Morning training after the Leverkusen game began quietly.
The air was heavy with that faint post-match ache , players half yawning, physios setting up ice tubs, boots thudding against the tiled hallway. Everyone moved with the lazy confidence that comes after a good performance and a late night.
I was lacing my boots when Carpegiani's assistant walked over.
"Coach wants to see you in his office."
The words hit different.
Usually, that kind of call meant one of two things , either you'd done something wrong, or something big was coming.
I followed him through the narrow hall. The coach's office was simple, a small desk, a wall calendar, VHS tapes stacked near the TV. He was standing by the window when I entered, hands behind his back.
"Sit down, Ricardo."
I did, trying to steady my breathing.
He turned and smiled , not one of those polite smiles, but one that actually reached his eyes. "I watched the match again last night," he began, voice calm. "You have good control of tempo for someone your age. You don't rush things. That's important."
"Thank you, coach."
He nodded slowly. "We've been looking for balance in the midfield. Someone who can connect the pieces, not just run channels. I think you're ready to try."
It took a second for the words to register.
"Okay?"
"You'll start against Flamengo. On the right side of the diamond."
I must've blinked twice.
"Start?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "You've earned it, Kaká. I've seen your attitude in training, your touch in tight spaces. You're calm when others panic. That's a rare thing, Ricardo. But it's also fragile. You need to protect it."
I nodded, still half-stunned.
"You'll make mistakes," he continued. "Don't hide from them. Just remember, this is still football. The same game you played in the back garden. Don't let the crowd make it something else."
"I understand."
He smiled faintly. "Good. Now go. Tell no one until the lineup is official. Not your friends, not your family, understood?"
"Yes, coach."
He stood and extended his hand. "Make it count."
When I walked back out, the corridor felt brighter somehow, the noise of boots and laughter echoing like background music. I tried to act normal, joined the rondo drill, nodded when França gave me a "bom dia" (good morning), and focused on the ball.
By the time we finished, my shirt was stuck to my back. I headed home under the late morning sun, São Paulo traffic humming like it always did , horns, bus brakes, the smell of diesel mixed with bakery air. I kept replaying the conversation in my mind and couldn't stop smiling.
______________________________________
When I reached home, Mamãe was outside watering the plants. The water sparkled in the light, catching in the hibiscus leaves.
"You look happy," she said, eyeing me suspiciously.
I shrugged, trying not to grin. "Do I?"
"Something happened, what happened?" her curiosity piqued.
I hesitated, remembering the coach's warning. But then she tilted her head, the same look she'd given me since I was five, the one that said, "don't even try."
"I'm starting on Saturday," I said finally.
The watering can froze midair. "You're what?"
"Coach told me this morning."
Her face broke into the widest smile. She set the can down, rushed forward, and pulled me into a hug so tight I almost lost balance. "Meu Deus, meu filho (My God, my son)...your first start!"
Before I could say anything, her voice echoed toward the house.
"Bosco! Come here! NOW!"
Papai stepped out from the garage wiping his hands with a rag.
"What is it? What happened?"
"He's starting!"
He stopped, then his face softened into a slow, proud smile. "É mesmo? (Really?)"
I nodded.
He crossed the yard in two long steps and clapped his hand on my shoulder. "That's it, Ricardo. All the mornings, all the training. Now it begins for real."
Digão appeared at the doorway, holding a sandwich. "Start? For real?"
"Yeah," I said.
He chewed, then nodded seriously. "Cool. But you can't tell anyone, right?"
"Right, how do you know that?" I said, surprised.
"It is because of those reporters who guess lineups. I heard about that in school."
Mamãe laughed. "Always the curious one."
"I just know things, I am wise like that" he said proudly, walking away.
We spent the rest of the afternoon in that bright mood that fills a home when good news lands,
Papai teasing Mamãe about bringing a banner to the stands, Mamãe already planning what to cook for Saturday's lunch, Digão hovering like an eager assistant coach.
At lunch, Papai lifted his fork and said, "It's Flamengo. They'll press high. Stay patient, son. You don't need to impress anyone in the first ten minutes. Let the game come to you."
I nodded.
Mamãe said softly, "Just play the way you love to play. That's enough."
The table went quiet for a moment , not heavy, just warm.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat at my desk with the lamp on low. I replayed parts of the Leverkusen game in my head , the touch before turning, the weight of the pass, the way the midfield opened when I moved early. I could still feel it in my legs.
I thought of what Carpegiani had said , "the same game you played in the back garden."
I smiled.
The next morning at training, the air felt sharper. The coach had announced the lineup officially , no surprise looks, just nods from the teammates.
Edmílson came over while we tied our boots. "Saw your name on the board," he said quietly. "You'll be fine. Just remember, Flamengo presses early. Don't drop too deep. I'll cover."
"Thanks."
He grinned. "And if you get tired, just point at me. I'll pretend I didn't see it."
Marcelinho Paraíba chuckled from across the locker room. "The kid's got more lungs than you, Ed."
"Let's find out," Edmílson shot back.
At the end of the session, Carpegiani gathered us in a circle. "Tomorrow, we keep it simple," he said. "Possession, patience, precision. Flamengo plays with emotion; we play with structure. And remember , football rewards clarity."
