FC Porto's first team, under Conceição, were holding firm at the top of the league.
At home in particular, they remained unbeaten.
For the first time since the 2012-13 season — five long years — fans were daring to believe the title might finally be coming back.
"At this rate they'll shake off Benfica for good."
"Ha. Plenty of games left. Getting ahead of yourself is how you jinx a season."
Conceição stood side by side with reserve team manager Castro, surveying the pitch.
His reason for visiting the reserve setup was simple — he wanted to see Diogo Dalot with his own eyes.
The second half of the season would kick off with the Champions League round of sixteen against Liverpool, followed by a fierce run of league fixtures.
Injuries would pile up. Legs would get heavy. And to make matters more pressing, right back Ricardo Pereira's move to Leicester City was gathering momentum.
So Dalot's integration into the first team had been on Conceição's mind for a while now.
"How are the others looking?"
"Not bad."
After watching Benfica reel off four consecutive league titles, Porto had thrown everything into developing their youth.
The squad was officially U-23, but the reality was that most players were under twenty.
After a long dry spell, genuine talent had suddenly surfaced at several positions at once.
Everyone at the club — coaches, directors, staff — had their hands pressed together, hoping this crop of young players would be the generation to finally end the Benfica era.
"You've got a few earmarked already?"
"Yeah. Costa and Galeno I'd say are making it to the first team. Fábio over there — if we develop him right, there'll be plenty of clubs circling."
"What about Malek? His attitude since coming up to the reserves has been all wrong, but still."
"His ability is good for his age. But raw talent alone won't cut it from here on."
While the two managers talked, the players were doing everything they could to catch Conceição's eye — leaving nothing in reserve.
"Jino's a lot better than he was, isn't he?"
"The raw material is exceptional. But he can't afford to be satisfied at this level."
"He's putting the work in. The funny thing is he's been wearing that mask all day long."
"That's exactly what separates him from Malek over there. If Malek doesn't wake up, the gap between those two is only going to get wider."
Conceição fixed his gaze on Seo Jino. The mask clearly uncomfortable, yet he was still putting balls in the net with it on.
Watching him, Conceição found he wasn't particularly worried. Not with Castro — the finest developer of young talent in the youth system — overseeing his progress.
"Honestly, even now it doesn't make sense."
"No, it really doesn't."
Conceição agreed without hesitation. It had been less than six months since the boy had started playing football.
An amateur competing at a professional level — that alone was hard to believe. The fact that he wasn't falling behind was nothing short of remarkable.
The key thing was that he was still a blank canvas.
Depending on how the coaching staff shaped him, he could become the finest product Porto had ever produced.
"Give it a year or two and then—"
"Too long. Forget everything else — just get the fundamentals locked in. The rest he can pick up by running into it at the next level."
Conceição cut Castro off before he could finish. Castro looked mildly put out.
"Fundamentals are the hardest thing there is. Don't act like you don't know that."
"I already said it — what he's done in six months doesn't make sense."
"… So that's how Dudu felt."
"Don't overthink it. Let the matches teach him what he's missing. Keep the competition going. That's the fastest way."
Conceição planted the seed of belief and swept his gaze across the ground.
A 25-minute blue-versus-white practice match between the reserve squad.
With time nearly up, Seo Jino was bearing down on what might be his last real showdown with Diogo Dalot.
※
The fact that Conceição had shown up himself made it feel like Dalot's promotion to the first team was practically a done deal.
I'd known it was coming since the beginning — yet somewhere along the way, a part of me had grown attached to the guy.
Of course it was worth celebrating. And soon enough I'd be chasing him up there myself.
But first.
It would be wrong to let him go without settling things properly.
Dalot, whose pride in his own pace was legendary, came hurtling down the flank beside me.
We'd timed each other enough times by now to know the numbers well.
But training and the real thing were two different animals. Whatever the stopwatch said, here we were — side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
The speed duel started all the way back in our own defensive half, while the other players stood back and watched like spectators at a sideshow.
Dalot's top sprint speed of 35.4km/h was not something to take lightly.
And yet somehow, in the middle of all this, all I could feel was how much fun it was.
The thought of what waited further up — players even more terrifying than this — sent adrenaline flooding through me.
"What the— how are they both that fast?"
"Come on, Dalot!"
Both of us stared straight ahead like racehorses with blinkers on, pouring everything into the sprint. Then, gradually, a gap began to open.
The two shoulders that had been perfectly level — it was mine that edged ahead.
The heavier you are, the harder it is to accelerate — that's just physics.
