Fábio's cross came flying in. Forty-five degrees to the left of the penalty box. I connected with a direct shot without hesitation.
Thud!!
The ball struck the post and bounced back out. The feel wasn't bad — should I have taken a little more pace off it?
I clapped my hands in frustration and turned away. I held up one finger to Fábio, asking for one more. This was how I made up for the basics outside of team training, carving out time wherever I could find it. For me, the basics meant finishing ability — the capacity to score from any position. There are no shortcuts for things like this. It takes repetition until it's second nature. Today Fábio had come along to help with exactly that.
"Hoo…"
My immediate goal was to catch up to the team's starter, Ferreira. To do that, from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning I focused on nothing but training. When I had classes, I kept drawing goal scenarios in my head. And whenever time allowed, I added weights, and on the training ground — team tactics, video analysis, fundamentals.
It was all necessary. Unlike the others who had already secured their places, I was still nothing more than a substitute.
Boom—!
This time I met Fábio's low pass and drove it hard with the inside of my foot. The ball flew fast and punched past a diving Mbaiye.
"Jino, let's take a short break."
Fábio said, hands on his knees. Including Mbaiye, who I'd been getting closer to recently — the three of us got on well. Maybe it was because our situations were similar despite being on different teams. We all shared the common ground of being backup members.
"Are you starting the day after tomorrow?"
"Yeah. First start."
I'd seen the coach call Fábio over in the morning. And the look on Fábio's face when that conversation ended. I'd felt it immediately. That he'd been told he was starting.
I was envious. And at the same time, I felt how far I still had to go. Unlike when I'd been doing things without really knowing anything, the more I learned the more the gaps revealed themselves. My thoughts must have shown on my face. Fábio tapped my forehead with his palm.
"Ow."
"You're doing the best out of anyone. Would they use you as a joker in crucial moments if you weren't good enough? Just keep doing what you're doing and the starting chance will come soon."
"… Thanks for saying it, at least."
"Trust me. I've seen a lot of strikers. If you keep improving like this, hmm."
Fábio didn't finish the sentence, but I could feel the implication.
"Right, I've got to keep at it. Let's do a little more."
"Alright."
Opportunity comes to those who are prepared. This was no time for pointless thoughts.
Boom!!
The night breeze of late December swept through. It wasn't cold. The heat rising from my body was far warmer.
※
Dr. Jorge Sampaio.
The team's first back-to-back wins in the league. Many home fans had filled the seats to watch Porto's boys on a rising tide. The opposition weren't bad either. Famalicão, 14th in the league. They set up with two defensive midfielders, looking to weather Porto's assault.
"Did his ankle twist?"
21st minute of the first half. A cross Galeno whipped in from the flank sailed past the line and behind the opposition goal. Heavy rain before the match had left the pitch in poor condition. He must have stepped on a divot and his planted foot gave way. Galeno was clutching his left ankle, unable to get up.
"Jino, Malek. Start warming up for now."
An instruction from Coach Castro far earlier than expected. While Galeno received treatment on the sideline, I began warming up.
Regardless of that, the match continued. Famalicão's goalkeeper's goal kick dropped beyond our half. As opposition player Deni Hotsko flicked it on with his head, Fábio and opposing striker Cunha went into a physical battle.
Oh no.
Technique or otherwise, at its core football is a contact sport. In Fábio's case, while his attacking work was exceptional, he couldn't handle adult players physically in defensive situations. Being tossed aside by Cunha, who wasn't even particularly imposing physically — it was a problem that clearly needed solving. And these situations always come with a price.
In open space, Cunha plays it into the exposed flank where Galeno had been and drives forward.
A counter-attack.
Galeno still off the pitch, Fábio down hard from the collision. Outnumbered in the midfield zone, the defensive shape fell apart. Pires on the right couldn't track back in time, and fullback Yahaya tried to cover but was helpless against the opposition's 2v1 exchange.
Dangerous.
Félix cuts inside down the flank and enters the penalty box. Center back Fernandes attempts to cover, but Famalicão play a cut-back. Cunha, arriving into the box, gets his chance to shoot.
Ruizang and center back Lete, who had both rushed back, tried to stop it with tackles, but the ball had already passed goalkeeper Costa.
22nd minute of the first half. The opening goal conceded.
"Ugh, every time we're at home we start by letting one in."
João Malek, warming up alongside me, muttered. At home, winning was an absolute must. Sure enough, Coach Castro's brow was deeply furrowed.
Before the match, he had warned them so much about Cunha, a seasoned veteran, and about the counter-attack danger. Galeno's injury was an unexpected variable, but things had gone exactly the wrong way — it was enough to make anyone furious.
On top of that, Ruizang — who had committed a reckless tackle on Cunha — picked up a yellow card. Five accumulated yellows meant suspension for the next match. It was the worst possible outcome.
Regardless of the cold atmosphere, the match resumed. Possession was still high, but the edge of the attack had blunted. It felt like they had been drawn into Famalicão's game — a mix of anxiety and a deep defensive block.
"Caralho! (F*ck!)"
"Language for youngsters."
On top of that, Famalicão were enjoying the physical side of things. Our agitated players responded.
Around the 30th minute of the first half.
