Chapter 15 – The Weight of the Jersey
The air in the academy buzzed differently now.
Not louder. Not more chaotic. Just... heavier.
Jota felt it the moment he stepped into the main hallway after breakfast. The glances were longer. The whispers softer but sharper.
"Did you hear? France."
"He's already on the national list."
"Coach Nuno said he trains like a pro."
He tried to ignore them. To pretend the world hadn't shifted after that email. But something inside him had.
A quiet weight. A new kind of responsibility.
---
Later that morning, Jota stood at the academy's equipment room.
Coach Sofia handed him a neatly folded Portugal U13 training kit.
His name stitched in bold letters across the back: Dias.
He ran his fingers across the fabric.
"It feels light," he said.
"It won't always," Coach Sofia replied. "Some days it'll feel like armor. Others, like a boulder. Learn to wear it either way."
He nodded.
And placed it in his locker with reverence.
---
Training resumed with new intensity.
The coaches split players into development tiers, tailoring sessions to upcoming competitions. Jota, Bruno, Eduardo, and three others formed a core midfield unit for rotation drills.
The pace was relentless.
One-touch passing. Overlaps. Press and release.
At one point, Eduardo collapsed onto the turf, laughing. "You're not human!"
Jota wiped sweat from his brow. "Just focused."
"Focused and possessed," Bruno chimed in.
But Jota didn't laugh. His mind was already replaying the drill, analyzing where his foot angle could've shaved a second.
---
That afternoon, while others napped or played table tennis in the rec room, Jota visited the campus library.
He wasn't looking for books.
He was looking for film.
He borrowed old DVDs—Portugal U17 from 2002, U20 from 2007. He watched how players moved off the ball. How captains led under pressure. How shape shifted when they trailed in the final minutes.
It wasn't enough to play.
He needed to think like a tactician.
A future coach. A leader.
---
Later, during individual feedback, Coach Nuno sat across from him with a clipboard.
"You've earned your place. That doesn't mean the work stops."
"I know."
Nuno leaned in. "France won't be kind. Their midfielders are fast. Confident. They'll test you with physicality and flair."
"I want that," Jota said. "I want to feel what the next level demands."
Coach Nuno smiled faintly. "Good. Then we'll train for discomfort."
He circled something on the clipboard. "Starting tomorrow, you're with the U14 unit for defensive transitions."
Jota blinked. "But I'm—"
"I know. You're twelve. That's why."
---
The next day was a trial by fire.
The U14s pressed high. They closed space faster. Tackled harder. Communicated like a machine.
Jota stumbled in the first drill. He misread a press, turned blind, and lost possession.
"Again!" Coach barked.
He reset.
Second round, he adjusted—checking over his shoulder, laying the ball off quickly, moving into open space.
"Better."
By the fifth repetition, he looked like he belonged.
Eduardo, watching from the sideline, whispered to Bruno, "He learns like a sponge."
Bruno nodded. "Yeah. One that sweats."
---
That evening, rain returned.
But Jota didn't head to the pitch.
He visited the academy's medical wing. Not for injury. But to meet Coach Sofia.
She helped him stretch. Checked his balance. Guided his breathing.
"You've been pushing hard," she said.
"I can't slow down."
She looked him over. "You're not tired. But you're beginning to tighten. That's when injuries creep in."
He listened.
"Rest isn't weakness. It's investment."
He left with a schedule.
Even his recovery would have structure.
---
That weekend, Benfica hosted a closed-door match against Sporting's U13s. Scouts from across the league attended. Parents too. Even some local media.
Jota was in the starting eleven.
He wore the captain's armband.
Not because he demanded it.
Because the coaches trusted him.
The match was brutal—end-to-end football, hard tackles, slippery turf.
Jota kept the tempo. He made interceptions. He tracked back.
And in the 58th minute, with the score 1–1, he received a pass just outside the box.
He didn't dribble.
He didn't shoot.
He paused—just long enough for the defense to step out—then slipped a disguised pass behind the line.
Eduardo finished it.
Goal.
Benfica won 2–1.
Afterward, Coach Nuno pulled him aside.
"Why didn't you shoot?"
Jota answered without hesitation. "The better play was behind."
Coach Nuno grinned. "And that's why they'll remember your name."
---
Back in the dorm that night, Ana's latest letter waited for him.
> Dear Jota, I told my class you got picked for the national team. They didn't believe me. So I drew your jersey. The teacher hung it on the board! Miguel says if you score, he'll bake three cakes. I picked your number: 18. Because 8 is my favorite and you are 1 better.
Come visit soon. We miss your voice.
Jota chuckled.
Then stared at the drawing—a red Portugal jersey with the number 18 and a lightning bolt.
He pinned it above his desk.
His reason.
His fuel.
---
As February began, the academy buzzed with preparation.
Flight arrangements. Tournament kits. Media briefings.
But Jota remained calm.
He added to his list again.
> Why I play: 8. For the questions I haven't asked yet. 9. For the teammates I haven't met. 10. For the silence before kickoff. 11. For the nights when doubt feels louder than dreams. 12. For the hands that lifted me, even when I didn't ask. 13. For the weight of the jersey—not just on my shoulders, but in my heart.
He read the list slowly.
Then folded it, placed it in the back of his locker, and whispered:
At breakfast the next day, Bruno asked him, "Do you ever stop thinking about football?"
Jota smiled. "No. Do you?"
Bruno shook his head. "Not anymore."
Outside, the morning sun broke through the Lisbon clouds.
The academy courtyard shimmered.
Opportunity was no longer knocking.
It was waiting, just ahead.
And Jota? He was already lacing his boots.
That evening, Jota stayed behind at the pitch after the lights dimmed.
The grass was wet, the air sharp, and most of the academy was quiet.
But he stayed.
He practiced juggling, first with his right, then with his weaker left. He traced passes into cones with perfect timing. He sprinted alone between cones, then paused, hand on his knees, breathing slow.
From the shadows, someone approached.
Coach Nuno.
"You're still here?"
Jota looked up, eyes tired but burning.
"Just one more rep."
Coach Nuno nodded slowly. "You remind me of someone."
Jota tilted his head. "A player?"
"No," the coach said. "My younger self. Before the world taught me how heavy dreams can be."
He stood beside Jota.
"Let them be heavy," he added. "It means they matter."
Jota smiled. "Then I want to carry them all."
They stood in silence for a moment, two figures on a quiet field beneath Lisbon stars.
Then Coach Nuno turned away.
"Go rest, Captain."
---
The next morning, the academy cafeteria buzzed with news: Jota had been listed in the pre-roster for the U13 international tour to France. Only a few names had made it from the development squad.
He didn't speak much during breakfast.
He just sat with his tray, eating rice and eggs slowly, his mind already drifting to the future. To the bus rides. The locker rooms. The anthem.
He was scared.
He was ready.
---
Before bed that night, Jota opened a new page in his notebook.
At the top, he wrote:
"France."
Below it:
Focus in crowds.
Breathe when nervous.
Pass, don't force.
Respect the jersey.
Be grateful.
Be yourself.
Be Portugal.
He paused, tapping his pen.
Then wrote the last line:
"And when in doubt—run."
He smiled faintly and closed the book.
He had never felt more tired.
He had never felt more alive.