The evening light over São Paulo was fading to gold when we boarded the flight. The air smelled faintly of jet fuel and coffee from the departure lounge. The charter plane was small, just big enough for the squad, staff, and a few club officials. Rows of red and gray seats, faint vibration underfoot.
I'd done this trip before. São Paulo to Rio barely took an hour, but the cabin felt different the day before a final. The chatter was softer. Even the usual jokes sounded forced, as if everyone wanted to act normal and couldn't quite pull it off.
Ceni was a few rows ahead, reading a newspaper folded into perfect squares. França had his eyes closed, music leaking faintly from his headphones. Belletti sat beside me, tapping his fingers against his thigh.
The plane began to taxi. Out the window, I watched the runway lights stretch into lines. The engines rose in pitch and the city dropped away beneath us.
From above, São Paulo looked endless, clusters of orange lights scattered like embers, a web of streets still awake. For a moment, I thought of Mamãe probably closing the kitchen for the night, Papai reading something technical before bed, and Digão leaving the TV on too loud. Then the clouds swallowed everything.
We landed at Santos Dumont just after eight. The humidity hit as soon as we stepped onto the tarmac, heavy, salty, sticking to the skin. Rio smelled different. The club bus was waiting near the gate. Reporters had gathered outside the barriers, shouting names, cameras flashing. Security ushered us through quickly.
"Big crowd tomorrow," Marcelinho said as we climbed aboard. "Half the city's already outside."
França laughed. "Good. Let them scream."
The ride to the hotel didn't take long. The streets glowed under yellow lamps, kids waving flags from corners. The bus moved slow through traffic, and every now and then, a group of Santos fans would jeer when they recognized the club crest.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and watched the city slide past, the long curve of the bay, faint music drifting from somewhere near the water.
At the hotel, the lobby was bright and full of noise. A few journalists managed to slip inside before security moved them back. One of them called out my name, asking something about "pressure on the young star." I kept walking. The team had been warned not to give sound bites before the match.
We checked in and went straight to dinner. Chicken, rice, vegetables. Simple. The dining room buzzed with quiet conversation, plates scraping, cutlery tapping.
Ceni sat across from me. "You're quiet tonight," he said.
"Just thinking," I replied.
He smiled. He understood.
Afterward, some of the guys stayed in the lounge to watch highlights from the other semifinal, Santos' last game. I watched a few minutes. Alessandro looked sharp, quick on the counter. Their midfield pressed higher than most teams we'd faced.
"Mark him early," França muttered beside me.
I nodded. "He drifts inside too easily."
We headed up to the rooms a little before eleven. The hallway was quiet, lined with identical doors and that faint hotel smell of detergent and old carpet.
In our room, Belletti threw his bag onto the chair and stretched. "I'll knock out fast. Wake me if I start snoring too loud."
"You always snore," I said.
"Not true. Only after winning."
He lay back, hands folded behind his head, and was asleep within minutes.
I stayed up, sitting by the window with the curtain half open. From here I could see the lights of Rio flickering over the bay. Somewhere out there, maybe half the city was already talking about the match.
I thought of the Maracanã, I'd been there earlier this month, but finals had a different kind of sound. They started louder, ended louder, and lived somewhere in between the two.
I wasn't nervous, not exactly. More like awake in every sense. My mind kept tracing the shape of the field: my starting position, Belletti behind me, Edmílson holding, Marcelinho between lines. We'd rehearsed it all week, the movements like clockwork. But tomorrow, none of it would feel like a drill.
I pictured the first whistle, the first pass, the first mistake. Finals were like that, they belonged to the brave for ninety minutes and to memory forever.
The room was still. The air conditioner hummed softly. I stretched my legs, ran a hand through my hair, and forced myself to lie down.
I whispered a short prayer, just habit, something simple: thank you for the chance, and for tomorrow, whatever it brings.
Sleep came slow, heavy, and uneven. Every time I drifted off, I saw flashes of green, white lines, the curve of the stadium lights.
Somewhere deep down, I already knew tomorrow would not be kind. But finals never are.
_________________________________________
The heat hit first.
Even before we walked onto the pitch, the air in the tunnel was thick enough to taste. Sweat ran down necks before warm-up even started. The stadium above was shaking with sound, a thousand drums beating in no pattern at all.
