Chapter 13 – The Weight of the Crest
The sun broke later now.
Spring was near, but Lisbon's mornings still held a sleepy chill that clung to the benches and stair rails like fog. Jota stood at the edge of the pitch, his breath a faint ghost in the air. He wasn't the first to arrive today—Leonel was already jogging light laps, earphones in, head down.
It felt strange, knowing this would be his last week at the academy before the Portugal U13 friendlies.
Not forever. But for now.
The realization brought a mix of things—eagerness, tension, responsibility. Jota rolled his shoulders, trying to shake them off. The crest he would wear on his chest soon—green, red, gold—felt heavier in thought than it probably would in fabric.
Coach Nuno appeared behind him, sipping coffee from a paper cup.
"You ever iron a shirt for too long, João?"
Jota glanced sideways. "I think so?"
"It gets stiff. Starts to burn, wrinkle. Pressure does that too. So don't hold it too tightly."
Jota nodded.
"But do wear it like it matters," Nuno added. "Because it does."
---
The day unfolded like most others—drills, tactical reviews, recovery stations.
But beneath the routine, a current of change flowed quietly.
Coaches pulled players aside one by one, giving small feedback before they left for the break. Some boys walked away grinning, others chewing their lips, heads low.
When Jota's turn came, Coach Manuel didn't use papers. Just looked at him and said:
"You don't need to light the room to be seen, João. Some people carry fire quietly."
It was the kind of line that stuck.
---
In the academic building, the teacher asked everyone to write a short essay: "What does Portugal mean to you?"
Some groaned.
Jota didn't.
His pen hovered for a moment before it moved:
> "Portugal is my mother folding dough before sunrise.
Portugal is my brother lifting crates, smiling like it's enough.
Portugal is my sister drawing stars above a stick-figure in a jersey.
Portugal is the field I grew up on, even when it was mostly mud.
Portugal is the crest I'll wear—because they can't.
So I'll carry it.
For all of us."
When the teacher read it later, she didn't say anything.
She just nodded.
---
Back at the dorm that evening, Jota sat by the window with his notebook open. Across the room, Bruno and Leonel argued over who had better FIFA stats, but the noise faded behind the rhythm of Jota's thoughts.
He flipped past old entries, rereading past goals, training notes, quotes he liked.
Then he added a new one:
> "A jersey doesn't make you worthy. You make the jersey mean more."
---
Two nights before departure, the academy hosted a small send-off for the national camp invitees. No balloons, no music—just dinner, a few words from staff, and letters from home delivered in neat envelopes.
Jota held his letter carefully.
The handwriting was Miguel's. Sharp. Blocky.
> "João—
Ana's making countdown calendars now. Each day she crosses off another square and yells, 'One step closer to glory!'
Mãe told me to remind you to eat properly. She says you're probably skipping lunch again.
We watched your old goal last night—the one where you fell and the ball still rolled in. We laughed so hard.
Just wanted you to know: We don't need you to be the best. We just need you to keep being you.
—M."
Jota folded the letter and pressed it against his chest.
No medals yet.
But moments like that?
They were gold.
---
The journey to the national camp began with a quiet bus ride through the outskirts of Lisbon. Most of the players wore headphones. Some scrolled their phones. Others stared blankly out windows, minds already racing ahead.
Jota sat beside Sandro again.
The winger offered him gum without a word.
They didn't need to speak.
Their connection had grown silently during the last camp.
Now it just was.
---
When they arrived in Coimbra, the sky was overcast. Flags fluttered from the training facility entrance—Portugal's red and green among others.
Fifty boys gathered that day.
Only twenty would wear the shirt in matches.
The tension was thick enough to taste.
They were split into training groups. Jota's was placed on pitch 2, under Coach Esteves, a sharp-eyed man known for valuing control over flair.
"Passes don't need to be pretty," he said. "Just perfect."
Jota listened carefully.
Then delivered.
---
The training that week was brutal.
Short sprints. Positional drills. Tactical breakdowns. Film reviews after dinner.
Every mistake was a lesson.
Every touch, a test.
And still, Jota didn't try to stand out.
He tried to understand.
On the fourth day, during a closed match simulation, he was moved from midfield to left wing.
It wasn't natural.
But he didn't argue.
Instead, he adapted.
Read spacing. Cut in rather than overlap.
Twice, he laid off goals for teammates.
When the final whistle blew, Coach Esteves patted his shoulder.
"Not your best position," he said. "But your best version showed up anyway."
---
At night, the players slept in simple rooms—two beds, one desk, a wardrobe.
Jota shared his with a boy named Lucas, a defender from the Algarve who snored softly but played fiercely.
One night, Lucas turned over in bed and whispered:
"Are you scared?"
Jota stared at the ceiling. "A little."
"Good," Lucas said. "Means you care."
---
The final day of camp came.
Twenty names were called.
One by one.
Jota waited, heart steady.
"João Dias."
He exhaled.
Not in relief.
But in readiness.
---
They were given their kits that afternoon.
Jota held his in silence.
Number 10.
The same number he'd drawn on bedsheets with Ana.
The same number Miguel had spray-painted on a practice cone once.
He ran his fingers across the crest.
The red. The green. The shield of five dots.
Portugal.
He didn't smile.
He just stood a little taller.
---
Before the friendly against Spain, the locker room buzzed with the quiet energy of ritual. Some tied boots again. Others retaped wrists. A few sat with eyes closed, headphones in.
Jota sat alone for a moment.
Then he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It wasn't a tactic sheet.
It was Ana's latest drawing.
Him. Cape. Jersey. Giant boots.
And in bold letters: "Our Hero."
He smiled—finally.
Then tucked it into his bag.
---
The match wasn't easy.
Spain's boys moved like clockwork—tight triangles, sharp pressing. They scored first, a curling shot from the edge of the box.
Portugal responded slowly, gathering rhythm.
At halftime, the coach's words were sharp, but clear.
"Don't chase their game. Play yours."
Jota nodded.
Then walked out, adjusting his armband.
He had been named captain just before kick-off.
Not for his shouting.
For his choices.
---
In the second half, Jota moved deeper.
Not running faster. But thinking faster.
He intercepted a pass. Launched a counter. Delivered a chip over two defenders for Sandro, who volleyed in the equalizer.
1–1.
The stadium wasn't full. But someone chanted his name.
Not loud.
But enough.
---
When the match ended—a draw—the team huddled mid-field.
Coach Esteves clapped twice.
"You wore the crest well today."
Jota stood quiet, heart full.
---
That night, in the hotel, he opened his notebook again.
And added:
> 11. For the voice I never raised
12. For the friend who made me braver
13. For the girl who believed I could fly
14. For the family I'll always run toward
15. For the crest that fits not just on my chest, but in my chest
Then he paused.
Turned the page.
And began again.