By the age of eight, Raphael dos Santos had shown visible improvements.
While he was still lean, his figure was slowly becoming more compact and defined, compared to some kids his age.
His touch was cleaner. His technique became sharper.
The movements he learned from his father that once required deliberate thought, now came naturally, requiring no unnecessary thought before the action, his body simply moved in a practiced manner.
In parks, kids didn't shove him aside anymore. They looked for him, wherever he was on the pitch was where danger lingered. This became a common belief on the field.
His name travelled faster than he did.
Whispers passed between parents on the sidelines, between kids resting with hands on their knees.
'That kidis a prodigy, no doubt about it, he'll become one of the greats for sure.' they'd say.
Brazil respected talent early, and Raphael had it in excess.
It was Oscar who finally said it out loud one evening, arms crossed as he watched Raphael juggle the ball while attempting the eclipse, a flashy move he happened to see during his last streetball game that apparently most Brazilians were known to do.
"You need structure. You've gotten as good as you can on your own but now it's time we found you a club." he said.
"I'll use my connections to try to find you an appropriate academy, within the next 6 months. But you'll only get one chance, if you don't impress them straight away, they won't give you the time of day in the near future".
Raphael faltered midway through his 5th attempt. Caught off guard by the sudden speech but when he rose again a wild smile rested on his face while fire burned in his eyes.
"I'll make sure to give them a performance they'll never forget!" he kicked the ball up and finally performed the trick, a rite of passage for Brazilians you could say.
"I can't wait to take my first steps into the world," he stated. "It's about time I push my football ability into the next level."
Oscar smiled at that. Quietly.
About a month later, Raphael picked up a habit that would help take his footballing ability to unprecedented heights.
Watching matches with his father was already a common occurrence. Feet tucked under a blanket, eyes glued to the screen. But soon, he treated it as an analysis session.
It became an obsession; he had to know why everything happened the way it did.
Full ninety minutes. No skipping. No distractions. When the games ended, he'd rewind highlights repeatedly, memorizing angles, movements, pauses, passes being played as if they had a 4D perspective of the game. All of it enthralled him to no end.
Especially his Oscar's old matches.
His father was technical. Clean. Efficient. The ball never argued with him. Watching those clips filled Raphael with pride but also something else.
Perspective.
Oscar had been brilliant. World-class on his day. And yet…
he wasn't spoken about the way they were.
Messi, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Zidane. His father was never comperable to those monsters despite his clear skill.
That realization sat heavy in Raphael's chest.
If this is how good my dad was… how far do I have to go?
Oscar noticed the change quickly.
The questions Raphael asked stopped being simple.
"Why does he not follow that player, that's his mark right?"
"How did he see that pass?"
"Why is that midfielder dropping when he's playing the highest of the 3?"
So, Oscar adapted.
One afternoon, instead of cones or ladders, Oscar brought out a laptop and sat beside him.
"Today," he said, "you don't touch the ball."
Raphael frowned. "…That's cruel."
Oscar laughed. "Welcome to football."
They watched clips together. Not just highlights, moments between moments. Zidane turning after receiving a pass with one touch effectively taking the defender out of the game with one move...
Kroos pointing, then playing the ball exactly where he'd indicated with precision that bordered on superhuman…
Messi as he casually drifted into space no one else seemed to see, before receiving the ball and taking it past 3 players and scoring a screamer…
Oscar paused the screen often.
"Football isn't just feet," he said. "It's time. Space. Control. The players who can most effectively control those dictate the flow of the game".
Raphael leaned forward, eyes burning.
Ronaldinho made him smile the most.
He was the embodiment of freedom on the pitch. The way defenders looked helpless while he laughed, like the game itself was a joke only he understood.
"That," Raphael said quietly, pointing at the screen, "that's how Brazilians are supposed to play."
Oscar let out a laugh as he saw Ronaldinho flick it over the same defenders' head 3 times while nodding to his son's statement.
Hazard, his father's old teammate, fascinated him for distinct reasons. Such as the way he absorbed contact, rolled away from it, kept going like the laws of gravity simply didn't apply to him.
Snuffy, calm, powerful, devastating in motion. Reckless yet precise in a way that felt like inevitability given form.
But Messi…
Messi made everyone else look loud.
No wasted movement. No excess. Just greatness disguised as simplicity. He made the sport millions around the world struggle tirelessly at look like the easiest, most simple thing in the world.
"He's the greatest," Raphael said one night, without hesitation.
'Just how many hours did he put into his training to reach such a level? That can't be normal. But that's the level I must strive to attain, no...' "I will surpass him one day, no matter the cost," he reaffirmed.
Oscar didn't argue. He simply smiled and played the next clip.
Somewhere between the clips and the conversations, Raphael found the shape of his dream.
He didn't want to just score.
He wanted to command the game, pulling every string behind the team's victory as its core, as its mind, as its general.
He didn't believe players were chess pieces he could order around, he simply believed he would be best suited as an orchestrator, the one who decided which player gets to shine and when.
The one who decides where the game lived and where it died.
A general who didn't have to fight every battle as the war would be won before the opposition knew it began, just like Zidane.
'If I can control the field … no one would be able stop me. But I will need to improve my dribbling technique and ability first. What kind of commander would I be if I let my soldiers fight all my battles for me'?
This kind of training," Oscar told him, "Will be demanding, and while it's good to have a general idea of your playstyle, make sure not to limit yourself just yet, you're still young and may soon find a path better suited to you".
Raphael took his words on board as he began a new drill Oscar showed him. It aimed to improve reaction speed, ball control and technical ability.
He started by hitting the ball from the juggling position on a worn-down wall. While attempting to control the seemingly random returns of the ball in any way he could without letting the ball touch the floor, then repeating the process.
Occasionally restrictions would be added to increase difficulty such as 'weak foot only', 'chest controls only' etc.
One evening two weeks later, as the sun dipped low and painted the room gold, Oscar sat beside him on the bed.
"We're going to Spain," he said.
Raphael blinked. "Spain?"
"To see your grandparents."
"Oh." A pause. "Okay."
Oscar hesitated, then smiled. "They have a surprise for you."
That got his attention.
As Oscar stood to leave, Raphael stared at the ceiling. Spain felt… distant. Familiar in a way he couldn't explain.
A woman's laugh echoed faintly in his memory. The lingering sensation of a warm hand that aimed to console him.
His mother.
He didn't remember her face clearly. Just fragments. Feelings. Oscar did his best to keep her alive in stories, in photos, in quiet moments like this.
Raphael closed his eyes. His journey was only beginning but the field was already forming in his mind.
And one day soon, he would stand at its centre.