As the group broke apart, França caught my eye. "First start, huh?"
"Yeah."
He offered his hand. "Then make sure you make it count. Make an impression. You've got the talent, now it is time to show it."
I grinned. "Deal."
When I got home later, Mamãe had already ironed my São Paulo shirt, the red-and-black stripe perfectly straight. She placed it on the chair by my desk like a quiet reminder of what was coming.
That night, I barely slept. Not from nerves, but anticipation. The kind that makes your stomach light and your thoughts drift toward the field before you even close your eyes.
Tomorrow, I wasn't just a sub anymore.
Tomorrow, I was part of the starting eleven.
______________________________________
Matchday always had its own kind of electricity.
Even before sunrise, Morumbi buzzed with motion , staff dragging equipment across the corridor, journalists pacing near the gates, and the sound of boots tapping down tiled floors.
For me, it began with the smell of coffee at home. Mamãe had already laid out the table , bread rolls, sliced papaya, the radio murmuring about the weekend fixtures.
I walked in rubbing my eyes, still half asleep.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning, campeão (champion)," Papai teased, taking a sip from his cup.
"Don't start," I said, smiling despite myself.
He shrugged. "I'm just saying, we might have to frame tomorrow's newspaper."
Mamãe rolled her eyes. "He hasn't even played yet, Bosco."
"Doesn't matter. First start is first start."
Digão stumbled in next, yawning like he'd wrestled his pillow all night. "If you score, I'm running laps around the neighborhood with the flag"
The whole kitchen laughed, the kind of easy laughter that made mornings feel lighter.
After breakfast, I packed my training bag and headed to the club. The morning air carried a trace of heat, January sun warming the pavements, the smell of grass mixing with gasoline from passing buses. São Paulo never really stopped, even on calm mornings.
At Barra Funda, the facility was already alive. Reporters waited by the gate; cameras flashed as we arrived. Inside, it was quieter.
The dressing room held the usual mix , Ceni adjusting his gloves near the mirror, Edmílson taping his ankles, Serginho flipping through his playlist on a Walkman.
"Big day tomorrow," Ceni said as I walked by.
"Feels like it," I admitted.
He smiled faintly. "Don't overthink. Just play the football you know. The rest follows."
Warm-up began with short passing circuits. My touch felt sharper than usual, the ball glued to the grass, every bounce clean. Carpegiani moved around the pitch, hands behind his back, eyes scanning everything. He didn't shout much. He didn't need to.
When he stopped near me, he spoke softly. "You'll have space tomorrow, especially behind their left-back. They push high. Use it. But don't drift too far; we need your link play."
"Got it, coach."
He gave a quick nod and walked off.
Dodo jogged over after a passing drill, sweat already beading on his forehead. "You ready for Flamengo?"
"I think so."
He smirked. "Think so? You've been running like a madman since preseason. Just don't outshine us too much."
I laughed. "That's not possible."
He clapped me on the back. "We'll see."
Training ended with shooting drills. I stayed after the others to take a few more. One-twos with Edu, a curl into the far post, another that clipped the bar and went over. Ceni was packing up the cones.
"Left side looks better than your right today," he called.
"Yeah, it's been weird."
"Shift your plant foot half a step back. You're crowding the ball."
I tried again, followed his advice, and the ball sliced cleanly into the corner.
He gave a small nod. "See? Less muscle, more timing."
It was always like that with him , no nonsense, straight to the point.
When I got home, Mamãe was already setting out ingredients for lunch. Rice steaming, salad bowl ready. The smell of sautéed garlic filled the air.
"Sit," she said. "You need proper food, not sandwiches from the training ground."
I did as told. Papai joined soon after, still in his work clothes.
They didn't talk about football right away. Just about groceries, church plans, some neighbor's new car. It felt ordinary, grounding. Then Papai looked up.
"So," he said, "what do you think of Carpegiani?"
"He's smart," I said. "Knows what he wants. He doesn't say much, but when he does, you listen."
"He was like that as a player too," Papai said. "One of the sharpest midfielders Brazil had."
Mamãe nodded. "And now he sees something in you."
I shrugged, cutting into my chicken. "I just want to play well."
"That's enough," she said softly.
After lunch, I retreated to my room. My São Paulo jacket hung on the chair, bright red in the sunlight. The number 22 stitched on the chest looked both strange and perfect. It was still new, the fabric still stiff.
I stared at it for a long time before putting it on.
Later that evening, Papai joined me on the veranda. The city lights flickered in the distance; the faint hum of traffic rose like a low tide.
"Nervous?" he asked.
"A little," I said. "But it's good nerves."
He leaned back. "Tomorrow, when you walk onto that pitch, it'll feel like another world. The crowd, the noise, the cameras. Don't fight it. Let it wash over you. Then find your groove and dance."
He wasn't trying to teach. He just spoke like he always did, quiet, certain, with the patience of someone who'd watched hundreds of games from the stands.
"I'll try," I said.
"You'll do more than that. Like your favourite jedi master says , Do or do not, there is no try"
We sat there for a while, not talking much. The night breeze carried the faint smell of rain, the kind that usually came just before dawn.
