Chapter 15: Competing on the Same Pitch as Ronaldinho
"Ken, I heard Ronaldinho is your idol?"
Assistant coach Milton sat down beside him just as Ken was staring intently at the black-and-white number 10 moving across the pitch. The noise of the stadium seemed distant to him; his eyes followed every touch, every subtle shift of movement.
"Yes, Coach Milton," Ken replied quietly, admiration clear in his voice. "My father loved watching Ronaldinho play. I grew up watching his highlights with him. That's probably why I started playing football in the first place."
Milton nodded, smiling faintly. "No wonder your style has that same rhythm. Though," he added jokingly, "you're much better looking than him."
Ken laughed softly but quickly returned his attention to the field.
"You know," Milton continued, his voice lowering slightly, "people used to say Brazilian football was all tricks and no efficiency. They said Samba football was only for street performances, not for serious competition. That changed when Ronaldinho appeared. He showed the world that creativity and practicality could exist together."
On the pitch, Ronaldinho received the ball again. With a relaxed sway of his shoulders, he slipped past a defender and delivered a no-look pass that split the defensive line. The crowd erupted in applause even before the move was finished.
Ken's eyes lit up instinctively.
Milton watched the reaction and sighed. "His peak didn't last long, but during those years, he made the whole world fall in love with football again. That's something very few players can do."
He paused, then looked at Ken seriously.
"Ken, talent can make you famous, but discipline decides how long you stay at the top. Many great Brazilian players lost themselves after success. Remember that."
Ken nodded firmly. "I understand, Coach."
---
On the field, Atlético Mineiro continued pressing aggressively. São Paulo struggled to keep possession, and several dangerous chances forced the defense to retreat deep into their own half.
"Hey, Ken," Silvinho said, bumping his shoulder lightly, "we almost conceded just now, yet you looked disappointed."
Ken coughed awkwardly. "No… I was just relieved the shot missed."
Silvinho laughed. "You're watching Ronaldinho more than the match itself."
Ken didn't deny it.
---
The first half ended 0–0. As the players headed into the tunnel, Ken's eyes unconsciously followed Head Coach Ramalho. He tried to remain calm, but the desire to step onto the pitch burned quietly inside him.
"Warm up properly," the coach finally said while passing by. "Be ready."
Those simple words were enough. Ken stood up immediately and began stretching on the sidelines, every movement focused and deliberate.
Silvinho smiled as he watched. "Relax. After your last performance, the coach won't keep you on the bench for long."
Ken didn't answer. He only nodded, eyes fixed on the pitch.
---
The second half began, and time seemed to move painfully slowly. Sixty minutes. Seventy minutes. The score remained unchanged, and both teams began to show signs of fatigue.
Then finally—
"Ken, warm up. Five minutes."
The words sounded almost unreal.
Ken sprang to his feet so quickly that the water bottle beside him tipped over, splashing Silvinho, who could only shake his head with a helpless grin as the young midfielder rushed toward the touchline.
Every sprint, every stretch during the warm-up felt sharper than usual. His breathing steadied, heartbeat slowing into the rhythm he had trained for countless times.
Three minutes later he returned, eyes bright.
"Coach, I'm ready."
Ramalho gave a short nod and quickly delivered tactical instructions. Ken listened carefully, repeating each point in his mind.
---
In the 76th minute, the substitution board finally rose.
Ken stepped onto the pitch.
A wave of applause came from the São Paulo supporters scattered throughout the stadium. It wasn't deafening, but it was warm—encouraging, expectant.
"Good luck, Ken!" Aloísio shouted from the sideline.
Ken raised a hand in acknowledgment, then took his position in the attacking midfield.
Across the field, Ronaldinho adjusted his stance, preparing to receive the throw-in. For a brief moment, Ken simply watched him—the same player whose posters once hung on his bedroom wall, whose videos he had replayed endlessly as a child.
His fingers brushed lightly against the grass as he bent down, grounding himself.
Dad… can you see this?
*I'm finally standing on the same pitch as him.*