I'd played here earlier in the tournament, but this was different. The seats were full, flags rippling, people screaming long before the whistle. Eighty-one thousand.
When we stepped out, the roar swallowed everything.
I told myself to breathe slowly.
The first five minutes were a blur. Santos pressed like they'd been wound tight since dawn. Their forwards charged our defenders, cutting every angle. I barely touched the ball before someone was already at my back.
At nine minutes I turned to receive from Edmílson and a body slammed into me. Shoulder to chest. I stumbled, tried to stay up, but the ball rolled away. The referee waved play on.
The man who hit me, Sandro, their holding midfielder, smiled as he jogged past. "Welcome to hell, Garoto," he said.
I didn't answer.
Next touch, same thing. A shove in the ribs. The crowd howled when I went down. No whistle again.
After that, the game stopped being football for a while. It was survival.
Every time I tried to find space, someone filled it. They doubled on me when I drifted wide, cut the passing lane when I stayed central. Belletti shouted for an outlet but by the time I turned, two black-and-white shirts were already closing.
"Move it quicker!" Marcelinho barked once. I tried. I really did.
But Santos were too sharp, too mean.
Fifteen minutes in, Serginho got hacked down near the left touchline. The referee booked their right-back, and we used the break to catch breath.
França leaned close. "They're man-marking you tight. Drop ten meters, pull him with you."
I nodded.
Next play, I drifted deeper. The defender followed, exactly as we planned. Edmílson clipped one long to the space behind, and França almost got there before the keeper. Almost.
A small success, but it reminded me there was still a game to play.
Then, three minutes later, Sandro caught me late again,studs on ankle this time. I hissed in pain, jumped up, glaring.
He grinned. "Stand up, menino. You fall easy."
The referee called a foul but no card. I dusted off my socks and bit my tongue.
Half an hour gone. Still 0–0.
The sun had dipped, but the heat hadn't. Sweat pooled in my eyes, stinging. My passes grew heavier, my first touch worse.
In the thirty-fifth minute, we lost the ball on the right. Santos broke fast, four passes, and Alessandro fired wide. The sound from their fans was a wave that didn't stop even when the ball missed.
We regrouped, kicked off again.
Carpegiani gestured from the sideline for calm. I nodded back, though I wasn't sure my lungs could obey.
The half finally ended scoreless.
We trudged into the tunnel, jerseys soaked. Nobody talked.
Inside the locker room, the smell of sweat and liniment mixed with frustration.
Carpegiani spoke evenly. "They're roughing us, but that's all they have. Stay compact, move the ball faster. Kaká, don't come too deep. Stay between their lines. The foul will come; make it count."
I drank half a bottle of water in one go. My ankle throbbed.
Second half.
We lasted until the 48th minute before they broke through.
A quick turnover, a diagonal ball, and Alessandro found space behind Serginho. One touch, a low shot under Ceni.
1–0.
The noise was deafening, white smoke curling over the pitch.
Ceni picked the ball out of the net and slammed it forward, angry more at the space we'd given than at the goal itself.
We kicked off again.
Six minutes later, Serginho equalised, our first clean move of the match. Marcelinho carried forward, slipped it down the line, and Serginho smashed one low into the far corner. The silence from the home crowd lasted all of three seconds before their whistles started.
We huddled, clapped each other's backs. The goal settled us for a heartbeat.
But only for that long.
Santos turned vicious.
Their full-backs pushed high, their midfielders started clipping heels. I got hit every time I tried to receive. Small kicks on the calf, nudges in the back. The kind that don't look like fouls unless you've been counting them all game.
In the fifty-ninth minute, I finally found a pocket between their midfield and defense. I spun left, went past one, and drew another foul just outside the box.
I stayed down, breathing hard. The referee pulled the yellow this time.
Marcelinho took the free kick, over the bar.
I jogged back, shaking my head.
"Keep going," he said, clapping my shoulder. "They're scared now."
I wanted to believe him, but my legs felt heavier every step.
Then, in the sixty-third minute, we got punished again.
We'd pushed forward for a corner. The ball cleared, their winger burst down our right side, cut inside.
Three passes later, Eduardo Marques side-footed it in.
2–1.
I didn't even see the net bulge,only the noise that followed.