______________________________________
The next morning arrived in a rush. I woke before my alarm, the first sliver of sun breaking through the curtains. The city outside was already moving , buses rumbling, street vendors shouting.
Breakfast was silent, almost ceremonial. Mamãe poured coffee, Papai read the paper, Digão fidgeted with his orange juice.
When I got up to leave, Mamãe handed me a small cross pendant. "For luck, for tomorrow" she said.
"I'll keep it in my bag."
"Don't just keep it in the bag," she said. "Wear it, believe it."
At the training ground, the locker room buzzed differently than usual. There wasn't the loose chatter that came before friendlies. This was sharper, quieter. Everyone knew the season was beginning.
Ceni was the first to break the silence. "Let's start the season well, gentlemen. No sloppy passes. No switching off."
Carpegiani entered a minute later. "Team sheet's up."
When I saw my name printed on the board , Ricardo Kaká (22) , a small surge of pride went through me. It was real now.
During the pre-match tactical meeting, the coach went through shapes and roles.
"Ricardo, you'll drift infield when we build. Watch for França's movement; he'll pull their center-backs apart. Dodo will occupy the half-space. Timing is everything."
I nodded, pen tapping against my notebook even though I knew I'd remember every word.
After training, I sat alone for a few minutes on the bench, staring at the empty field. The grass shimmered in the afternoon light. In less than twenty-four hours, there'd be twenty thousand voices here.
Ceni walked past, towel slung over his shoulder. "You'll be fine, kid."
I looked up. "How do you know?"
"Because you care too much to mess it up."
He smiled faintly. "That's usually a good sign."
When I got home, Mamãe asked me which stand their tickets were for.
"Same as usual," I said. "Player's section."
"Perfect," she said. "Then we can see everything."
Papai asked. "Kickoff at five, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then we'll leave early. Don't want to fight traffic."
He said it casually, but I knew he'd be ready by morning. His São Paulo scarf was already on the armrest of the couch.
That night, I tried to sleep early. The stadium lights still flickered in my mind, the sound of the whistle, the first touch. I could picture it all , the smell of cut grass, the warmth of the crowd, the way the ball rolled under my foot.
For months, I'd imagined what this would feel like.
Now it was hours away.
I reached for the pendant Mamãe had given me, closed my hand around it, and smiled.
Tomorrow, it will finally be real.
______________________________________
The first thing that hit me walking out of the tunnel wasn't the noise, it was the light.
Afternoon sun slid over the rim of Morumbi and spilled across the pitch in long, bright stripes.
Twenty thousand people sounded like twice that when they spotted the team emerging. The drums of the Torcida Tricolor Independente pounded high up in the stand, banners waving like a red-white-black sea.
We lined up for the warm-up jog. Grass was short, slick from morning watering. The smell of cut turf and menthol rubbed from players' hands mixed into one sharp scent that felt like football itself.
França jogged beside me, expression unreadable as always. "Keep it simple early," he muttered.
"Don't chase ghosts."
"Got it," I said.
Rogério Ceni was in the middle, striking long passes to the wings as if it were nothing. The ball whistled through the air, perfect each time.
On the far touchline, the Flamengo players stretched in orange bibs, and the visiting fans chanted back and forth with ours.
Carpegiani gathered us in a circle before heading back down the tunnel.
"Remember what we worked on," he said. "Maintain shape. Short distances. Transition fast. Ricardo,stay close to Marcelinho when we build, but when Edmílson wins it, go. Don't wait."
He gave each of us a brief look, the last of which lingered on me. Not pressure , just trust.
We filed back to the locker room for shirts and final tape. Mine waited folded in the corner locker: 22, bright red on white. I ran a hand over the fabric once before pulling it on.
The noise above us thickened. Each cheer from the stands pressed through the concrete like thunder underfoot.
When the bell rang for walk-out, the corridor filled with clatter, boots on tile, studs on concrete. I stood behind Marcelinho, eyes on the rectangle of daylight at the end of the tunnel. Flamengo in red and black were already lined up opposite.
The referee signalled. The two lines walked out.
The tunnel air felt heavy, like it carried every echo from the stadium. My shirt clung to my skin, the number 22 pressed against my back like a promise. I tried not to look up at the stands when we stepped out, but the sound still hit, twenty thousand people shouting at once. It wasn't deafening, it was alive, pulsing through the ground and straight into my legs.
Ceni walked just behind me and leaned in.
"Olha pro jogo, garoto. Not the stands," (Look at the game, Kid) he muttered.
I nodded, but my eyes still caught the flash of red, black and white flags, the banners swinging, the faint smell of smoke and grass mixing together. My heart was drumming fast, too fast.
When we lined up for the anthem, I caught a glimpse of Mamãe and Papai in the lower rows. Digão was waving both arms like he was trying to take off. I breathed in, long and slow.
The air tasted like metal.
Then the whistle sounded. Game on!
The first pass that came my way bounced off my boot too hard. Flamengo's midfielder nicked it before I could turn. My stomach dropped, but then I heard a shout from behind.
"Calma, garoto! Settle!"
I took a deep breath to control myself.
Next time, I took two touches, not one. Played it to Edmílson, then moved. Ball came back. Simple. My heart slowed just enough for the world to sharpen again, the field, the noise, the rhythm.
