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The night after the Ukraine match, André still couldn't find an opportunity for revenge. The following day, he gave Cristiano the silent treatment. No matter how many times his cousin called his name, André responded only with eye rolls.
"André, my dear brother, I'm sorry. I'll never tell anyone your embarrassing stories again."
"Get lost. 'Again'? You've already told everyone. You've got it coming, Cristiano. Once this camp is over, I'm going straight to Georgina. Remember that time you went to a nightclub in Spain?"
"When did I ever go to a nightclub?"
"You did. If I say you did, you did. We'll see whether Georgina believes me or you."
Even if you didn't, I'll make something up.
"André, you can't do that."
"Watch me. If I don't fix your big mouth this time, you'll have me under your thumb forever."
The banter between the two cousins had lightened the mood in the Portugal camp considerably. Combined with the victory over Ukraine, the tension had eased, replaced by a sense of relaxation and confidence.
Three days later, still at the Estádio da Luz, Portugal welcomed their second qualifier opponents: Serbia.
Santos deployed the same lineup as the previous match.
Serbia's football history was complicated. The national team had emerged from the breakup of Yugoslavia, initially competing as Serbia and Montenegro before Montenegro's independence in 2006 created the current Serbian side.
Their 2010 World Cup qualifying campaign had announced them as a force to be reckoned with. Though new to the international stage, their players were well-known across Europe: Nemanja Vidić at Manchester United, Dejan Stanković at Inter Milan.
Today, head coach Mladen Krstajić fielded a 4-4-2.
Dmitrović in goal. A back four of Rukavina, Veljković, Milenković, and Kolarov. In midfield: Grujić, Ljajić, Matić, and Kostić. Up front: Mitrović and Tadić.
The squad was stacked with players from Europe's top five leagues. Serie A was particularly well-represented—Grujić, Ljajić, Kolarov, and Milenković all played in Italy. Matić anchored Manchester United's midfield. Tadić had just moved from Southampton to Ajax. Rukavina had faced André in La Liga just weeks earlier.
This was not a side to be taken lightly.
The match began.
Seven minutes in, Portugal made a catastrophic error.
Kolarov pushed forward on the left flank, delivering a cross from near the byline. The ball wasn't particularly threatening—routine, even. But somehow, centre-back Rúben Dias and goalkeeper Patrício both went for it simultaneously.
They collided.
The ball dropped loose. Tadić pounced, slotting it into the empty net.
0-1.
Portugal were behind almost before the match had started.
On the touchline, Santos's face darkened. He'd warned them before kick-off. And still they'd made such a basic mistake. The conceded goal was a devastating blow to morale.
After the restart, Portugal's play became disjointed.
Santos's pre-match plan had been conservative: defend solidly in the first half, then increase attacking intensity after the break. Serbia's squad was ageing, due for a generational transition—patience would be rewarded.
But the early goal had fractured the team's thinking. Some players wanted to chase the equaliser immediately. Others felt they should stick to the manager's instructions.
The lack of unity led to errors. More errors meant more Serbian chances.
Fortunately, Santos was experienced enough to recognise the problem quickly. He used a break in play to reorganise, ending the chaos. And Patrício—seeking redemption after his collision—produced two world-class saves to keep the deficit at one.
Thirty-seventh minute.
The turning point.
André Silva lost possession in the attacking third. Attempting to win it back, he suddenly collapsed to the turf.
The Portugal medical team rushed on. After a brief examination, they signalled to Santos: substitution required.
Santos shook his head in frustration. No time for a proper warm-up.
André jogged straight onto the pitch, replacing his injured namesake.
The Portuguese supporters weren't entirely convinced. Despite his impact against Ukraine, André's age still bred scepticism.
They didn't know that this match would become his breakthrough performance for the national team. After today, his place in the starting eleven would never be questioned again.
Less than five minutes after entering the pitch, André equalised.
Forty-first minute.
Cristiano found him at the edge of the penalty area. André shaped to shoot—the defender bit—then cut inside onto his left foot. A curling strike, rising all the way, nestled into the top corner.
1-1.
André wheeled away and copied Cristiano's signature celebration: arms spread wide, spinning jump, emphatic landing.
The stadium erupted. The home supporters hadn't expected a forced substitution to transform the match so completely.
Cristiano sprinted over.
"I've asked Fernando to keep the match ball for you," he murmured in André's ear. "Your first international goal. You need to keep it."
"Oh—right. I completely forgot."
"Also—why did you copy my celebration?"
"Copy? Mine's different. You shout 'Siii.' I shout something else entirely."
"What do you shout?"
André just grinned.
Some things were better left untranslated.
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