Carpegiani turned toward the bench and gestured.
Sixty-five minutes.
The board went up with my number.
I jogged toward the sideline, heart pounding like I'd run a hundred laps. My shirt clung to my back, mouth dry as sand.
I tried to look calm, but inside it felt like something sharp twisting.
Some of our supporters near the corner clapped as I came off. A few even shouted my name. I nodded slightly, eyes fixed on the ground.
Warley was already waiting. He patted my arm. "We'll get it back."
I sat at the far end of the bench, pulled the towel over my head. The roar of the game continued in front of me, muffled and distant, like waves heard from underwater.
Every sound carried a different sting,the thud of a tackle, the crowd gasping, the referee's whistle.
At one point, I looked up and caught sight of the field. Santos players swarming, our shirts chasing shadows.
Carpegiani said nothing. He didn't need to. His eyes when I walked off had already said it: rest, learn, come back better.
The match dragged on. We pushed late, threw crosses, and tried to force corners. Nothing fell our way.
When the whistle finally blew, Santos players sprinted toward their fans, arms raised. White confetti poured from the stands.
Our side clapped politely, tired, silent.
I stayed on the bench a second longer than everyone else. Then I stood, untied my boots, held them by the laces. My ankle had swollen slightly, nothing serious, just enough to remind me of every hit I'd taken.
We shook hands mechanically. A few of their players smirked as they passed.
Sandro stopped beside me. "See you in São Paulo, garoto. Bring stronger legs."
I kept walking.
The tunnel was narrow and dark, the kind of place where thoughts echo louder than footsteps.
Inside the locker room, jerseys lay in heaps. Some guys cursed under their breath, others just stared at the floor.
I sat down, poured water over my face, wiped it off with the bottom of my shirt. The cold didn't help.
Carpegiani's voice broke the quiet. "We lost a match, not the title. One goal down, home advantage next. Recovery tonight, training light tomorrow."
Nobody answered.
He looked around once, then left.
Edmílson leaned against the wall, eyes closed. "They kicked us off the park," he said.
"Yeah."
"Next time, we make them chase."
I nodded, though my throat felt tight.
Back on the bus, the night outside was bright with fireworks from Santos fans. The streets glowed white with smoke and celebration.
No one on our bus said a word.
I sat by the window, forehead against the glass, feeling the cold seep into my skin. My reflection looked older than it had that morning.
We reached the hotel after midnight. I went straight to the room, showered, and sat on the bed. My ankle throbbed every time I moved it.
Belletti came in last, dropped his bag. "Tough one," he said quietly.
"Yeah."
"They targeted you from kickoff. Means they're scared."
"Didn't look scared."
He shrugged. "Fear shows different. You'll figure it out. Take advantage of that next time."
He turned off the lamp and was asleep before I could answer.
I sat a while longer, staring at the ceiling.
The sound of the crowd still rang in my ears,jeers, drums, whistles blending into one heavy noise that refused to fade.
I replayed every mistake until sleep finally dragged me under.
We'd lost the first half of the final.
But finals have two halves.
And I wasn't done yet.
_________________________________________
The hotel morning smelled of strong coffee and old carpet cleaner. I woke before the alarm, ankle throbbing, throat dry. From the corridor came the shuffle of suitcases, low voices, the rustle of newspaper pages.
Downstairs, breakfast felt like a classroom after an exam,everyone there, no one talking. A waiter poured juice; the sound was too loud.
On the buffet table lay a pile of newspapers. I shouldn't have looked, but I did.
"Santos Edge Closer: Young Kaká Overwhelmed at Maracanã."
The smaller line beneath read,
"Talent needs time to grow teeth."
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Marcelinho slid into the seat across from me. "Don't read those," he said, snatching the paper and folding it away.
"I already did."
He buttered a roll. "Then forget it. They'll love you again Wednesday if we win."
França joined us, coffee in hand. "Paper men write as if finals are played on typewriters."
That made me smile, barely.
The flight home that afternoon was quieter than the church near our house. Seats half-reclined, curtains drawn, engines humming. I sat by the window; clouds drifted below like slow smoke.
Carpegiani walked down the aisle, stopping once beside me. "Rest," he said. "Tomorrow we look at film. Nothing dramatic."
"Yes, coach."