Just outside the penalty box, Moreira kicked an opposition attacker in the shin. It was essentially retaliation for a tackle that had targeted his ankle moments before. Porto and Famalicão players tangled together, exchanging curses.
Tweet! Tweet!
The match was briefly halted. The referee firmly warned the players who couldn't calm down and produced a yellow card for Moreira.
Within ten minutes — one goal conceded and two yellow cards. Still so much of the match remaining, what could be done. The one silver lining was that Galeno, back on the pitch, looked to be moving fine.
Famalicão's free kick went wide, and the match continued with us in the ascendancy. One important thing — there's no victory on points in football. With the current level of performance, defeat was the obvious outcome. Possession without penetration continued, and the first half came to an end.
1-0 — Famalicão leading.
The contrasting expressions between Porto, who hadn't managed an equalizer, and Famalicão's players, who had executed their prepared strategy to perfection, were striking.
Walking into the dressing room, the reason for those expressions became clear. Coach Castro rapped out words like a rapper. Moving the magnetic markers with players' numbers on them, he laid into them without pause.
"Dalot! Push further into their half. Varela can't do anything alone in tight spaces. Overlap and take the 1v1 on confidently. Then either play it quickly to Ferreira or drive in yourself."
"Fábio — I'll reduce your defensive burden, so focus on the attack. But absolutely, absolutely do not give the ball away cheaply and hand them a counter. Understood?"
"When Dalot pushes up, Yahaya — you focus on keeping the balance. Three at the back to shut down their counter. Got it?"
"Right. Today's opposition are not a team we should be losing to. There are plenty of fans here — is this the performance you want to put on? Get out there and get the equalizer as fast as possible, then the winner. Understood? I said, understood!"
Overwhelmed by the coach's intensity, we answered together from the dressing room. Then he turned his gaze to me.
"How is it? Match rough enough for you?"
"Well…"
"Oh right. You played American football. Disappointed?"
"It's not like that."
"You'll have been ready from before. You're going straight on for the second half."
Coach Castro giving the order to go on immediately. Galeno looked alright, but his ankle had turned once. It was a precautionary substitution.
"Yes!"
"And if they cross a line, don't back down — give it back to them."
"Understood."
※
The second half began and the momentum flowed one way. Penning them into their own half and laying siege. From halftime onward, Famalicão couldn't even get the ball past the center line.
Looking at the situation alone, this was clearly a mismatch in class. But even with us in possession, genuinely threatening moments still weren't coming. I'd felt it since the U-18 days — breaking down a team that was set up to defend was always difficult. Move three or four steps and the opposition was surrounding you immediately, making it impossible to do anything.
On top of that, unlike the previous two matches, there was almost no space in behind. Famalicão's last line of defenders was practically sitting on the penalty box line. Factor in the goalkeeper's coverage area, and using my speed — my main strength — was going to be difficult.
"Hey!"
Even so, I kept weaving between defenders trying to create passing lanes.
"Ah…"
The players in possession apparently saw it differently — the ball kept staying in the back and never came forward. With the situation growing frustrating and my own movement gradually slowing, the defender who had been man-marking me inside the box muttered in my ear.
"What is Porto thinking? Using someone nobody knows the first thing about."
"…"
In a match you always get one of these. Experienced the same in Brazil and America. The real meaning behind those words was the same as racism.
"What are you looking at? Want me to pull your eyes wider?"
"Go ahead. Your mouth will be getting torn open too."
From experience, the worst thing to do in a situation like this is to shrink. I looked up at the guy who had a few centimeters on me and gave him a thin smile. He looked back at me with an expression of disbelief.
"Oh? Lost your sense of fear, have you?"
"Not at all. Think you can handle me? Want to sort it out after the match?"
I kept my eyes on the ball outside the box and fired back at him. If this had been American football, I'd have already driven his face into the turf. But this was football. Pointless physical contact was exactly what he wanted.
"Why wait till after? Do it now. Let me feel what a yellow boy's hands are made of."
"Don't talk so close to me. Your breath stinks."
Of course, our pointless back-and-forth had nothing to do with the ball, which kept circulating. With both sides looking for the moment to strike. Dalot, starting at left back, drove deep into the corner. He glanced inside the penalty box and attempted a cross.
Thwap!
Enough of the argument with the defender. I shook off the unpleasant hand grabbing at my jersey. One feint like I was spinning away backward and the opponent stumbled. In that instant, I moved forward to meet the ball.
Good height, good pace. With the intention of seizing a timing the goalkeeper wouldn't expect, I launched myself into the air. As I jumped I could feel the defender's head below mine. The players' eyes naturally turned toward me — and they seemed to already know it was too late.
Thud!!
A powerful header that cut straight through the cross. I hammered the ball down precisely as if driving a nail with my forehead. The moment I confirmed the trajectory of the perfectly struck ball flying away — adrenaline surged through every part of my body. Along with the confidence that I could score even through a packed defense.
"Watch who you talk to like that. You're nothing special."
I said it in front of the loudmouth's face as he watched the goal go in. Sometimes the truth hits harder than a punch.
Score 1-1.
The match was back to square one, and the lock Famalicão had put on their goal had come undone. The space in behind visibly wider than before. From here, the nature of the attack would be different.