Lisbon, January.
The rain had been falling since dawn, a gentle but persistent rhythm that blanketed the city in soft grey. From the window of his dorm room at Benfica's youth academy, João Dias—Jota, to those who knew him—watched the droplets chase each other down the glass.
He liked the rain. Not because it meant fewer players on the pitch. Not because it brought silence. But because it reminded him of Penedono—of muddy boots, of his brother Miguel's laughter, of soaked shirts clinging to cold skin as they kicked a ball across the vineyard slope.
It reminded him of home.
But he wasn't home now.
He had chosen this path. And today, like every day, he would walk it.
---
At 5:45 a.m., while the rest of the dormitory lay in darkness, Jota slipped out of bed. He moved quietly, tying his laces by feel, dressing in layers, then stepping into the corridor. His boots were already slung over his shoulder.
He passed Bruno's room. Then Leonel's.
No movement. Only the steady sound of the rain.
The academy indoor pitch was dim when he arrived. The staff hadn't yet turned on the full lights. A single overhead bulb glowed above the far goal, casting long shadows.
Jota dropped his bag, set down his water bottle, and began his warm-up in silence.
First, stretches. Shoulders, hamstrings, calves. Then, footwork drills. Ladders. Cones. Balance shifts.
After thirty minutes, he moved to ball control. Juggling sequences. Traps. Headers. He challenged himself. Left foot only. Then right. Then alternating touches without looking down.
He wasn't training for fun. He was training to remember. To remember how to trust his body. To remember how to move without thought.
To become more.
---
By 7:00 a.m., the other players were waking up. Some stumbled toward breakfast. Others grumbled about the rain. Jota returned to the dorm, showered quickly, and arrived at the cafeteria with time to spare.
He sat with Bruno and Leonel, as always.
"Did you hear?" Bruno asked between bites of toast. "Portugal U13 call-ups are being finalized."
Leonel raised his eyebrows. "We'll all get our turn."
Bruno snorted. "Maybe. But Jota's already packed for France, I bet."
Jota smiled faintly. "They haven't picked anyone yet."
"But they will."
He didn't respond. But deep down, he hoped.
Not for the recognition. But for the chance.
---
That morning's training was intense. Coach Nuno had planned a possession drill inside a tight grid. Three-touch maximum. Constant movement. Sharp passing.
Rain thundered softly on the roof above.
Jota moved like a ghost—slipping between defenders, finding space, receiving with calm. When he lost the ball once, he chased it down and won it back within seconds.
Coach Nuno stopped the drill.
"Watch Jota," he told the group. "Not because he's perfect, but because he recovers. You want to lead? Show me how you fix your mistakes."
Jota's face stayed blank, but inside, he felt something spark.
Leadership wasn't noise. It was clarity.
---
After training, while others changed and joked, Jota went to the film room. He pulled up their last match. He watched every moment he'd touched the ball. Every missed pass. Every decision.
He took notes.
He wrote questions:
Did I scan early enough?
Could I have switched play sooner?
Was I too safe with the pass?
He wasn't seeking praise. He was seeking precision.
---
Lunch came and went. Then classes—math, Portuguese literature, history. Jota sat by the window, notebook open, but mind wandering. His thoughts kept drifting to the pitch. To the ball. To the feel of grass underfoot.
The teacher noticed.
"João," she said gently. "Your body's here, but your spirit's on the field."
The class laughed.
Jota smiled. "I'm trying, professora."
And he was. Every day.
---
At 4:00 p.m., mail arrived.
Coach Sofia handed Jota a thin envelope. Familiar handwriting.
Ana.
> Dear Jota,
I saw your photo in the newsletter. You look so serious! Smile more! I drew you again. This time you're flying with a cape. Miguel says I'm better at drawing now. He also ran 5 kilometers! I can't wait for you to come home. We'll have toast and play with Luna. (She still barks at the baker.)
Love, Ana
Inside was a sketch: Jota with a cape, chasing a ball across the clouds.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then folded it carefully and placed it inside his locker.
His private trophies.
---
That evening, the academy hosted a friendly scrimmage between the U13 and U14 squads.
Jota was named captain.
Not for his volume. But for his presence.
The match was fast, physical. The older boys didn't hold back. They pressed high, tackled hard.
Jota adjusted. He dropped deeper, controlled tempo, orchestrated from midfield. He set up the opening goal with a lofted through-ball. Scored the second himself with a curling shot from the edge of the box.
The final whistle blew. 3–2 victory.
Coach Nuno clapped. "That's how you lead without shouting."
Jota said nothing. But his teammates patted his back as they walked off.
Even Eduardo, the quiet new winger, nodded. "Nice ball, captain."
---
Late that night, Jota stood at the dorm window, watching the rain lighten into mist.
He opened his notebook.
He turned to the list he had started months ago.
> Why I'm here:
1. For Ana.
2. For Mãe.
3. For Miguel.
4. For my old self.
5. For the future I lost—and found again.
He paused.
Then added:
> 6. For the rain. For the rhythm. For the silence in between.
He closed the book.
Tomorrow, there would be training. There would be drills. Mistakes. Sweat.
But tonight—there was clarity.
And gratitude.
---
The next day, the rain stopped.
The sky opened to a cold blue.
And with it, a message arrived.
An email.
> To: João Dias Subject: Portugal U13 National Call-Up
Congratulations. You have been selected for the Portugal U13 squad to participate in the Spring Tournament in France. Camp begins March 10. Further details to follow.
He read it twice. Then again.
The world didn't explode. He didn't jump or scream.
He simply smiled.
Then walked to the field.
Where the real work would begin.
---