He gave a short nod and moved on.
I closed my eyes. Every collision from yesterday replayed in flashes,Sandro's shoulder, the crowd's roar, the referee waving play on. The noise of finals lingers even at 30,000 feet.
Back in Barra Funda, Carpegiani told us we had the night off and light training in the morning. Everyone dispersed fast.
I took a taxi home. The ride was silent except for the rain beginning to fall. The driver recognized me halfway through the trip but didn't say anything until we stopped. "Tough game," he said quietly. "Next one, you score."
I thanked him, paid, and walked slowly to the door.
The door opened before I rang.
Mamãe stood there in her apron, hair pinned back, eyes already wet. She didn't speak; she just wrapped me in her arms. For a second I stopped breathing. She smelled of soap and garlic and something warm from the kitchen.
"I saw the match," she said into my shoulder. "They kicked you more than they kicked the ball."
I laughed under my breath. "Part of the game."
She pulled back, cupped my face. "Yes, but not every game. Finals bring out wolves."
Papai appeared from the hallway, still in his work shirt. "Welcome home, campeão. Hungry?"
"Starving."
He smiled. "Then come eat. Stars eat even when they lose."
At the table, Digão was already seated, wearing my old São Paulo jersey. "You almost scored," he said between mouthfuls.
"Almost doesn't count," I replied.
"It does to me" he said, grinning.
Mamãe placed a plate in front of me,rice, beans, grilled chicken, and farofa sprinkled just right. She sat down across from me instead of going back to the stove.
"You looked tired after thirty minutes," she said. "Not slow, just heavy. Their number 8 shadowed you all match. You kept trying to beat him shoulder-to-shoulder. You should have let him chase shadows instead."
I blinked at her.
She raised an eyebrow. "You think I only notice when you score? That man marked you on the wrong side every time. If you'd drifted wider, Belletti would have found the pass."
Papai chuckled. "Listen to your mother. She was captain of her school futsal team once."
"Two years in a row," she corrected, then turned back to me. "You don't need to prove you can take a hit, meu amor. Let the ball do the running. Finals punish stubbornness."
I nodded slowly. "Coach said something similar."
"Good," she said.
We ate quietly after that. The food tasted better than anything in Rio.
When I finished, she took my plate and kissed the top of my head. "Tomorrow you go again. Tonight you rest. Let the loss sit for a while; it will shrink by morning."
The TV was on low volume,sports news replaying highlights. I didn't want to watch, but my eyes found it anyway.
"São Paulo disappointed," one anchor said. "Kaká showed flashes but vanished under pressure."
Another replied, "He's a boy among men. Maybe Carpegiani protects him in the second leg."
I turned it off. The dark screen reflected my face, tired and older than yesterday.
I went to my room after that.
I sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced my shoes. My ankle had swollen slightly again.
Mamãe knocked softly, came in with a small ice pack wrapped in a towel. "I saw you limping."
"It's fine."
"Humor me," she said, placing it on my ankle. "Cold helps even the proud."
She sat beside me. For a moment we just listened to the rain against the window.
"Do you know what I loved about that match?" she asked.
I looked at her. "What?"
"You never hid. Even when they kicked you, you still showed for the ball. That matters more than one good touch."
I didn't know what to say. She smiled. "Tomorrow you'll want to run again. And you will. That's the difference between boys who play and men who last."
She stood, squeezed my shoulder, and left.
Sleep came late. When I woke, the house was already busy,coffee brewing, radio murmuring news, the smell of toast. Papai read the newspaper at the table, glasses sliding down his nose.
He didn't look up when he said, "The critics are loud today. Means they're paying attention."
I poured juice. "What do they say?"
He folded the paper and handed it over.
'Carpegiani faces decision: start the boy again or trust experience.'
I skimmed the lines. Words like promise and fragile jumped out.
_________________________________________
Inside Manager's office
A single fluorescent light buzzed above the whiteboard where Carpegiani had drawn his usual grid of arrows. The assistant coach, Flávio Trevisan, leaned against the wall, coffee cup in hand, watching the lines intersect.
"He looked sharper this morning," Trevisan said finally. "But it's still a risk."
Carpegiani didn't look up. He was tracing triangles with the marker, half erasing, half redrawing. "Everything is a risk," he said. "That's what finals are."