I started to feel the pulse of it.
Then, a short pass from Serginho that skidded off the damp turf. My control was clean, but the Flamengo winger came in fast. I played it back first-time, nothing fancy. Safe.
My nerves settled. Flamengo pressed high, as Carpegiani had warned. Edmílson dropped deep between the centre-backs, giving us an extra outlet. I drifted inward, trying to find space behind their left-back.
In the ninth minute, I received on the half-turn from Marcelinho and carried forward. The first real surge of adrenaline. A flick right to Belletti overlapping , the crowd reacted to the movement even though the cross was blocked. The rush of sound that followed stayed in my ears long after the ball went out for a throw.
Flamengo countered hard. Their striker Rodrigo Mendes got behind our line once, but Rogério smothered it, calm as training. "Wake up, boys!" he shouted, voice echoing off the stands.
By twenty minutes in, sweat was already running down my back. The tempo was high; touches had to be clean. I nearly lost one duel near midfield, got nudged off balance. Not a foul, just strength.
"Hold your ground!"
Edmílson barked. I nodded, jaw tight.
Thirty minutes. Still 0-0. Carpegiani yelled from the sideline, gesturing forward: "Faster transition!"
At 34 minutes, it came. Dodo drifted wide, cut inside, and spotted me running beyond my marker. His pass was perfect, rolling across the box like it was meant for me.
Everything in me screamed, shoot.
I opened my body, side-footed, clean, but it kissed the outside of the post and went out.
For a heartbeat, the entire Morumbi gasped.
I froze. My hands were still half-raised. Then França jogged past and slapped my shoulder.
"Boa tentativa, moleque. Next one goes in."(Good try, kid.)
I exhaled, finally. A grin broke through before I could stop it. The nerves didn't disappear, but they stopped controlling my legs.
The half wound down with Flamengo pushing harder. Their midfielder clipped one from distance that Ceni punched away. Our counter fizzled. The final minutes turned into duels , tackles, recoveries, small fouls.
When the whistle came for halftime, I realised how loud the stadium had become. The heat, the noise, the tension, all mixed into a blur.
Inside the locker room, cold water ran down our necks. Players collapsed onto benches, grabbing towels.
Carpegiani stood by the whiteboard. "Good," he said evenly. "We control the tempo, but we're too slow in the final pass. They're leaving space behind their left side , exploit it." His eyes found me. "You saw it twice. Next time, finish the move."
I breathed out. "Yes, coach."
Marcelinho thumped my back. "You're fine. Keep showing for the ball."
Ceni tossed me a towel.
"You've got space behind their left-back," he said, pointing toward the tactical board. "Don't hug the line. Wait for Franca to drag him inside, then run the gap."
Carpegiani overheard and nodded once.
"Exactly. You're seeing the angles now. Keep it simple. No need to rush the final pass."
I nodded, quiet. My shirt clung to me, soaked through. The assistant handed out bottles of water; I could feel my pulse still pounding in my ears.
The second-half whistle was coming. I pulled the shirt back over my damp shoulders, felt the fabric cling. The stadium above us roared again, louder this time.
We stood, one by one, boots clacking against tile.
"Let's finish this," said Carpegiani simply.
We stepped out again into the light. My heartbeat synced with the chant rising from the southern stand.
Somewhere out there, my family was standing too.
The game began again.
______________________________________
The whistle cut through the noise again, and we kicked off toward the north stand. I tried to focus on the first few touches, to get rhythm back into my legs. The ball felt heavier now, the pitch hotter, but the game had opened up.
Flamengo pressed higher. Edmílson called for calm, hands down, slowing play before switching to Serginho on the left. The whole pitch tilted our way for a moment.
At forty-eight minutes, we got a corner.
Marcelinho jogged across to take it. I hovered near the top of the box, waiting for the rebound. The ball curved in, chaos, half-cleared, and fell to Dodo's feet. He didn't hesitate. One quick step, left foot, low drive through a forest of legs.
1–0.
Morumbi exploded. The sound rolled down from the seats like thunder. I didn't even see Dodo's celebration properly; I was already sprinting toward him, arms open. He grabbed me in the pile.
From the touchline, Carpegiani just clapped once, calm again in seconds.
We reset, and almost immediately Flamengo bit back. Their wide men came alive, pulling our line apart. At sixty minutes, a quick switch to the right caught us short. A cross, a half-clear, and their forward tapped in.
1–1.
Ceni slammed the turf with both hands, furious. "Too easy!"
We jogged back, heads down but not broken. The stands stayed loud, still chanting.
Carpegiani stepped forward, shouting new instructions. "Ricardo, inside! Closer to França!"
I nodded and shifted, leaving the sideline and floating behind the strikers. Marcelinho dropped to cover.
The next five minutes felt like running through glue. My lungs burned, legs heavy, but every run opened something. França motioned for the ball, I threaded one through, just a bit too strong. He patted his chest in thanks anyway.
Then, sixty-nine minutes.
Edmílson stole a pass near halfway and fired it forward to me. I turned into space, one defender ahead, one chasing. For half a second the stadium sound flattened into silence.
