Chapter 4 – Training in Silence
The cold wind swept through the narrow alleys of Penedono as Jota returned home from Viseu. The cart creaked beneath them, and Helena sat in silence, holding the small paper with her son's name typed in bold.
He was one of twenty boys selected for regional training.
A quiet victory.
Ana was waiting outside their small stone house, jumping up and down in her wool coat.
"Did you win? Did you score? Are you famous now?"
Jota smiled and knelt in front of her. "Not yet. But I made the team."
She gasped and grabbed his hand, twirling in joy. "I knew it! I told my teacher you would become famous!"
Helena laughed softly. "He still has homework."
Ana stuck out her tongue. "Famous people don't do homework!"
Jota chuckled, but deep inside, he felt something stir—not pride, not yet—but a sense of returning. Like the gears of fate had turned one click closer.
---
The following Monday, Jota woke earlier than usual. He dressed in silence, then crept out of the house with the old football under his arm. The mist was thick over the vineyard rows, and the grass was still heavy with dew.
He found an empty patch of dirt near the goat pen, marked it with rocks and branches, and began his routine.
Not to show off. Not for a crowd.
Just to remember.
His movements were simple: foot taps, drag-backs, scissors. Then volleys against the barn wall. Control, bounce, spin. Over and over again.
The air echoed only with his breath and the thud of ball to stone.
Training alone reminded him of the earliest days—before the lights, before the contracts. Just a boy and a dream.
He finished with ten short sprints, panting hard, cheeks red in the cold. As he stretched, Ana peeked around the corner with sleepy eyes.
"You're crazy," she whispered.
He smiled. "That's what it takes."
---
At school, things were different.
People looked at him now. Not as the quiet kid—but as the boy who made the list. João Pedro had gone silent. Vasco started sitting closer. Even Lúcia offered him part of her snack.
But Jota didn't change. He still raised his hand in math. He still helped Ana tie her shoes. He still sat on the low wall during breaks, watching the clouds drift over the trees.
Senhor Manuel pulled him aside after class.
"You've got talent," he said plainly. "But talent dies without discipline. Train like no one's watching."
Jota nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And stay humble."
"I will."
The old coach smiled. "We'll see."
---
Every Wednesday and Saturday, a bus came from Viseu to pick up the selected boys. It drove through narrow hills and winding paths to the regional sports center: Centro de Formação de Jovens Atletas.
The complex wasn't fancy—just two fields, a gym, and a row of changing rooms—but it smelled like effort and carried the energy of ambition.
Jota stepped off the bus the first time and looked around. Most of the other boys were bigger, louder, more confident. Some wore club jackets from local teams. Some already had cleats that looked newer than his schoolbooks.
He didn't mind.
The pitch was level.
And he was ready.
---
The first training session began with introductions. Coach Ribeiro was in charge—a tall, wiry man with sharp eyes and a whistle always dangling from his neck.
"Leave your ego at the door," he said. "Out here, no one cares who your uncle is or what your mother says at dinner. Only the ball speaks."
They began with passing drills. Quick, short, one-touch rotations. Jota kept his passes clean, sharp, but never flashy. He moved with purpose, always scanning.
Then small-sided games. He didn't try to dominate. He didn't shout for the ball.
But when he got it—he made it matter.
A cut inside.
A cross placed perfectly.
A flick through two defenders.
The other boys started to notice. Not just the coaches.
After training, one boy approached him—tall, dark-skinned, with bright eyes.
"You're quiet," he said. "But dangerous."
Jota offered a hand. "Jota."
"Name's Miguel. I play center mid. You cut well."
"Thanks."
Miguel grinned. "Let's keep playing like that. You cut, I pass."
It was the beginning of something rare—chemistry.
---
At home, life remained steady.
Helena continued selling bread to neighbors. Ana continued drawing flags. Rain came more often, and with it, muddy roads and cold mornings.
But Jota kept training.
He practiced alone before dawn.
He did his schoolwork by candlelight.
He ran laps around the vineyards on Sundays.
Not because anyone told him to. But because he had been at the top once—and he knew how steep the climb was.
He didn't have agents now. Or nutritionists. Or physios.
Just grit.
And time.
---
One night, as rain hammered the roof, Jota sat by the window reading a borrowed book about Eusébio.
Helena walked in quietly and sat beside him.
"You're not like other boys," she said.
Jota didn't look up. "I know."
She placed a hand on his back. "I worry sometimes. You don't act ten. You carry weight in your eyes."
"I just... remember things."
"From your father?"
He paused. Then nodded. "In a way."
Helena leaned in, kissed the top of his head. "Whatever it is, make sure it's not too heavy. You're allowed to be a child too."
He looked at her.
"I'm not sure I was ever just a child."
They sat in silence, the rain speaking for them.
---
A week later, at training, Coach Ribeiro split the team for an inter-squad match.
Jota was placed on the "B" side—mostly younger or untested players.
The "A" side included players already linked to big academies.
Miguel leaned over. "They think we're the soft ones."
"Good," Jota replied. "Let's surprise them."
From the first whistle, the game was intense. Tackles came heavy. The midfield was crowded.
But Jota stayed calm.
He let the game come to him.
Then it happened.
Miguel intercepted a loose pass and glanced left. Jota was already running.
A perfectly timed through-ball.
Jota didn't rush. He let the defender overcommit, then slid the ball between the keeper's legs.
Goal.
Whistles blew. Coaches looked up from their clipboards.
Ten minutes later, he assisted another—Miguel this time.
By the end, the "B" side won 3–1.
Coach Ribeiro clapped once.
"That's football."
---
On the way home, Jota looked out the bus window.
The hills were glowing gold in the late sun. He saw goats on the distant slopes. Smoke curling from a farmhouse chimney.
It was peaceful.
But inside him, a storm was building.
Not anger. Not fear.
Drive.
He was moving. Quietly. Relentlessly.
He didn't need headlines.
He didn't need a crowd.
He only needed one thing:
> A ball at his feet.
And silence to train in.
---