The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 15 – The Initiation

Sporting CP Academy, Alcochete. Summer 2014.

The moment João stepped through the biometric gates, the door locked behind him with a soft click.

No parents. No Tiago. No comfort.

This was no longer a football academy.

This was the system.

He stared at the sign above the dorm hallway:

"Aqui se forjam campeões."

"Here, champions are forged."

The forge was cold. Anwasn't very sympathetic.

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Day 1 – Body Data

"Strip to shorts."

João stood on a scale, surrounded by blinking tablets and straight-faced trainers. A cold probe touched his back. Calipers pinched his leg.

"Body fat: 10.6%," said the man in the lab coat. "Resting heart rate: 48 BPM. VO2 potentialis high. But…"

He tapped João's thigh.

"Still too lean. Not enough core density. Fragile profile."

Fragile.

They'd said it at Porto. They'd whispered it at Benfica.

Now it was scientific.

João clenched his jaw and nodded. One word stuck in his head:

Prove it.

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Day 2 – GPS Hell

They strapped a tight black vest to his chest and inserted the GPS module. One coach tapped the screen on his watch. "Every sprint, cut, and overload run — we track it all. Don't hide."

No ball. Just cones. Repeats. Sprints. Agility blocks.

Then 10v10 pressing drills. Full pitch. No breaks.

João's legs buckled. But his brain didn't slow.

When to press. When to screen. When to delay the line.

Older players gassed out. João kept running.

Not fast.

But right.

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Day 3 – The Cage

They called it The Gauntlet — a fenced mini-pitch surrounded by a ring of coaches.

2v2. 90 seconds. The ball stays in. No fouls. No whistles.

Just war.

João was paired with a silent U17 midfielder — big, quiet, muscular.

First match: João got shoved into the boards. Then hacked from behind.

He didn't fall.

He stepped around the next press and nutmegged the defender blind.

Gasps. A curse. Someone laughed.

Next match: He got crunched again. Elbow to the ribs.

He winced — but turned it into a half-turn spin and a chipped assist.

By the fourth round, even the coaches leaned in.

"Kid's got ice," one muttered.

Boa Morte just wrote something in his notebook.

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Day 4 – Silence

No sessions.

Just film.

João sat in a cold analysis room watching his footage looped on screen.

Mistakes. Moments. Movement.

He hated what he saw.

The missed angle. The hesitation on the second touch. That one slow recovery run.

"Fix it," the analyst said. "Because U19 defenders won't wait."

That night, João stayed up mapping passing sequences in his notebook until his pen bled dry.

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Day 5 – The Scrimmage

Full internal match.

João played as a floating 8. His team included two first-team loanees recovering from injury.

They didn't pass to him at first.

Then he snapped a one-touch ball through a seam they didn't know existed.

And they passed again.

And again.

By the 30th minute, João had scored once, assisted another, and drawn a free kick from three opponents at once.

The coaches didn't cheer.

They just nodded.

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That night, Boa Morte walked João out to the empty pitch under the floodlights.

"You're a clever boy, João."

João didn't answer.

"You don't belong here. Not with the U15s. Not even the U17s. You're… different."

João stared at the grass.

"But there's a price," Boa Morte added. "Everyone will resent you. The players. Some staff. You'll be marked in every game."

João finally looked up.

"Then let them mark me."

He turned and walked off the pitch, cleats tapping steadily against concrete.

He didn't need a speech.

He needed the ball.

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