I feinted right, slipped the ball through the narrow gap, and watched França burst onto it. He didn't even look up , just swept his shot low past the keeper.
2–1.
I didn't feel my legs until França grabbed me in a headlock, laughing. "That's how we do it, garoto!"
The replay flashed on the big screen , the turn, the pass, the finish, and for a second the crowd noise surged again, chanting my name, stretched into one long wave: "Ka-Ka! Ka-Ka!"
My throat went dry. I didn't celebrate much, just pointed once toward the sky, once towards Franca and jogged back.
After the restart, Flamengo pushed harder. They hit the post once. Ceni's gloves clapped the ball away twice more. Carpegiani signalled to the bench.
A few minutes later, the board went up. Number 22.
My stomach dropped again, but not from disappointment, from exhaustion. My legs were burning.
As I jogged off, the crowd rose. Not all of them, but enough. A wave of clapping rolled through one side of the stands. I kept my eyes low, pretending I didn't notice, but I did. I shook the coach's hand.
"Well done, garoto," he said quietly. "You did your job."
"Obrigado, coach" I managed between breaths.
I sank onto the bench, chest heaving. The field still glowed under the floodlights, the chant still echoing. For the first time all night, I let myself breathe.
A towel hit my shoulder the moment I sat down. Belletti grinned. "You'll sleep like a stone tonight."
On the field, Warley had taken my spot, fresh and quick. From the bench I watched him chase the same channels I'd run all afternoon.
Every sprint looked faster than mine had felt.
Flamengo kept pushing but found nothing.
Ceni commanded the back line like a conductor. At eighty-nine minutes, he caught a cross cleanly and stayed down a moment longer than needed, earning whistles from the crowd for time-wasting.
The final whistle came with his long clearance.
2–1.
We stood, hugged whoever was nearest.
Carpegiani shook each player's hand before heading to the tunnel.
In the dressing room, relief mixed with laughter. Shirts swapped, tape peeled off, music rising from somewhere in the back corner. I sat there for a second, just staring at the grass stains on my socks.
França passed by and gave my hair a shove.
"Nice ball today. Keep that coming."
Dodo leaned from his locker. "Next time, score it yourself."
I smiled. "Next time."
Ceni walked past, towel around his neck, and nodded once. "Good game." That was all, but coming from him, it felt like gold.
______________________________________
The drive back felt shorter than usual, though the streets were still buzzing. People were leaving the stadium in small groups, waving scarves, singing half-remembered chants. Inside Papai's old Fiat, nobody talked much at first. The windows were cracked open; the air still smelled faintly of pastel.
Mamãe turned halfway in her seat, smiling at me in that quiet, proud way of hers.
"You played beautifully, meu amor (my love)."
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded and looked out the window.
Digão couldn't keep still in the back seat.
"When you passed that ball to Franca… Papai almost spilled his drink!"
Papai laughed. "Almost? I did."
He wiped an imaginary stain from his shirt, grinning.
We hit a patch of traffic near the viaduct, and everything slowed. A few fans noticed the car and started chanting, "São Paulo! São Paulo!" and pounding their palms against the air in rhythm.
They barely even saw me, but my face burned anyway. Papai glanced over and gave a small shake of his head, like don't hide from this.
Then we went to our usual celebratory dinner. I didn't care that I was still in club tracks, and didn't care about anything. The match kept playing in my mind.
At home the gate creaked as usual, and the house smelled faintly of detergent and Mamãe's lavender candle. My boots were still muddy; I left them on the porch. The sound of them hitting the tiles echoed too loudly.
"Shower before you sit anywhere," Mamãe said automatically, which made us all laugh.
Digão followed me to my room, bouncing a tennis ball against the wall. "Mano, you looked huge on TV," he said. "Like you belonged there."
I flicked the ball away from him. "Go to your room."
He didn't.
"You were fast," he murmured. "Faster than on TV."
I laughed quietly. "TV slows everyone down."
He frowned. "I thought TV made people faster."
"Only in cartoons."
He smiled at that, then added, "I liked when you passed to Franca. You didn't even look."
"I looked," I said.
"Then you're good at pretending you didn't."
I asked him again to go, and closed the bathroom door on him. I wanted to be alone for a while.
Hot water ran over my neck, and only then did the night start to settle. The adrenaline leaked out in waves. Every muscle ached, not sharp pain, but a deep, satisfying burn that came from running until there was nothing left.
I leaned my head against the tile and replayed moments, one by one. The pass to Franca. The earlier miss. The crowd's roar when the net bulged. The taste of sweat and grass when I slid to celebrate.
It all blurred together, a jumble of noise and light.
When I came out, the house was half-dark. Papai was still in the kitchen, pouring himself one last coffee, eyes half-closed with tired happiness.
He looked up. "Couldn't sleep either?"
I shook my head.
He handed me a mug , more coffee than milk, because he knew I'd like it strong.
"You held your ground today," he said simply.
"That midfield was no joke."
"I lost the ball a few times."
"You got it back."
We sat at the table for a while. The hum of the fridge filled the silence.
"You looked calm," he added after a bit.
"I wasn't," I said. "My legs were shaking before kickoff."
"That's good. Means you cared."
