The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 19 – Target Practice

Sporting CP Academy – U17 Training Ground, November 2014

The first ball came at chest height — a bullet.

João brought it down with a soft touch, pivoted, and tried to find the pivot behind him. No time.

The second ball? A clattering shoulder. No foul. Just a message received.

You're not welcome here.

He scrambled up from the turf, grass clinging to his knees. Around him, the U17 midfield pack didn't speak, didn't joke. They circled like hyenas.

He was fourteen. They were sixteen and seventeen. Taller. Heavier. With friends in the system.

João? He had none.

Coach Ramires blew the whistle.

"Again! Ball speed up! João — show me!"

The drill started: tight-space possession, 6v3 rondos. João was in the middle. Again.

And again.

He darted, anticipating the pass. Missed by inches. The others snickered. One boy, Marco, nutmegged him and flicked the ball over João's head.

Laughter.

João bit down on the inside of his cheek.

Not from embarrassment. From fury.

The ball pinged out. João snatched it from the floor.

This time, he didn't press — he read.

He waited.

The pass came weak from the right. João lunged, intercepted, snand apped a return pass before the next player reacted.

One down.

Ramires blew the whistle. "Switch. João stays in."

"Again?" João snapped.

"You're still learning."

Another round. More flicks. More noise.

But now he wasn't chasing. He was tracking.

They played fast.

He played ahead.

On the fourth pass, João cut in front and stabbed the ball loose.

Two down.

Ramires didn't say a word. Just watched.

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Later, João sat alone at lunch. Rice, chicken, water bottle.

No one joined him.

Marco and the others sat at the far end, laughing. Loud enough for João to hear his name.

"Think he's too smart for us."

"Baby genius."

"He'll break when we press him."

João chewed slowly. Said nothing.

Tiago slid into the seat across from him.

"Tough day?"

João didn't answer.

Tiago leaned forward.

"You think they're jealous?"

João shook his head. "They're just protecting their place."

Tiago nodded. "Good."

"They should be scared."

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Afternoon session. Tactical game simulation: three-zone build-up.

João's role — linking deep midfield to the attacking zone.

The game started choppy. The older boys refused to pass to him. Twice, he moved into open space, signaled for the switch — nothing.

Tiago, watching from the edge of the pitch, started pacing.

In the next sequence, João stopped moving entirely. Just stood still.

Ramires barked, "Move, Félix!"

João snapped back, "They're not looking for me."

Ramires pointed. "Make them look."

João inhaled once.

Fine.

He dropped into the six-pocketed shorts.

Marco reluctantly passed.

João played it back. One-touch. Then moved again.

Next sequence — another pass. This time João feinted the return and turned upfield, slicing between two defenders with a snap of his hips. He zipped a through ball into the striker's feet.

Goal.

No celebration. Just João turning back into position.

Eyes locked with Marco.

Your move.

The next play, João picked up the ball and faked one way, then spun the other way. The winger bit, stumbled.

João drove forward. Another goal.

Now they passed to him.

Because they had to.

He bent the system under pressure, one touch at a time.

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Evening. João limped into the boot room. Grass-stained. Shoulder sore.

Tiago stood by the lockers.

"You survived."

"I learned."

"What's the lesson?"

João unlaced his boots. "I can't be better at their game."

Tiago raised an eyebrow.

"So?"

João looked up, eyes burning.

"I have to change it."

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