The fitness coach, Dr. Turíbio, shuffled through a folder of papers , physiological reports, heart-rate data, and routine measurements from the week. "He's cleared," he said. "No inflammation, no strain. Fatigue level normal. Mentally? Hard to quantify, but he's extra focused."
"That's the problem," Trevisan muttered. "Focused kids chase the ball too hard. You saw in Rio, he wanted to fix everything himself. The game punished him."
Carpegiani capped the marker and turned. "Yes, and then he trained twice as long as anyone else yesterday. That's what I want. Mistakes don't matter. Response does."
The director of football, old Mr. Campos, had been sitting quietly by the window, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He rarely attended these tactical discussions, but finals made him superstitious. "The board is nervous," he said. "They keep asking who starts. They want the trophy. They like the kid, but they answer to the fans"
Carpegiani's eyebrow lifted slightly. "And if the public wants him benched, do they choose that?"
Campos smiled. "I'm only telling you what people say. You know São Paulo, we love new toys. But lose a final, and they become old fast."
The coach turned back to the board, marker tapping against the surface. "We're not playing for applause. We're playing to fix the midfield. Santos overloaded us in transition; Kaká moves better between lines than anyone else here. He gives us rhythm."
Trevisan crossed his arms. "Rhythm? He got kicked every time he tried to receive. Sandro and those two midfielders will hammer him again. He's sixteen. What if he freezes?"
Carpegiani shook his head slowly. "He didn't freeze in Rio. He just drowned in chaos. That's different. This is Morumbi. Different grass, different air."
Turíbio nodded. "He recovers quickly. The boy's metabolism is ridiculous."
Trevisan chuckled. "So we're starting him because his blood recovers faster?"
"Because his head does," Carpegiani replied. He placed the marker down and walked around the desk, standing by the window. Outside, players were finishing light stretches under the late afternoon light. From this angle, the training ground looked peaceful, almost empty.
"He listens," Carpegiani said quietly. "He doesn't talk back, doesn't pretend to know. You tell him to drop deeper, he drops. You tell him to rotate, he rotates. You don't get that often."
Campos exhaled smoke through his nose. "You're defending him like he's your son."
The coach smiled faintly. "No. I'm defending the work."
Trevisan took a sip of coffee. "And what if the work fails again?"
"Then it fails," Carpegiani said simply. "And he learns why."
The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile. Only the hum of the fluorescent light filled it.
Campos stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray shaped like the club crest. "Fine," he said. "But you know what happens if we lose. They'll blame the boy. They will blame you."
"Then I'll say it was my decision," Carpegiani replied. "Because it is."
He turned back to the whiteboard and circled a triangle , Edmílson, Marcelinho, Kaká. "This," he said, tapping it. "This is our core. They'll expect us to play through the left. We'll surprise them through the right. Kaká starts. If he tires, Warley replaces him. But we begin with youth. Energy. The crowd will feed him."
Trevisan sighed but nodded. "He'll need protection. Tell Edmílson to keep an eye on him."
"I already did," said Carpegiani.
Turíbio closed his folder. "Then it's settled."
The coach nodded, sliding the marker into his pocket. "Meeting over."
As they stood, Campos lingered by the door. "You know," he said, "I watched that kid in the warm-up against Flamengo back in January. The one where he didn't even score. He was smiling to himself before kickoff, like he knew something no one else did. Reminded me of when Raí first played here."
Carpegiani smiled faintly. "He is not Rai."
"Maybe," Campos said. "But the same calm. And I think the kid is better."
When the door closed, Carpegiani stayed a moment longer. He looked at the whiteboard, the arrows, the names, the loops of black ink that marked the possibility. Finals were never about systems, he thought. They were about moments , one right decision among a hundred wrong ones.
Outside, a ball struck the crossbar with a clean metallic thud, followed by laughter. The echo came through the wall like an omen.
Carpegiani walked out to the pitch. Kaká was there. Nothing about him said nerves. He caught the ball on his instep and stopped it dead. If anything, everything about him screamed with wound up anger. Frustration. Good.
"Enough for today," the coach called.
Kaká nodded and trotted over. "Coach?"
"Be early tomorrow," Carpegiani said. "Half hour before the others."
"Yes, sir."