I smiled , that line again. He'd first said it when I was ten, before a youth final at Barra Funda. He says it every single time. Somehow it still worked.
Mamãe appeared then, half-asleep, hair wrapped in a towel. "You two planning to talk until sunrise?"
"Maybe," Papai said.
She touched my shoulder. "Sleep soon, Ricardo. Tomorrow you'll feel everything you ran tonight."
When they went to bed, I stayed behind. The clock blinked 00:47. I carried the coffee to my room and sat by the window.
Morumbi's lights were still visible in the distance, a faint orange glow against the sky. I could almost hear the echo of the crowd if I tried hard enough. The city had gone quiet except for an occasional bus and a barking dog down the street.
I stretched my legs; the thighs felt heavy, tight.
I thought of the moment Carpegiani called my name on the lineup board earlier that day, his calm voice saying, "You're starting on the right side."
That single sentence had followed me the whole afternoon , through lunch, the warm-up, the anthem. And now it replayed again, but softer, like an echo inside me.
I pulled out the notepad I kept on my desk. It wasn't anything serious , just scribbles, training notes, little reminders. On the top of the page I wrote, January 23 – First start. São Paulo 2-1 Flamengo.
Under it, I listed the things that still bothered me:
1. Missed the early chance.
2. Lost the ball twice on the right.
3. Tired too early.
Then I added one more line without thinking:
4. Breathe slower before first touch.
The pen hovered, and then I wrote in the corner, Assist to Franca. And I described it.
For a second, I smiled.
The truth was, my body had reached its limit by the seventieth minute. The difference between youth matches and this , the speed, the collisions, the constant pressing , it ate energy like fire eats air.
By the time I saw the substitution board go up, my lungs were burning. I didn't protest. I knew.
Still, the applause when I left the field...that stayed. Not pride exactly, just a strange warmth that settled somewhere behind my ribs
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles.
I wanted to remember this night exactly as it was , not as something perfect, but as the first time I truly felt part of the team.
The little things flashed back: Edmílson covering for me when I misread a pass. Ceni shouting instructions even from his box.
Marcelinho's nod after my assist, quick and approving. Those gestures meant more than any headline ever could.
My legs started to twitch again, the phantom movement of a sprint. I stretched them out and thought about training.
I'd lasted seventy-two minutes at full speed. That meant next time I needed to last eighty.
Strength work, endurance, recovery , all of it circled through my mind as I drifted off to sleep.
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The morning after the Flamengo match, São Paulo woke to a familiar sound,sports radio chatter and clinking coffee cups. The game had ended late, but the debate began early.
Across the city, in taxi lines, bakeries, and office corridors, everyone seemed to have seen the same pass,the assist,and everyone had an opinion about the boy in the number 22 shirt.
Rádio Jovem Pan – "Esporte em Discussão," January 24, 1999
Host (Milton Neves): "Good morning, folks. São Paulo starts 1999 with a win over Flamengo, 2–1, and let's talk about that kid. You know who I mean. Kaká. Sixteen years old. First start. One assist. Is he the real deal or are we rushing it?"
Commentator 1 (Flávio Prado): "He's real. You can't fake calm like that. He wasn't trying to show off,he just played football. Always moving, always aware. Reminds me of the young Raí, before Raí bulked up."
Commentator 2 (Nilson César): "But let's not crown him yet. He got tired at seventy minutes. The coach saw it right, subbing him before he got hurt. These kids burn fast if you're not careful."
Flávio: "Sure, but look at his touch! You can't teach that. Carpegiani said he's got 'tempo.' That's exactly it. Tempo. The rhythm of the game lives in him."
Milton: "Tempo, vision, intelligence. And a little bit of family discipline, maybe. They say the boy's humble, very religious, always studying film."
Nilson: "That's fine, but I want to see him away from home, under pressure. Morumbi is friendly territory. Let's see him against Corinthians."
Milton: "Oh, he'll get there. The way Carpegiani was smiling in that press conference, I'd bet my next paycheck we'll see the kid again next week."
At the club's Barra Funda training center, the morning was quiet.
The players had the day off, but a few reporters lingered near the gates, hoping to catch a quote or a glimpse of someone coming in for recovery work.
The guard smiled and shook his head. "No one today, meu amigo. Everyone resting."
Inside the facility, though, Coach Paulo César Carpegiani was not resting.
He was already in his office by ten, coffee cup half-drunk, watching the match replay on a small television.
On the screen, the number 22 darted into view, touched the ball once, twice, and slid it forward into space. França met it in stride, scored, arms raised.
Carpegiani rewound the tape, watched again. Paused.
Kaká's shoulders were squared, head up before the ball even reached him.
It wasn't luck. It was awareness.
A knock on the door. His assistant, Rui entered with a clipboard.
"Morning, Paulo."
"Bom dia, Rui. You watched the replay?"
"Yes. The boy did well. Covered a lot of ground. Still a bit light, but he's got that knack,sees things before they happen."
"He's like a sponge," Carpegiani said. "He listens. That's rare now."
Rui nodded. "How do you want to use him next week? Start again?"
"We'll see. I don't want to burn him. Maybe rotate him, fifteen, twenty minutes if we're controlling the game. Let him adapt to the rhythm, then we decide."
