has been steady, not sudden. After his ten appearances last season, it was clear the foundation was there. Carpegiani's decision to rotate him carefully through the Torneio Rio–São Paulo has paid dividends,8 games, 3 goals, 5 assists, and a consistency rare for someone his age."
"He doesn't dominate games yet, but he influences them. That's the sign of real potential."
"That's fair," Papai said. "Influence over dominance. He's still sixteen."
The radio switched to an interview clip with Carpegiani recorded after the match.
"Ricardo is progressing as we hoped. We're not rushing him; he's earning his time. The key is keeping him balanced. He's part of a system, and the system comes first. But of course, we're very happy with how he's handled himself."
Mamãe smiled faintly. "The coach sounds like a teacher proud of his student."
"Or a general proud of a young soldier," Papai said.
Another journalist chimed in, laughing. "If São Paulo win the final, they'll owe a big thanks to the kid. He's got ice in his veins, and I'll say it again, his second goal yesterday was pure poetry. You don't teach that."
By late morning, TV Globo was replaying the highlights. The commentators' voices overlapped with the cheers from the crowd. "Kaká receives, one touch past the defender, strikes, GOAL! The boy from Morumbi makes it three!"
On Jornal Nacional that evening, the segment on São Paulo's semifinal win ran second only to politics. The camera caught the moment of Kaká's second goal in slow motion, the turn, the strike, the grin breaking across his face before teammates swarmed him.
"The boy from São Paulo continues to impress," the anchor said. "Kaká, just sixteen, was the difference-maker in São Paulo's 3–1 victory. Fans are already calling him the new jewel of the club's academy."
At night, the radio's sports recap gathered calls from fans:
"This kid plays like he's been in the first team for years!" one caller said, voice full of excitement. "You see how he moves between the lines? Reminds me of the old Gerson days."
Another laughed, "He's not Gerson yet, calma! But he's got vision. He'll be something if they protect him."
The hosts agreed. "That's the key, São Paulo can't overload him. Let him grow naturally. He's already proving he belongs."
Meanwhile, over at Morumbi, the club's press office was buzzing too. Reporters kept calling for quotes, asking for interviews. The PR manager politely deflected every question.
"Coach's decision," she said again and again.
Inside the training complex, the players ribbed each other as usual. França had brought a clipping from one of the papers. He slapped it down on Kaká's locker, the headline circled in red marker: "The Teen Who Changed the Game."
"Look, superstar," França said, grinning. "Next thing you know, they'll want your autograph before training."
Kaká shook his head, laughing. "I'd rather they let me train in peace."
Edmílson leaned over. "You'd better keep this paper," he said. "First one to print your name that big , you'll want it someday."
In one of the smaller publications, Diário de São Paulo, a columnist wrote something.
"There are many players who can dribble, many who can pass. But very few who make the game look clean. Kaká's football has no noise , just pure class."
That line ended up clipped and tucked into a drawer.
By the end of the week, São Paulo's training ground had an unusual number of photographers waiting at the gate. Teenagers in replica jerseys leaned over the fence shouting, "Kaká! Kaká!"
For the first time, his name had become a chant, not just a word on paper.
The radio hosts closed their Friday show with a simple line:
"In a city that's seen so many rise and fall, one thing is certain, São Paulo has found a new heartbeat. His name is Kaká."
Inside the family's living room, as the radio faded into static, Papai looked over the rim of his coffee mug and smiled.
"Now," he said, "he just needs to keep both feet on the ground."
Mamãe nodded softly. "He will," she said. "He always does."
And somewhere in the city, fans were still replaying that second goal, the moment the kid from Morumbi stopped being just a promise and became something real.
_________________________________________
But the atmosphere in Barra Funda was strangely quiet. The air was heavy, the usual hum of laughter missing. Training wasn't scheduled until the afternoon, most players were still trickling in for recovery sessions, sandals scraping tile, conversations low and lazy.
The walls of the locker room still carried the smell of last night's adrenaline: sweat, tape glue, and liniment oil. Someone had left the newspaper folded on the bench, the headline in thick black letters.
"KAKÁ'S NIGHT, THE BOY WHO SENT SÃO PAULO TO THE FINAL."
Axel stood in front of it for a moment, towel over his shoulder, jaw tightening slightly. Thirty years old, twelve seasons as a pro, and he couldn't remember the last time a paper printed his name that big , if at all.
He dropped onto the bench and flipped the page.
Same story. Two photos of Kaká: one mid-celebration, another walking off the pitch with Carpegiani's hand on his shoulder.
Baiano walked in next, still half-asleep, hair messy, flip-flops dragging. "You see the cover?"
Axel grunted. "Hard to miss it."
Baiano took a look, whistled softly. "They love the kid, huh?"
"Of course they do," Axel muttered. "Fresh face. Sixteen, goals, good family, all clean-cut. Makes for good headlines."
He tossed the paper onto the floor.
Fabiano came in behind them, stretching his arms. "Coach said training's at four, yeah?"
"Yeah," Baiano said, pouring water from a bottle over his head.
Fabiano noticed the paper on the ground, picked it up, scanned it, and smirked. "Two pages just for him. Didn't know they'd renamed the club Kaká FC."
That got a short laugh out of Baiano.
"You'll get your page when you score twice in a semi," he said
Fabiano shrugged. "Wouldn't get the chance, would I? Kid's playing my minutes."
There it was , said casually, but the edge in it hung for a second.
