Chapter 12 – Whispers of Lisbon
The morning in Lisbon carried a kind of hush.
Not silence—but stillness. A breath held before the day began.
Jota stood by the window of the dormitory, watching soft fog roll through the early streets. Far below, the academy grounds looked asleep, though he knew that would change soon. Boys would run, whistles would blow, coaches would shout. The city would stretch awake.
But for now, it was still.
He took a deep breath, laced his boots slowly, and headed out for his usual morning jog.
---
The academy pitch, slick with dew, welcomed him like an old friend. He started slowly, one step, then another. His breath formed clouds in the chill. Every stride was steady, measured—not rushed. Just enough to feel the ground respond.
He thought of Penedono.
The vineyard hills. The goat field. The uneven gravel roads where he first chased a ball too flat to bounce.
Now the grass was perfect.
But his feet still moved with the memory of dirt and stone.
---
Later that morning, Coach Nuno gathered the U13 team under the covered walkway.
"We're rotating positions today," he said, rain tapping on the roof above. "Every one of you will be somewhere unfamiliar. Football isn't only about comfort."
Bruno groaned. "Are you putting me in goal again?"
"Only if you keep talking," Nuno smiled.
The roster was announced. Jota—usually central—was assigned to defensive midfield.
Not glamorous. Not flashy.
But essential.
He didn't complain.
He listened.
Then, he studied.
---
The session began in heavy drizzle. Every pass had to be sharper. Every decision, quicker. From his deeper position, Jota saw the field differently—like watching a play from backstage instead of center stage.
He tracked runs. Cut passing lanes. Didn't overcommit.
It was different from attacking.
But not distant.
He still felt the rhythm of the game—just now, it beat beneath the surface.
After training, Coach Manuel from the senior youth division approached him.
"You're not just adapting," he said. "You're reading."
Jota nodded once. "The game tells you things. If you're quiet enough to hear it."
---
At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed. Someone had heard a rumor about a scout from Sporting CP visiting the academy next week. Another claimed their cousin's friend had been signed by Porto at fourteen.
Bruno leaned across the table. "Do you think we'll go pro?"
Jota looked at his soup. "I don't know."
"You don't want to?"
"I do," Jota said. "But I want to do it right."
Leonel tossed a bread roll at them. "Then eat faster, pros don't nap through strength training."
They laughed.
But Jota tucked that moment into his heart.
It reminded him: he wasn't alone.
---
In class that afternoon, they studied Portuguese literature. Miss Catarina read a passage aloud:
> "What is greatness, if not the quiet triumph of a purpose carried long?"
Jota copied the line into his notebook.
Something about it felt like football.
Felt like family.
Felt like him.
---
Later that week, the Portugal U13 training camp sent updated logistics—confirmed hotels, schedules, even the kit numbers.
Jota's name was still there.
Number 10.
A weight came with it, and he felt it. Not fear. But responsibility.
Coach Sofia called him in during physio check-ups.
"You're holding tension in your shoulders," she said, fingers pressing gently along his upper back.
"I'm fine."
"You're thinking too far ahead again."
He stayed quiet.
Then, "How do you stop?"
"You don't," she smiled. "But you breathe. And you trust the steps you've taken."
Jota exhaled.
Maybe that was enough—for now.
---
On Saturday, the academy allowed free time.
While others went into the city for snacks or cinema, Jota went to the small hill behind the training fields. A quiet overlook. His place.
He opened a letter from Ana.
It was drawn in crayon.
A figure with big hair and a Portugal jersey flying above a goalpost.
Below: "Super João. Defender of dreams."
He laughed.
Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but he wiped them before they could fall.
Then he wrote her back.
> "Dear Ana,
Your drawing is now pinned above my bed.
I'm not flying yet. But my feet are moving fast.
Tell Miguel I'm winning the sprint next time we race.
Love,
João"
---
Sunday evening, Coach Nuno gave a surprise announcement.
"Tomorrow, we'll train with the U14s."
The room stirred. The older boys were faster. Stronger. Some already shaved.
Jota didn't blink.
He simply slept early, stretched carefully, and prepped his boots.
---
Monday training was intense.
One-touch drills. Pressing traps. Full-field transition games.
Jota was paired against a boy nearly a head taller.
In the first drill, he was knocked down.
In the second, he lost the ball.
But in the third, he slipped between two markers and delivered a reverse pass that made Coach Manuel whistle aloud.
Later, in scrimmage, he scored from outside the box—off his left foot.
No celebration.
Just a nod.
Then back to position.
---
After the session, one of the U14s approached him.
"You're João, right?"
Jota nodded.
The boy extended a hand. "You're good. Quiet, but good."
Jota shook it.
Sometimes, you didn't need noise.
You just needed presence.
---
That evening, the Academy hosted a video night—match footage of the national team.
Cristiano Ronaldo's goals.
Deco's control.
Figo's movement.
But what caught Jota's eye was something smaller.
João Moutinho.
In the background. Always supporting. Connecting. Creating. Never demanding the spotlight.
Jota sat straighter.
He didn't want to be seen.
He wanted to be felt.
---
Later, Coach Nuno called him into the office.
"Sit."
Jota obeyed.
The coach slid a folder toward him.
"Your evaluation."
Inside were notes. Metrics. Strengths. Areas to develop.
Jota scanned them quickly.
Then Nuno spoke.
"Do you know why I gave you the captain band last time?"
"Because I was playing well?"
"No," Nuno said. "Because you never stop learning. And because others feel braver when you're on the pitch."
Jota's chest tightened.
"You're not leading with your voice," Nuno continued. "You're leading with your choices."
---
That night, he returned to his notebook.
Flipped to the first page.
Where he had written:
> 1. For Ana
2. For Mãe
3. For Miguel
4. For my old self
5. For the future I saw once—and lost
6. For the boy I've yet to become
He stared at the list.
Then added:
> 7. For the teammates who trust me
8. For the coaches who see past my silence
9. For the pitch that listens when I move
And finally:
> 10. For the game that gave me back my voice
---
April would come soon.
With it, the friendlies.
The badge. The anthem. The weight of the shirt.
But for now, Jota closed his eyes, listening to the soft hum of the Lisbon night through the dorm window.
Tomorrow would bring drills.
Tomorrow would bring pressure.
But tonight, he rested.
Not with pride.
With purpose.
And as he drifted to sleep, one final whisper escaped him:
> "I'm ready."
---
Football gives happiness but there is another side to football, namely sadness and sorrow.
July 3, 2025
The greatest and best player that Liverpool and the Portuguese national team have, Diogo Jota, died in an accident. I thought it was just fake news, but it's true.
Football is in mourning for the passing of Diogo Jota and Andre Silva
RIP Diogo jota🕊️🥀
RIP Andre silva🕊️🥀
Fans will never forget you