He scribbled a note on the page: Monitor training load – Kaka.
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O Estado de São Paulo – January 24, 1999
Headline: São Paulo beats Flamengo 2-1; young Kaká justifies the faith
Sub-headline: First start for the 16-year-old midfielder ends with a match-winning assist
Morumbi's floodlights dimmed late Saturday, but the name that stayed bright was already familiar: Kaká.
Promoted last season and often used from the bench, the 16-year-old finally earned a place in the starting lineup of coach Paulo César Carpegiani.
Against Flamengo, he rewarded that trust with an energetic display and the pass that created França's decisive goal in the 69th minute.
"He played with maturity," Carpegiani said afterward. "He understands tempo. He doesn't rush. That's what separates talented boys from real players."
Kaká left the field in the 72nd minute to a standing ovation from much of the 20 thousand crowd.
A half-page photo showed him mid-stride, jersey clinging to his back, number 22 slightly blurred as he turned toward the ball.
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Folha de São Paulo – Sports Section
Column by José Trajano: The Kid Who Waited His Turn
Kaká isn't a mystery anymore. We saw him last year sneaking into matches and changing their rhythm.
Yesterday was different: ninety minutes to breathe, to think, to build.
He didn't try to impress with tricks. He impressed with calm.
The assist to França was precise, the type of pass that trusts a teammate's run rather than luck.
São Paulo's midfield looked smoother with him linking Edmílson and Marcelinho Paraíba.
The boy understands where the ball should go before the defender does.
In the margin:
"At sixteen, already plays like someone who's been around Morumbi for years."
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Gazeta Esportiva
Headline: Carpegiani starts the season with confidence and youth
São Paulo's 2-1 win over Flamengo felt comfortable until fatigue showed near the end.
Among the positives, Kaká's inclusion from the first minute stood out.
In pre-season, he'd already impressed in the Euro-America friendlies with an assist and a goal; yesterday confirmed that wasn't luck.
The club's analysts noted his involvement in fifteen attacking sequences, his coverage helping Marcelinho Paraíba move higher upfield.
Rogério Ceni, interviewed after training, smiled:
"He's growing into the team. He listens. You tell him once, and next time he's already fixed it."
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Rádio Globo – "Round Table" Program (edited transcript)
Host: "São Paulo starts well in the Rio–São Paulo. Another assist for the kid,he's making it a habit."
Commentator 1: "He was patient. Didn't rush the play. He's learned to wait for the opening."
Commentator 2: "That's Carpegiani's touch. He's trusting the academy again. Reminds me of how Tele Santana used to give Raí space to learn."
Fan caller: "We were shouting his name before kickoff. We already knew what he can do. But seeing him start and handle Flamengo's pressure,that's when you realize he's special."
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Lance! Magazine – Monday Feature
Title: Number 22 Delivers Again
For São Paulo supporters, Kaká isn't new,he's the promise everyone has been guarding since 1998.
The difference now is rhythm: instead of arriving as a burst of energy from the bench, he dictated tempo from kickoff.
The crowd recognized it. After Dodo's opener, the chants of "Ka-ká! Ka-ká!" rolled down the stands, half celebration, half confirmation.
In the 69th minute, he slipped a diagonal pass through two red-and-black shirts. França didn't waste it.
The goal sealed the win and confirmed what the coaches have been whispering all month: the boy's ready for real minutes.
Below, a statistical box read:
Minutes played: 72 Assists: 1 Shots: 2 (on target 1)
Pass accuracy: 39/43 Chances created: 4 Fouls suffered: 3
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O Globo – National Sports Section
Headline: Flamengo beaten again at Morumbi; Kaká shines as starter
Flamengo equalized early in the second half but couldn't handle São Paulo's youthful energy.
The home side's midfield trio,Edmílson, Marcelinho, and Kaká,controlled possession, allowing Dodô and França to thrive.
Defender Júnior Baiano admitted after the match:
"We'd watched him last year, thought we knew what he'd do. He's stronger now. Doesn't get pushed off as easily."
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Jornal da Tarde – Editorial Column
Title: A Regular Now, Not Just a Sub
Football moves fast. Six months ago, Kaká was the surprise substitution. Now he's part of the conversation.
Carpegiani's decision wasn't brave,it was logical. The youngster had earned it.
What stood out most was how naturally he fit in. No over-showing, no hesitation. Just efficiency.
That's the mark of someone who learned from being on the bench and was ready when the door opened.
______________________________________
By mid-morning, kiosks from Morumbi to Vila Mariana had his photo under bold black headlines.
At the café near the Bosco family's street, the owner waved a folded newspaper toward Simone.
"Dona Simone! Your boy again on the front page. Said he assisted the winner!"
She smiled shyly but couldn't stop reading the column twice.
At home, Papai clipped the articles neatly and stored them inside a plastic folder marked "Ricardo – 1999 Season."
Digão, pretending not to be impressed, replayed the highlight tape on VHS until the sound warped:
"França receives from Kaká…he's clear…goal for São Paulo!"
On TV Gazeta's afternoon review, the studio replayed the same assist from three angles.
Each commentator had something to say, but the tone was different from last year's discovery.
There was no disbelief now, just expectation.