"Oh no you don't—!"
As if to remind us that football was a team sport, Lete came storming in to cover.
He stepped up to stop me, but I had no intention of engaging.
Thwap! Before Lete had even settled into his defensive stance, I'd already flicked my ankle and redirected the ball.
I didn't make a big turn of the head — the mask made that difficult anyway. But I'd already clocked Fábio making his run from behind.
Fábio shifted direction and threaded a left-footed through ball toward Ferreira.
Clang!
Ferreira rolled it softly into the corner of the net. It was the kind of perfectly constructed team goal you rarely saw in the reserves — and both Castro and the coach burst into applause.
And then one more pair of hands.
Even Conceição, the first-team manager, raised both thumbs.
Still buzzing from the high five we were exchanging with real feeling—
"Why are you always doing this to me? In front of Conceição? Are you trying to get me killed? Ha."
Dalot threw his arm around my shoulder as he said it.
Even in training, being outpaced was bad enough — but to be the one who gave away the goal on top of it.
"Lucky finish."
If I'm being honest, right now all I could really do against someone like Dalot or Lete was run at them and hope. In tight spaces with no room, I was a mouse in front of a cat.
But the team I was part of had players who covered for me.
Ferreira drawing defenders away in the attacking zone. Fábio appearing in my line of sight just when I needed him.
All I had to do was my part. And judging by how today felt, the mask was doing its job too.
"This is just the beginning. Wait for me up there."
"And good luck to you too."
When training ended, Dalot's promotion to the first team was confirmed.
This might be the last time — here at Jorge Sampaio.
No. If neither of us made it to the first team, we might never cross paths again.
The players didn't scatter easily when the session was done.
Cool-down routines, then individual work stretching into the evening.
One by one, they were all telling themselves the same thing — next time, it's my turn.
※
Dr. Jorge Sampaio.
Diogo Lete traded handshakes with the opposing captain — a midfielder with an armband and a face that had seen a few battles.
Technically this was supposed to be about fair play. In practice, it was little more than theatre.
And it was appropriate theatre, given that today's opponents — FC Arouca — were exactly the kind of club who built their identity around what they liked to call "men's football."
That nickname, naturally, came from themselves and their own fans. From the outside, the more accurate term would have been "thuggery with a badge."
Sent out as our starting strikers to deal with them were Ferreira and João Malek.
I sat beside the also-benched Fábio, mask still strapped to my face.
"Take that thing off. You only need it in training."
"Mind your own business."
"Suit yourself. The thing is, we need to keep our match sharpness — and they've got us sitting here on the bench."
Just because Fábio and I had been standing out didn't mean the competition was over.
If the last match had been about testing me alongside Ferreira, today was Malek's audition.
The two of them had linked up a handful of times before. Without much success, granted — but still.
"Let's go!!"
As the match was about to kick off I fired out some encouragement. English just came naturally in moments like this, so the players paid it no mind.
"Oi! Are you insane?!"
"Fodase! (What the—!)"
And barely any time had passed at all.
Arouca's number 17 drove an elbow — no subtlety, no pretense — straight into Ferreira's face.
The curses raining in from every direction had a distinctly sinister edge to them.
When the referee produced a yellow card instead of red, another wave of jeers crashed down.
Ferreira himself staggered off the pitch, hands clamped around a nose that was already bleeding.
FC Arouca — currently sitting sixth in the table.
Last season they had been competing in the Primeira Liga. Players had left since then, but a club that had played in the top flight carried itself differently. The quality was there — and so was the edge that comes from fighting to survive in a league far above your means.
The players settled, and the game resumed.
A Pires cross found Malek's head, but all the power had gone out of it and it dropped comfortably into the goalkeeper's arms.
As Malek vented his frustration on the turf with his boot, Arouca's goalkeeper bypassed the build-up entirely and hurled the ball long to his right midfielder. Number 13, crossing into our half in a single movement, no messing around.
Our left back — Oleg Reabuck, covering in Dalot's absence after the promotion — stepped up to intercept. He cut out the threat and rolled it simply to Moreira, who shifted it on to Ruizang in the center.
Ruizang checked the position of João Malek, one half of our attacking partnership.
"Argh!"
Just as he shaped to play the ball into space, Ruizang went down under a brutal tackle.
"Have you lost your minds?!"
"You absolute—!"
The referee's whistle came sharp and urgent as the players collided again.
Ten minutes into the first half. By the time this match was done, I found myself wondering whether anyone would be walking off that pitch in one piece.
