The Ghost of Portugal

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Chapter 21 – The White Room

Sporting CP Academy – Player Development Room, December 2014

João had been in changing rooms where the walls reeked of sweat and turf. This wasn't one of them.

This room smelled like new paint, printer toner, and cold air conditioning.

A narrow conference table sat in the middle. Two flat screens on the wall, one laptop open. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. No boots allowed — just João's socks brushing quietly across the clean floor.

He stood awkwardly near the door until a voice called out.

"Sit down, João."

The voice belonged to Mister Faria, one of Sporting's academy coordinators — thin, serious, and always holding a pen even when there was nothing to write.

João sat.

On the screen, paused mid-frame, was a clip of himself — bent over, arms pumping, dribbling past two older boys during last week's intrasquad scrimmage.

"Recognize this play?"

João nodded. "U17 match. We were playing out of a press."

Faria clicked. The clip ran again. João's feint, the inside cut, the reverse ball.

"Very clever. But you're not a winger, are you?"

João hesitated. "I can play there."

"Not what I asked."

Silence.

Faria sat forward, elbows on the table.

"Look, João. We've been monitoring your progress since you arrived. You're one of the most intelligent players we've had at your age. But you don't fit easily into any single role."

João shifted in his chair.

"I work hard."

"I didn't say you don't," Faria said quickly. "You see space well. You break lines, connect play, and you think quicker than the others. But physically… you're still catching up."

João looked away.

He'd heard it a thousand times since he was ten. Skinny. Light. Fragile. Never strong enough for his age group.

Faria tapped the laptop. Another clip loaded. João drops between the lines, laying off a one-touch pass, then ghosting forward.

"You're an attacking midfielder," Faria said plainly. "That's your natural game."

João blinked. "But we don't play with a ten."

"No, we don't. Not formally. Our model is built on 4–3–3, inside eights, wingers wide. You know that."

"So what do I do?"

Faria leaned back. "We can do two things. One, we try to mold you into a deeper midfielder — a controlling eight. You'd play safe, recycle, and link play. Safer role. Less demanding physically. You'd start training for that."

João stared at the screen.

"Or?"

"Or," Faria said, "we double down on your instincts. We keep you as an attacking midfielder — but that means adapting the system around you. Some coaches won't like it. You might not start every match. You'll be tested more than most."

João didn't hesitate. "Keep me as a ten."

Faria nodded slowly. "I thought you'd say that."

"I don't want to disappear."

Faria's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened.

"You're still young, João. But if you want to play your game, you'll have to earn every minute. Every rep."

"I will."

"Then we'll tell the coaches. You'll begin rotation training — part of your sessions will be separate. Tailored for creative roles."

João exhaled.

"Good. Because I already feel like an outsider half the time."

Faria allowed a small smile. "That's not always a bad thing."

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Outside the building, João spotted Tiago waiting by the fence, juggling a tennis ball off his thigh.

"Took you long enough," Tiago muttered.

"They gave me a position."

Tiago stopped juggling. "Wait? What?"

"Attacking mid."

Tiago frowned. "Do we even play with a ten?"

"Now we do."

A beat passed. Then both laughed.

They walked toward the dorms, jackets zipped to their chins against the cold.

"So what does that mean for you?" Tiago asked.

João kicked a rock down the gravel path.

"It means I'll have to find a space where no one leaves it. Be creative in a system that doesn't always allow it."

Tiago nodded. "Business as usual then."

João smirked. "More or less."

The academy lights flickered behind them. The path ahead — narrow, crooked, uncertain — didn't scare him.

Because for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like he was drifting.

He had direction.

And now, they'd have to deal with it.

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