"He belongs," one of them said simply.
Mamae laid out slices of fresh bread, papaya, and coffee. Papai read the newspaper out loud, quoting from the articles that praised his son.
I tried to hide my grin behind the mug. Digão, still in pajamas, pointed at the photo spread in Gazeta Esportiva.
"They caught your good side, mano. Look! You even look serious for once."
"Serious?" I chuckled. "I was tired. That was the 70th minute."
Simone shook her head. "You were beautiful. Everyone in the stands said so. They were chanting your name."
Papai, folding the paper, looked across the table. "Now it starts, filho. You've earned your place. But remember,it's just the beginning. The work only gets harder from here."
"I know, Papai."
"Do you?" Bosco smiled gently. "Because this city... this club...they love you one day, and they question you the next. Stay steady."
Simone touched her husband's hand, laughing softly. "He's sixteen, not a veteran politician. Let him finish his coffee first."
Across São Paulo, bars replayed the match highlights on small box TVs.
Commentators repeated the same line again and again: "Assist by Kaká!"
The replays ran on endless loops,one slow-motion angle showing the diagonal pass rolling past Flamengo's last defender before França's strike hit the net.
A group of university students at a café near Paulista debated whether he reminded them of Leonardo or Raí.
"He runs like Leonardo but passes like Raí."
"Nah," another said. "He's too calm. The kid's got something else,like he's thinking two plays ahead."
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TV Cultura – "Cartão Verde"
The panel dove deeper. Clips rolled on-screen: every touch Kaká made in the match, each numbered on a graphic overlay.
Presenter: "You see here,touch number 14,he intercepts, keeps possession, draws a foul. That's the small stuff that wins games. Not flashy, just efficient."
Guest Analyst : "Exactly. You know what impressed me most? His body control. He's still lean, but he uses balance to shield the ball. If he puts on three or four kilos of muscle, he'll be very hard to push off."
Presenter: "And he's not just a creator. Look at how he tracks back after losing possession,he sprints fifty meters."
Analyst: "That's discipline. You don't see that often in teenagers."
Meanwhile, in another part of the city,
Carpegiani appeared live on Rádio Record.
Host: "Coach, congratulations on the win. Big performance from the kid yesterday. What do you think of him starting?"
Carpegiani: "He deserved it. We've been watching him since pre-season. He trained well, handled pressure. Yesterday confirmed what we already saw in training."
Host: "He looked tired at seventy minutes. You subbed him off right after the assist."
Carpegiani: "Yes, he's still building stamina. That's normal for a sixteen-year-old. But his reading of the game,that's beyond his age."
Host: "Fans are already calling him the future of São Paulo."
Carpegiani (smiling): "Fans are romantic. My job is to keep him grounded. Talent is one thing. Consistency,that's the next step."
At dusk, as Sunday's light faded behind the city, Ricardo stepped onto the balcony of their apartment in Morumbi.
From the distance, he could see the faint outline of the stadium lights, now cold and silent.
Below, the street buzzed with radios and laughter.
A couple walking by recognized him and waved.
"Boa partida, garoto! (Good match, boy!)"
"Obrigado!" he called back, slightly embarrassed.
Inside, Simone had begun cutting out another newspaper article for the growing folder.
Bosco returned from the study with a small plastic sleeve. "We'll need a new binder soon," he said.
She laughed. "He keeps giving us reasons to fill one."
Ricardo sat down beside them, half-amused, half-touched by the ritual.
"You two act like I've won the World Cup."
"No," Simone said. "Just the world in front of you."
Digão, now munching on a sandwich, added, "You better sign that paper before you're too famous to do it."
Ricardo threw a napkin at him. The room erupted with laughter.
______________________________________
Later that night, Rádio Bandeirantes closed their final sports bulletin of the day.
Anchor: "Before we go, São Paulo fans can relax,their next generation looks bright. Kaká, sixteen years old, played seventy minutes yesterday and gave the pass that sealed victory. Coach Carpegiani says he's part of the plan now. Let's see how he grows."
The outro music rolled,a jazzy guitar riff fading into static.
The city slowed. The chatter softened.
But inside Morumbi's walls, under the quiet hum of the night, a few lights still burned in the São Paulo FC offices.
Coaches reviewing clips. Analysts logging data.
And on one of those screens, frame by frame, the number 22 appeared again,head up, scanning, then sliding the pass that changed the game.
Author's Notes:
Kaka makes his first start.
His minutes will be managed. He won't start every match. Don't shout at me for putting him on the bench in future matches. Blame the coach! Or don't. The kid needs to be managed.
His stats wouldn't be outrageous either. Keep your expectations real.
I tried to bring in the perspective of newspapers in this chapter. I thought I would try something new. Let me know if it works or not.
This chapter took a bit of time, researching the newspapers and radio stations in Sao Paulo at that time, who the anchors were, who the presenters were etc. I gave up halfway though and just called them Commentator 1, Analyst 1. I'll use the names I know and found, but others I will just use generic titles. Sorry in advance.
I wrote a segment, showing the match from Simone's view in the stands, I edited it out. Let me know if that is something you would be interested in. I will add those different POVs of the match as well in future.
Thanks for the support.