February's sunlight was a little kinder, though the morning air still stung. At Benfica's academy grounds, the shadows of boys stretched across damp earth, tiny silhouettes darting from one side of the pitch to the other.
João Dias—now called "Jota" by most—stood quietly at the edge of the training circle. The ball at his feet remained still, but his thoughts didn't.
He listened to boots hitting turf. To breathing.
And to his own quiet rhythm inside.
Something was shifting.
---
That day's training wasn't intense.
Mostly ball control, position rotation, and one-touch drills.
But Jota knew Coach Nuno was watching for something else.
"Who stays calm when the game isn't glamorous?"
"Who stays focused even when no one's watching?"
That was the real test.
And, as always, Jota answered with silence.
---
That afternoon, after training, he walked slowly toward the academy's mailroom.
Mr. Claudio—the staff member who always wore a black cap—handed him a brown envelope.
To: João Dias – Dorm 2B
Miguel's handwriting. He recognized the curve of the "J"—bold and slightly bent.
On the back, a tiny cut-out drawing was glued in place: Ana's creation.
Jota in a red cape, flying over a giant football.
He didn't open it there.
Instead, he walked to the empty training pitch, sat on a wooden bench, and opened it carefully.
---
Miguel's Letter:
> João!
It's cold in Penedono. But we're still playing in the backyard with the old ball you left.
> Ana says every time she sees a kid kicking a ball on TV, she imagines you in Madrid.
> I tried baking meat-filled bread. Not as good as Mom's, but Dad said, "Tastes like João's effort—simple, but solid."
> Mom wakes up earlier now. Sometimes I catch her standing by the kitchen window in silence. Maybe she's thinking about you.
> But she smiles, João. The same smile from when you once said, "I want to go to Benfica."
> Don't be too hard on yourself.
But don't stop either.
> We're waiting. And we believe in you.
> —Miguel
---
Jota stared at the letter for a long time.
Then, without thinking, he set the ball beside him, stood, and placed it on the grass. His left foot gently rested on top.
He looked forward.
Then kicked.
The ball flew straight, bounced once off the far post, and rolled back toward him.
He smiled.
It felt like Miguel had just passed it from Penedono.
---
The following days were filled with tactical drills.
Coach Nuno started dividing the boys into small groups for 3v3 and 4v4 matches in tight spaces.
"Use your minds," he'd say. "Not just your speed."
That's where Jota shone.
He didn't run the most.
But he always knew where to be.
In one drill, Diego passed him the ball, and with one touch, he flicked it to Leonel, who came sprinting from the side. Goal.
Nuno didn't cheer.
He simply nodded.
And in Benfica, that was worth more than a dozen claps.
---
One evening, Jota and Bruno sat in the study room, working on a geography assignment about Portugal's regions.
Bruno traced rivers on the map, then said, "You know, we're like rivers."
"Rivers?" Jota frowned.
"Yeah. From small villages. Flowing to big cities. But we carry where we came from."
Jota chuckled. "You're poetic tonight."
Bruno nudged him. "Seriously, Jo. Sometimes I'm scared we'll forget."
Jota looked at the tiny map of Penedono, then replied softly,
"As long as we keep writing letters, we won't forget."
Bruno nodded. "That's true."
---
Sunday came with stillness.
No training. Just free time.
Some boys played video games.
Some called home.
Jota sat alone on the pitch with his notebook.
He flipped to the last blank page and wrote:
> "Today I want silence."
"Not because I'm tired—but because I want to listen."
"Listen to what?"
"To my own footsteps."
He closed the book and looked up.
Clouds moved slowly.
The wind smelled faintly of the sea.
He felt peaceful—something rare lately.
---
That evening, Coach Nuno called him to the office.
Inside sat a man Jota hadn't seen before—black shirt, federation badge on the pocket.
"Jota," said Nuno, "this is Mr. Ribeiro, from the national U13 development team."
The man smiled and extended a hand.
"We'll be finalizing selection for the April friendlies. And we'd like you to be there."
Jota looked at Nuno.
Nuno nodded. "It's time again."
Jota shook Ribeiro's hand.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be ready."
---
That night, Jota wrote back to Miguel.
> "Miguel, your letter almost made me cry. But I smiled instead."
> "Tell Ana that superheroes don't always fly. Sometimes they just wait for early trains, carrying a ball in their backpack."
> "Tell Mom I haven't forgotten the smell of the kitchen. I still imagine it during breakfast here."
> "And you, my quietly strong little brother... keep being you. I want to grow up to be like you too."
> —João
He sealed the letter carefully and placed it in the outbox the next morning.
---
On Tuesday, training resumed with full intensity.
Coach Sofia led the stretching session.
As she passed Jota, she smiled and said, "You seem calm this week."
Jota replied, "Letters from home. They're like spring water for the soul."
Sofia laughed gently. "Then never stop writing."
---
That night, before bed, Jota pulled out his old list.
Why I'm Here:
1. For Ana
2. For Mãe
3. For Miguel
4. For my old self
5. For the future I once saw—and lost
6. For the boy I've yet to become
Then, he added a new line:
7. For those who believe without seeing
He folded the list carefully and placed it next to Miguel's letters.
Then he turned off the light, lay back in bed, and closed his eyes.
His dreams that night weren't about trophies.
They were about a backyard.
About a half-flat ball.
About laughter in the cold.
---