The Ghost of Portugal

Chapter 24: The Clash of Systems



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Chapter 24 – The Clash of Systems

January 3, 2015.

First match back after the break.

Sporting's U-16s were set to play Belenenses at home, and the locker room buzzed like a broken vending machine.

João laced his boots quietly in the corner. No speeches. No fake bravado. He wasn't one for chest-thumping.

Beside him, Tiago fumbled with his shin pads. "You ready?"

João smiled. "I'm ready to run. Not sure about the rest."

Tiago smirked. "Come on, maestro. Coach Rui said you're the engine now."

João kept his head down. "Engines don't score goals, Tiago. They just keep the car from stalling."

Tiago laughed under his breath. "Yeah? Tell that to Messi."

João grinned but stayed focused. This wasn't Barcelona. This was Sporting's new tactical experiment, and João was the guinea pig.

Two pivots behind him, wingers hugging the touchlines, and João in the middle—not as a classic number ten, but as a positional playmaker.

Translation?

Keep the ball. Circulate. Don't take risks.

The whistle blew for kickoff.

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The first ten minutes were clean. Controlled. João shifted between the lines, checking his shoulders like a paranoid taxi driver. Short pass, move. Short pass, move again.

Coach Rui barked from the sidelines. "Tempo, tempo! No verticals!"

João wanted to scream. There was a gap in the defense begging for a through ball, but he kept the urge in check. The system came first today.

At least, that's what he told himself.

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Midway through the first half, Belenenses pressed higher.

João scanned the pitch. His pivots were stuck too deep, his wingers stuck too wide. He had no choice.

He dropped back, took the ball off the centre-back, and spun into space.

"João!" Tiago called for it, hands out.

João lifted his head. One pass could break the whole game open.

But he hesitated.

His brain fought itself.

Stick to the system. Keep it safe.

His foot disagreed.

He clipped a soft chip over the press, perfectly weighted. Tiago latched onto it, sprinting into the pocket.

"Play him, Tiago!" João shouted, pointing to the overlapping run.

Tiago flicked it inside to the winger, and just like that—goal.

1–0 Sporting.

The stadium speakers coughed out a song, but João stayed quiet jogging back. He'd broken the rules again, but who cared? Football wasn't a video game. It was felt, not programmed.

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At halftime, Coach Rui pulled João aside.

"You're doing it again."

João wiped sweat from his face with his jersey. "Doing what?"

"Freestyling. Ignoring the positional lanes. You're too creative."

João tilted his head. "Since when is that a crime?"

Rui squinted at him, lips pressed thin. But João held the stare.

"I'm not trying to disrespect you, Mister," he added, softer. "I'm just trying to play football. That's all."

For a second, Rui's hard face cracked into something almost human.

"Just—" he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Try not to break the structure too early in the play."

João nodded. "I'll try."

Which, in João's mind, meant: I'll try not to get caught.

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The second half played out like a chess match. João kept it tight when he could, but when the gaps opened, he still took the pass. Not every time, but enough.

By the end of the game, they won 2–0. João had two key passes, one pre-assist, zero goals, and no headline stats.

But when the boys hit the showers, Tiago slapped him on the back.

"Did you see that old scout in the stands?"

João shrugged. "Probably here for someone else."

Tiago grinned. "Yeah, sure. Maybe for the invisible midfielder pulling all the strings."

João laughed. "If I'm invisible, at least I'm quietly winning."

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