A soft drizzle coated Benfica's academy ground that morning.
The sky was gray, and the air sharp, but the field still echoed with the sounds of boots, whistles, and determined voices. Winter clung to Lisbon like a wet blanket, and the early dew clung stubbornly to the grass.
Jota stood at the edge of the secondary pitch, red training jacket zipped to his chin. His hands were deep in his pockets, and each breath left behind a brief mist in the cold air.
Today wasn't a big match.
No showcase.
Just another training day.
But for Jota, no day here was "just" anything.
---
A few days after the Winter Showcase, everything changed faster than the weather.
More players started waking early to jog.
Some coaches stopped calling him "Dias" and started calling him "Captain."
A title that made his ears burn—but he never corrected them.
The biggest shift came when Coach Nuno handed him a slim packet of diagrams.
"Try running through this. Alone. Three days straight."
It wasn't physical training.
It was tactical movement, video analysis from old Benfica games, legends like Rui Costa and Deco.
Jota nodded silently. That night, he borrowed the academy's DVD player, took out a small pencil, and began copying notes from paused frames.
---
At night, when others slept, he sat with his notebook.
On the first page, written in his careful cursive:
"Lessons from the Game."
He wrote:
> "Figo never rushed—but he never stood still either."
"Rui Costa rarely lost the ball. Because he saw two moves ahead."
"Cristiano didn't wait for space. He made it."
Three lines. But to him, more valuable than hours of theory.
---
One afternoon, after lunch, Jota sat on the bench near the locker rooms. A new letter had arrived from Ana—her drawings were getting better. This time, it was him holding a trophy taller than himself, with Miguel beside him holding a giant loaf of bread.
She had written:
> "Trophy first. Bread second."
Jota chuckled quietly.
Bruno, passing by, nudged his shoulder. "Your sister's got style."
"She's just hungry," Jota replied.
Bruno grinned. "Hungry for winning, huh?"
---
On Wednesday that week, the message came from Coimbra.
Of the fifty boys at the development camp, twenty were selected.
João Dias—quiet kid from a tiny village—was on the list.
Coach Nuno posted the list on the board without a word, but his eyes scanned the hallway until they found Jota.
Jota read his name. He didn't smile.
He only nodded once, took a deep breath, and headed toward the field.
Leonel shouted from behind, "You know you're allowed to celebrate, right?"
Jota said nothing.
This wasn't the destination.
This was only another door.
---
The days that followed were heavier—not because training grew harder, but because the atmosphere did.
Some players started treating him differently.
A few wanted to follow him.
Others kept their distance, maybe feeling left behind.
Bruno remained the same.
He jokingly called him weird names in the hallway.
"Captain Cosmos!" he'd say with a salute.
Jota answered once, "If I'm from space, I still haven't figured out socks."
They laughed.
That kind of laughter kept his heart human.
---
One evening, Jota and Coach Sofia sat by the pitch after cooldown.
She handed him warm tea.
"You know, most kids your age want to be famous," she said.
Jota stared out at the fading sky.
"But you…" Sofia added. "You act like someone who's lost it all once and doesn't want to again."
Jota answered softly, "Maybe because I've started from the bottom before."
She nodded and patted his back. "Then don't forget what that felt like."
---
Another letter came.
Miguel wrote:
> "Ana won a drawing contest. She got colored pens. She said they represent you."
"We started selling cheese bread. It's going fast."
"I fixed the oven myself. Dad says you'd be proud."
"We're all waiting for summer. Not for the winner you'll become. But for the João who never changed."
Jota held the letter to his chest before placing it in his box.
The ink was a little smudged from travel, but the message stayed intact.
---
At the weekend, they had a simulation match.
The U13 squad split into Red and White teams.
Jota captained the White team.
His job wasn't just to play—it was to direct transitions, issue commands, and observe.
The Red team led early. Leonel mis-passed twice and looked crushed.
"Sorry," he muttered. "I ruined it."
Jota clapped his back. "It's not your pass that wins. It's your next step after falling."
The team grew quiet.
Then played harder.
Bruno scored the equalizer in the 38th.
In the 42nd, Jota delivered a lofted ball to the left, and Diego volleyed it home.
The White team won.
Coach Nuno didn't praise goals.
He simply said: "Leaders don't shout. They awaken."
---
That night, Jota scribbled into his notebook:
> "Leadership is not volume. It's calm in the storm."
He paused. Then added:
> "I don't want to be fast. I want to be whole."
---
One morning, he received a rare invitation.
The U15 coach asked Jota to join their training session—not to play, just to observe.
To Jota, that was enough.
He watched from the sideline, scribbling with his left hand, studying how defenders rotated, how midfielders moved in unison, how the captain instructed with gestures instead of words.
At the end, the coach approached him.
"What did you see?"
"They don't try to look good," Jota replied.
"They try to make each other better."
The coach smiled. "Then you saw football's core."
---
That evening, he wrote a letter back home:
> "Ana, keep drawing—but not too many trophies. We'll run out of shelf space."
"Miguel, you inspire me—not because you ran 3 kilometers, but because you didn't quit."
"Mãe, I miss the smell of your bread and the neighbor's chickens that never sleep."
He closed with:
> "I'm not someone yet. But I'm on my way—slowly, step by step."
---
That night, standing in front of the small mirror in the dorm, Jota stared at himself.
He didn't see a champion.
He didn't see a star.
He saw a 10-year-old boy from a quiet village still wearing the same boots from autumn.
And he smiled.
Then whispered to his reflection:
> "I don't want to be remembered for talent. I want to be remembered for effort."