The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 20 – Trap Press

Sporting CP – U17 Intra-squad Match, Late November 2014

They thought he was predictable now.

João Félix could feel it in the way they circled before kickoff — looser, more casual. The whispers. The glances.

Let him have the ball. Then snap him in half.

He'd survived the previous week's gauntlet. Even earned a few grudging passes. But he was still a target.

And this time, João wanted it that way.

Because he wasn't here to fit in anymore.

He was here to win a war.

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The match kicked off with the usual high press — Sporting's identity drilled into every age group. Suffocate early. Recover high. Attack relentlessly.

João, playing as a deep-lying playmaker in a 4–3–3, didn't press the pace.

He slowed it.

Let the center-backs handle the first build. Dropped into spaces where no one wanted to follow. Drifted. Waited.

It made them restless.

"Press him!"

Marco barked from midfield. He sprinted toward João, followed by the second eight. They closed together.

Exactly as planned.

João touched the ball once — then spun toward his keeper.

They bit.

João rolled his foot over the ball, let their momentum carry them forward — then cut inside, turning both midfielders into ghosts.

Now space opened like a wound.

He broke forward — ten, fifteen meters — before slotting a needle pass between the lines to the striker peeling off the shoulder.

Shot. Goal.

1–0.

All eyes are on him.

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Next phase. They adjusted.

Marco sat deeper. The second midfielder shadowed João more closely.

João welcomed it.

This time he dropped even deeper — then didn't move.

The left-back looked uncertain. João pointed forward.

"Skip me."

The ball bypassed him.

He watched Marco's head turn — late. The winger was already running into the channel. João hadn't touched the ball — but he'd played it.

The system cracked again.

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Third sequence. João called for the ball under pressure.

He knew they'd jump him.

He wanted it.

As the pass came in, he let the ball run across his body, took a single touch, then pinged a blindside switch to the right-back bursting up the pitch.

The touch was perfect. The runner didn't break stride.

João stood still in midfield.

Watching.

Setting traps with space and silence.

The U17 coaches stood on the far sideline, muttering, then scribbling furiously.

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By halftime, it was 3–1.

João had one assist and had started the move for the other two. But it wasn't the stats that spoke.

It was the control.

He made the press irrelevant. Not by breaking it physically — but by baiting it into collapse.

He'd become the glitch in the machine.

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Second half. Ramires made changes.

Marco dropped to the sixth to track João personally. Man-marking. Shadow every movement.

João didn't fight it.

He led Marco on a leash.

Five meters. Then ten. Then twenty. João dragged him out of shape, then vanished, jogging behind a decoy line and receiving the ball in acres of space.

The opposing team collapsed to reset — but João was already slicing the second line with a diagonal switch. The defense cracked again.

Ramires blew the whistle.

"STOP!"

Everyone froze.

"Everyone. Look."

He pointed at João.

"You see what he's doing? He's not just playing. He's dictating. That's what a system-bender looks like."

João didn't smile.

He just jogged back into position.

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After the match, in the dressing room, no one jeered.

Marco didn't speak to him.

The others just nodded. Quiet. Tired.

They'd been outplayed by someone two years younger.

No one could deny it now.

He wasn't there to survive.

He was there to lead.

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