This is too much.
Older, more experienced — and built like a different species compared to most Portuguese league sides. The average height of their starting eleven was 185.7cm against our 179.6cm.
This was exactly what it looked like — football decided by who could hit harder and stand taller.
Ferreira hadn't even made it back on when Ruizang had to be carried off, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Two yellow cards, two of our players temporarily out of commission.
Porto's youngsters were losing their composure fast, and Arouca had calculated exactly that — for them, this was a winning trade.
"Stay calm!"
Goalkeeper Diogo Costa was roaring and gesturing from the far end, desperately trying to cool the temperature — and being completely ignored.
Players with their heads gone narrow their view of the pitch. Going physical in response was exactly what Arouca wanted. The atmosphere was tilting fast. And the roughhousing was starting to get inside people's heads.
Ferreira kept touching his nose, unable to stop thinking about the injury, and Ruizang moved with a new timidity — already scared of the next tackle.
Galeno and Yahaya on the right were at least keeping things from completely falling apart, but the center and left had been torn to shreds. Then came a sharp Arouca run down the flank and the inevitable cross.
"For the love of—!"
"Oh no…"
A header conceded to striker Aleksandr Palocevic. They'd been watching the tall center forward and lost the second striker completely.
31st minute.
The jeers swept through the stadium like a storm. Sparse crowd, which only made the sound sharper and more personal.
Porto's youngsters, heads dropping one by one.
Murmur, murmur.
An early goal down, and the bench lurched back into motion.
Ferreira had been pawing at his nose for the third time — clearly he was done.
Castro reached for Iralha, the combative midfielder, and told him to get ready.
The priority was to reclaim the midfield. Iralha began warming up with purpose.
One precious substitution already spent — trailing 0-1 going into the second half.
"Casama! You too — start warming up!"
Castro pushed on, lining up Moreta Casama to replace Ruizang as well.
Casama, a Guinea-Bissau international, had recently joined the squad.
Back in the U-18 setup he and Fábio had competed for the same role.
Where Fábio dismantled opponents with his passing, Casama — equally comfortable on the flank — led with aggressive, relentless dribbling.
"That leaves us with only one substitution."
Fábio muttered it from his seat in front of the bench.
Three cards, two used — one remaining.
It was going to be me or Fábio, and everyone knew it.
"Jino — you're sitting this one out."
"No. You don't need to go either. I'll sort it."
The match restarted from a throw.
In the chaos, Arouca did what Arouca did. They pressed relentlessly, forcing mistakes, and when Oleg rushed a clearance, Palocevic was right there to intercept.
Castro let out something close to a scream, but the ball had already left Palocevic's foot.
A perfectly weighted pass into the run of Beny — timed to tear the line apart.
The ball arrived exactly where Beny wanted it, in behind the defense.
He watched Costa coming off his line and casually guided it to the left of the goal.
A second goal from a catastrophic error.
Costa ripped a fistful of grass out of the turf and scattered it into the air in disbelief.
"Damn it all."
"Wasted trip today."
"Too young. They always crumble against the rough sides."
The voices drifting in from the stands behind were telling enough.
An added goal right before the break — 2-0 at half time.
Arouca in full control. But the real disaster wasn't even the scoreline.
"Pires!!"
"These absolute animals—!!"
Arouca's key midfielder Eriksson grabbed Pires by the arm. The team trainer sprinted onto the pitch as Pires clutched his shoulder, and moments later the signal came — arms crossed, unable to continue.
"Who do we—"
"Nothing's going our way today."
"If we want any kind of chance at a goal, it has to be Fábio or Jino."
"Can Jino link up with Malek?"
"Or you could bring Fábio on instead."
"Look at what's out there right now. Anyone Fábio tries to pass to is going to be on the floor before the ball gets there."
Castro and Matos exchanged views in urgent, hushed tones.
Fábio and I pretended not to hear, watching the scene play out from the corner of our eyes.
Whatever call they made, it was theirs to make — but the referee's whistle ended the half at 2-0 to Arouca before any decision had been reached.
Then the second half.
"It's a rough match — play it quick, get rid of it fast."
The one the coach had chosen was me. The instruction to come on had already been given at half time.
Before the second half kicked off, I ran through one final check of my body and tuned in to the manager's voice.
He was drilling back into me what needed to be done. I was just about to move to my position when:
"Aren't you taking the mask off?"
"Oh."
At the coach's words, I pulled the mask off and tossed it aside.
Whether it would make any difference in a real match — that was the question.
Let's find out.