"And rest the ankle tonight. You'll need it."
The boy's eyes flickered with curiosity, maybe realization, but he didn't ask. "Okay," he said simply, jogging toward the tunnel.
Trevisan watched from the bench. "You didn't tell him he's starting?"
"Not yet," Carpegiani said. "He'll do better if he doesn't know. Will light up a fire."
The assistant chuckled. "Cruel wisdom."
"Maybe," the coach said, glancing once more at the field where the last light hit the grass.
"But sometimes that fire is exactly what we need."
The stadium lights flickered on one by one, washing the training ground in white.
Somewhere in the city, fans were already painting banners, radios arguing over lineups.
And inside that quiet office, the decision was made.
_________________________________________
Kaka POV
Training that afternoon was under gray skies. The air smelled of wet grass and fuel from nearby traffic. The coaches kept it light,stretching, short passing, recovery jogs. Reporters crowded behind the fences with cameras.
When we finished, most of the squad went inside. I stayed.
The field emptied until only the sound of sprinklers remained. I took a few balls and started working,touch, turn, short bursts. The ankle protested but held.
I thought of Sandro, the smirk, the shoulder checks, the way he'd laughed. Each repetition was an answer he would never hear.
The light faded. The sprinkler mist caught the orange of the sunset.
After a while I stopped, hands on knees, chest rising fast. Sweat dripped onto the grass.
I wasn't angry anymore, just clear. The noise outside didn't matter, the papers didn't matter. What mattered was the ball listening again, obeying again.
"Enough for today," I heard the coach say.
I just nodded out of reflex and trotted over. "Coach?"
"Be early tomorrow," Carpegiani said. "Half hour before the others."
"Yes, sir."
"And rest the ankle tonight. You'll need it."
"Okay". I answered, though I was curious. Am I starting again? He just left after that.
I jogged to the sideline, gathered the balls, and looked back once at the empty pitch. In two days this same field would be full of people.
As I left, I heard the echo of Mamãe's words in my head. Let the ball do the running.
That sounded like a plan worth keeping.
__________________________________________
The morning sun over Barra Funda was already sharp when we stepped onto the grass. The field shimmered faintly from the early sprinklers, still damp under our boots. Someone from the staff had set up cones, half-pitch drills, and passing grids. Nothing fancy. Finals prep always looked simple from the outside.
Paulo César Carpegiani stood near the halfway line with a clipboard, his shirt sleeves rolled, a whistle looped around his wrist. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. "Quick touches," he said. "Two seconds, maximum. Let's fix what they broke last match."
The ball zipped between us like a metronome. The coach wanted tempo, not flair.
I was paired with França and Marcelinho Paraíba for the first sequence. França's first touch had that soft command you couldn't teach; mine still came with a sting. He glanced at me once and smirked.
"Looks like someone forgot to rest."
"Didn't sleep much," I said.
Carpegiani clapped once. "That's it! Crisp! Belletti, drive it through the lane! Kaká, don't stop, carry your run."
We built rhythm quickly, and soon the sting turned to flow. The ball hit boots, left boots, came back clean. My ankle held up fine. It wasn't pain anymore, just a memory.
Carpegiani stopped the session mid-play. "Freeze," he said, walking to where I'd just received a pass.
He pointed with his marker at the patch of grass between me and Edmílson. "Here. Last time, you came too deep. You want to help? Fine. But you left this pocket open. If you stand two meters higher, they can't double you as easily."
I nodded. He tapped the marker against his palm. "When you're this young, people think pressure beats you. It doesn't. It teaches you where not to stand."
The team reset. The drill began again. This time I stayed higher, waited for the pass instead of fetching it. Edmílson slid one through; I turned before contact and found França's run. His shot rattled off the post, a spark that earned a ripple of approval.
"That's it," the coach said. "Simple, direct. Football is geometry, not poetry."
The rest of the morning rolled in rhythm,short bursts, tactical corrections, water breaks filled with silence and glances. The mood wasn't light, but it wasn't heavy either. Finals created their own kind of gravity.
When the whistle blew to end the session, players drifted toward the benches. Serginho joked with the kitman about the Rio weather; Marcelinho stretched and hummed. I stayed a bit longer, kneeling to retie my laces.
França walked past and slapped my shoulder. "You looked quicker."