Axel looked up. "You had your chance last month."
"I did," Fabiano replied. "Scored, too. But the next week he starts, and suddenly it's all about 'the new rhythm of São Paulo.' You think I don't read?"
Baiano chuckled. "You read too much."
Across the room, the reserve keeper Sergio Mota was wrapping tape around his wrist. "It's not just the press, though. The board loves it. He's marketable. Sponsors like a kid who prays and smiles."
Axel glanced at him. "You sound bitter."
Sergio gave a small shrug. "Not bitter. Realistic. We grind for years, play through half-empty stadiums, and one teenager scores twice, and suddenly they call him the next Raí."
Baiano rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. "He's good, though."
"Yeah," Axel said, quieter now. "He is."
That silence stretched for a moment , the kind that fills a room when truth cuts through noise.
Fabiano leaned back against the wall. "I'm not saying he's not good. He's got that calm. But look around. Half of us are losing minutes. You think that doesn't matter?"
Sergio grinned. "You could always take him out in training."
"Not funny," Axel said, shaking his head and giving Sergio a dirty look.
"We're not evil. And the kid is going to be a star. Calm, collected, composed, grounded. No distractions. Remember when we were 17? We were chasing skirts. The kid spends the free time helping his friends in the youth team, or staying back to practice free kicks with Ceni.
Do you know what he did with his paychecks? He took his family to France to watch the world cup. What did you do with your first paychecks? Partying, getting drunk, throwing it on some gold diggers, getting laid, buying watches we never wear. I am envious of the kid. I am not hiding that.
His maturity levels are off the charts. It just sucks that he is here giving it all when we are also here. I can't compete with that."
Baiano raised an eyebrow. He didn't speak right away. He rubbed the side of his knee, old scar tissue under his fingers. "I think the coach is building a project. And he found his first chair. And the rest of us are just background music."
By late morning, the gym began to fill up.
Some of the younger players were on stationary bikes, laughing, replaying radio clips of last night's commentary. The veterans stayed in the corner, quietly stretching.
França and Edmílson walked through the doors mid-conversation. França caught sight of the paper still lying open and nudged Axel with a grin.
"You read the article?"
Axel forced a small smile. "Hard not to."
"They finally wrote something good about us," França said, chuckling. "Took them long enough."
"About him, you mean."
França shrugged. "Same thing. We win, they write. Let the kid have his pages, makes the club look good."
"Easy for you to say," Fabiano said. "You're still playing."
França didn't rise to it. "We all play our part."
He tossed his gym bag down and headed for the bikes. The silence that followed wasn't angry, just thick, full of what nobody wanted to say out loud.
Baiano broke it with a sigh. "You think he even notices?"
"Who?"
"The kid. The looks, the talk."
Sergio chuckled. "You kidding? He's too polite. Probably thanks you for taking his seat."
"He does. I've seen him take notice. But, I think he thinks of us like ants. We aren't a threat to him and he is showing it on the field, with ice in his veins and those damn skills"
They all went quiet again when they heard footsteps down the hall, firm, measured.
Carpegiani's voice carried before he appeared. "Morning, gentlemen."
They straightened slightly.
He stepped inside, clipboard in hand, not looking at them yet. "Medical team wants full recovery sessions done before lunch. No shortcuts. You all played a part yesterday, even the ones who didn't step on the pitch."
Axel nodded. "Yes, coach."
Carpegiani set the clipboard down on the counter, flipping through pages. He wasn't stupid; he could read a room. The papers were still scattered on the bench, one headline half-folded but clear enough.
He looked at it for a moment, then spoke without turning around.
"I know what's in there. I read it too. They write what they want. They sell stories, not truth."
Nobody moved.
"But let me be clear," he continued, voice even but sharp now. "If anyone here thinks this team is about one player, they're free to find another club. The badge on your chest matters more than any headline. We play as a team. We train as a team. We bond as a team. Understood?"
"Yes, coach," they muttered together.
He finally turned, meeting each gaze one by one. "Good. Because the final will be harder than anything you've played this year. And I need focus, not whispers."
He picked up the paper, folded it cleanly, and dropped it into the trash bin.
"Training at four," he said, and walked out.
The room stayed quiet for a long while after he left.
Axel stood, stretched his legs, and exhaled slowly. "Well," he said, forcing a chuckle, "guess that's that."
Baiano laughed under his breath. "You gonna argue with him?"
"Not me," Axel said. "But the press will keep writing, and the board will keep smiling. Let's just hope the kid keeps earning it."
Fabiano looked down at the crumpled paper in the bin. "That's the thing. He actually will."
Sergio smirked. "And we'll still be the ones doing recovery drills."
That drew the first real laugh of the morning.
The tension cracked just a little, but it didn't disappear. It rarely does in dressing rooms like that, where careers overlap and the line between teammate and rival blurs with every new headline.
In football, nothing stays yours for long.
Author's Notes:
These are chapters I wrote long before the polls.
This is how I was going to do the time skips.
Not all of them, but some of the tournaments. For bigger timeskips, I wanted to just mention the stats.
Let me know what you think. This is a lengthy chapter. I don't know if this is okay with you, I wanted to see.
I could split these across chapters, or edit it to be less words, this is 10k words. Let me know your preferred chapter sizes.
I received feedback on another story I was writing, to add scene breaks or linebreaks. I am using underscore for the past two chapters. Let me know if you want something else, or if this is okay.
Thanks for the support!