"Felt it," I said.
"Good. Because they'll kick you again, and this time, you'll make them chase shadows."
He grinned, the kind of grin that carried both warning and promise, then jogged off toward the locker room.
I stayed for one more pass exchange with Edmílson before the staff waved us in. Sweat ran down my temples, the kind that didn't feel like exhaustion but like release.
The coach had said we'd fix what they broke.
I believed him.
The air inside the video room felt stale from the old projector. Rows of folding chairs lined up in front of a white wall where yesterday's match paused in frozen grainy colour. The faint click of the reel filled the quiet before Carpegiani spoke.
"Alright," he said, marker in hand. "We start from here."
He pressed play. The screen showed Santos' first goal, the same counter I'd replayed in my head a hundred times. We watched it again and again, until each mistake looked obvious.
"They overloaded our right," he said, drawing lines on the whiteboard. "We recovered late because the midfield didn't rotate fast enough." His eyes moved to me, not accusing, just direct. "Kaká, you followed the ball instead of the runner. Next time you shade left, force him wide. Let Belletti handle the overlap."
"Yes, coach," I said.
He clicked again, freezing the second goal. "Transition. They win a duel here." He tapped the marker at Edmílson's shoulder on the screen. "Nothing wrong with the duel, but look behind."
There I was, half-step late, covering grass that had already opened.
Carpegiani turned. "We correct spacing. Two touches maximum in midfield, vertical passes only when the shape's ready." He pointed at the diagram he'd drawn: small triangles connecting lines from back to front. "We don't run through them; we pass around them."
Serginho raised a hand. "Coach, same diamond?"
"Same," Carpegiani replied. "But compressed. Edmílson deeper, Miguel holds the left half-space. Kaká, right inside. Marcelinho floats." He looked around the room. "Santos will press again. They think we can't play quick. We show them they're wrong."
He switched to footage of our last home win. The sound of the Morumbi crowd rose from the speakers,louder even through old tape hiss. The image showed one of our best sequences: eight passes from back to front, goal by França.
"This," he said, pausing mid-play. "Look at the patience. No one hiding, no one forcing the pass. The crowd wants pace; we give control."
Belletti whispered near me, "That's your cue, maestro."
I smiled but didn't answer. The word maestro didn't fit yet. Maybe one day.
Carpegiani capped the marker. "Remember: first five minutes, no fouls, no risk. They'll expect nerves. Give them boredom instead."
He gathered his notes and stepped aside. "Questions?"
None. Only nods, small movements, the unspoken understanding that talking wasn't the work.
When the projector clicked off, the room stayed dim for a second. The silence felt almost sacred,the calm before sound returned.
As we filed out, Edmílson caught up to me. "He trusts you to start again," he said. "That's good."
I shrugged. "Trust is borrowed. You have to earn it back."
He grinned. "Then pay with assists."
Outside, reporters waited beyond the glass doors, voices muffled. I tightened my grip on the notes they'd handed out,field map, arrows, names. The same drills we'd repeat this afternoon.
Tomorrow we'd walk into Morumbi again, this time with the crowd behind us.
The talking was finished.
Only football remained.
By the time I got home, the sky had turned the colour of cooling metal. The day's heat still clung to the walls, the kind that made the whole city hum slower. From the kitchen came the faint smell of onions frying, oil popping in rhythm.
Mamãe looked up from the stove when I entered. "You're late," she said, not scolding, just observing.
"Coach went long. Set pieces and shape work," I replied, hanging my bag near the doorway.
She nodded. "Then you eat. Sit."
Papai was already at the table, reading something on a folded blueprint. He had his glasses pushed halfway up his head, which usually meant he wasn't really reading anymore. Digão sat across from him, drawing on the corner of a newspaper , a stick figure doing a bicycle kick.
"You planning to replicate that?" I asked him.
He grinned. "I'm training the mind before the legs."
"Good luck, Ronaldo" I said, and that made him beam.
Dinner was rice, grilled meat, and a salad Mamãe said was "for balance." She'd started cooking lighter meals ever since the season began, saying it helped us all stay sharp.
"How was training?" she asked once everyone had food.
"Good," I said. "We worked mostly on pressing triggers and switching play faster."
She tilted her head, interested. "And you? How did you switch?"
I thought about it. "Stayed higher. Coach said not to fetch the ball so deep. Use my first step to drag markers, not invite them."
Her smile was small but proud. "That's better. Let the defenders chase ghosts. If they can't find you, they can't kick you."
We laughed, and for a moment the tension that had wrapped around me since Rio loosened. The match, the noise, the bruises,they all shrank beneath the sound of knives and forks and family talk.
After we cleared the table, she packed leftovers into small containers,her version of calm before any storm. I stood by the counter, helping her with the lids.
"You look lighter," she said quietly.
"Just ready," I replied.
Her eyes softened. "That's good. But don't rush the game. Let it come to you. Finals don't need heroes, they need players who think."
Upstairs, I laid my kit out neatly,clean boots, training top folded over the chair, club jacket on the backrest. I replayed our drills in my head, visualising the first touch, the pass, the turn. Outside, São Paulo's traffic hummed low like a distant sea.
I woke before the alarm. The room was still dim, but I could already hear traffic outside , a kind of steady murmur that only São Paulo made. Somewhere a radio blared a sports show. Someone was talking about the match as if it were already halfway done.
Downstairs the smell of coffee reached first. Mamãe was by the counter, already in her white blouse, humming. She smiled when she saw me.
She slid the cup across to me and put a plate down, fruit, toast, a few slices of cheese.
"No heavy breakfast."
"Thanks mamãe" I said, taking a bite.
The radio played low in the corner. Two commentators argued over the same thing: whether I would start again after the first-leg loss. One thought Carpegiani would protect me; the other said he'd be foolish not to use my energy at home. Mamãe turned the volume down just enough that the words blurred.
"Don't listen to them, baby," she said. "Don't let men who have never played decide how you feel."
Papai came in then, adjusting his wristwatch. "The whole city looks like it's heading to Morumbi. Red, white, black everywhere."
He sipped his coffee, looked over the rim. "Nerves?"
"Some," I said. "But it's good. Feels real."
He nodded, approving. "It's supposed to."
Digão shuffled in, half awake, wearing one of my older jerseys. "We're sitting behind the bench today, right?"
Mamãe smiled. "As always."
He grinned. "Good. I can shout louder that way."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You already shout louder than anyone."
Breakfast ended quickly. The morning sun cut through the curtains, filling the kitchen with light.
I went upstairs, checked my bag again: boots polished, shin guards taped together, a spare rosary in the side pocket. I tied my laces just to feel the motion, then untied them again. Routine helps; it gives hands something to do when the head spins.
Before leaving, Mamãe stopped me at the door. She adjusted my collar like she used to before school. "Play with calm," she said softly. "The crowd will roar, but it's still the same field."
Papai clapped my shoulder. "And remember , geometry, not poetry."
I smiled. "I shouldn't have told you that."
He grinned.
The cab honked outside. I hugged them both, quick and tight, and jogged out. The morning air felt thick but bright.
The ride to Barra Funda was short. Through the window, I saw kids kicking a ball on a patch of dirt, wearing shirts that didn't fit. At a stoplight, one of them pointed at the car and waved. I waved back.
At the training ground, the rest of the team waited beside the bus. Bags piled, staff moving briskly. The mood was serious but not grim. Everyone knew what waited tonight.
França saw me and nodded. "Morning, garoto. Ready?"
"Ready," I said.
He grinned. "Good. Because the city doesn't want stories. It wants goals."
The bus rolled out through the gates, onto the main road. As we climbed toward Morumbi, the noise grew. Horns, songs, chants, a city boiling over in colour. From the window, the stadium appeared like a giant bowl of light waiting to be filled.
I leaned back, closed my eyes for a second, and let the sound wash through me.
Nerves settled.
It was almost time.
Author's Notes:
Kaka outplayed. They've figured out how to deal with his pace and dribbling. Make it dirty, surprise him and mark him. The novelty has worn off. Now Kaka needs to figure out how to get back on top!
I wanted to show that every single time, they're not travelling as a group. The club also arranges cab for Kaká. Family goes separate this time for the match.
Let me know what you think.
I'm only showing the negative press that Kaka has heard. Not all of it. From his POV, this is what he had seen.
This is the average size. 6500 words. Let me know if you prefer this size or longer chapter like yesterday.