Chapter 46 - The start of a dream

** Another bonus cz I just felt like it 😎**

As the team bus rolled into São Paulo, the city revealed itself like a living, breathing organism—restless, vibrant, and full of life. I sat by the window, forehead resting lightly against the glass, watching the urban landscape flash by in bursts of color and motion. My heart was pounding, not out of fear, but anticipation. The streets were packed with people from all corners of the globe, waving flags, singing chants, and wearing their national colors with pride. Horns blared, drums echoed in the distance, and an electric buzz filled the air.

It was June 12th. The first day of the 2014 FIFA World Cup. My first World Cup. Our first step into something greater than ourselves.

I had imagined this moment for as long as I could remember, back in the quiet days of my old life—the office job, the mundane routine, the long hours dreaming in silence. I never thought I'd be here, standing on the cusp of football's biggest stage. Now, I wasn't just a spectator. I was part of it. A key player. A symbol of Portugal's hopes.

Our bus pulled into the arena's underground entrance. The stadium towered above like a modern coliseum, its sweeping architecture gleaming under the late afternoon sun. São Paulo Stadium—Arena Corinthians—was massive and pristine, newly built, and ready to host over 60,000 spectators. As we stepped off the bus, the sound of the crowd above was muffled, like distant thunder.

Inside, the locker room buzzed with quiet energy. Everyone had their own ritual—taping ankles, checking studs, pulling on socks the same way they always did. I sat for a moment on the bench, letting the atmosphere sink in. Ronaldo was adjusting his boots beside me. We exchanged a glance—no words needed. He could feel it too. We all could.

Coach Santos entered the room with a steady, commanding presence.

"We've prepared for this. Every pass, every run, every second we've trained—it all leads here. But remember, today isn't just about tactics. It's about composure. It's about standing tall and playing with the pride of every Portuguese soul who believes in us."

We all nodded, silent but focused.

Soon after, we were led back toward the tunnel, not to take the pitch, but to witness the opening ceremony. We stood together near the edge of the field, just out of view of the audience. The stage was already set. The artificial turf in the center of the field had been transformed into a sprawling performance arena.

The lights dimmed slightly, and then the ceremony began.

The first act opened with dancers flooding the field in choreographed waves. Hundreds of them. They moved in tight patterns, wearing flowing fabrics that resembled rainforest leaves and ocean waves. Their movements told a story of Brazil's natural wonders—the Amazon, the beaches, the wildlife. Giant puppets of toucans and jaguars moved gracefully between the performers, operated by intricate rigs. From above, the aerial view must have looked like a moving tapestry.

I watched, hands on hips, trying to take it all in.

"Never seen anything like this," muttered João Moutinho beside me.

"Yeah," I replied, "and this is just the beginning."

The second act brought Brazil's cultural traditions to life. The music changed—fast-paced, joyful, and full of rhythm. Drummers from Bahia filled the arena with the pulse of samba. Dancers in bright red, green, and gold costumes performed routines rooted in frevo and forró. A group of capoeiristas formed a circle at midfield and began their rhythmic, acrobatic combat dance—feet sweeping, bodies flipping in fluid motion. Their movements were so sharp, so in sync, I found myself watching with a mixture of awe and respect.

Then came the LED ball.

It had been sitting at the center of the stage from the start—giant, spherical, and motionless. But now it sprang to life, its surface flashing brilliant colors and images: the Brazilian flag, the faces of children from around the world, the words "Bem-Vindos" and "Welcome." It opened slowly, mechanical panels unfolding like petals, revealing a stage inside.

Brazilian singer Claudia Leitte emerged first. She wore a shimmering blue outfit and launched into "Aquarela do Brasil" with powerful vocals, backed by a troop of percussionists from Olodum, their signature yellow and green drums pounding in unison.

A moment later, two familiar faces joined her onstage—Pitbull in a white outfit, and Jennifer Lopez in green. The crowd roared. The three of them began the official anthem of the tournament, "We Are One (Ole Ola)." The song might not have been universally loved, but in that moment, it didn't matter. The energy was impossible to ignore. Fireworks shot into the air. Dancers spun flags across the pitch. Fans in the stands sang and swayed along. I looked up and saw pockets of red and green in the crowd—Portuguese fans waving scarves and shouting from the stands.

Some of the guys started clapping along, others humming quietly. Ronaldo stood with arms folded but a faint smile on his face. Nani leaned over to me.

"Can you believe this?"

I shook my head. "Feels unreal."

We weren't thinking about the match yet. Not about our shape in midfield, or the defensive line, or whether I'd be shadowing their holding midfielder. None of it mattered in that moment. We were just people, watching something beautiful unfold. And for the first time since arriving in Brazil, I felt completely calm.

Then came a moment that pulled the world back into focus.

As the music faded, the field cleared, and a new spotlight hit the pitch. A small platform was rolled forward, and on it stood Juliano Pinto, a 29-year-old paraplegic. He was wearing a futuristic, robotic exoskeleton controlled by his brain.

It was the "Walk Again" project—led by neuroscientist Miguel Nicolelis—and this was its debut to the world. Through advanced brain-machine interface technology, Pinto was about to perform the first symbolic kick of the World Cup.

We all stood silent as he lifted his leg using the exoskeleton, balanced by a team of assistants. And then, he kicked the ball. A simple motion, a small arc, but it carried enormous meaning. The crowd erupted.

It wasn't just a display of technology. It was a declaration—of human resilience, of progress, of inclusion.

I looked around. Even the veterans were speechless. It was humbling. In the midst of this colossal event, that small act grounded us. This wasn't just about football. This was about what sport could inspire.

The ceremony ended shortly after. The performers bowed, the music stopped, and the pitch was cleared. The crowd shifted their focus as we were ushered back into the tunnel to begin warm-ups.

The ceremony had lasted around 25 minutes, but it felt like time had stretched. It had stirred something deep in all of us.

As I jogged onto the field for pre-match routines, the echoes of drums and songs still lingered in my ears. The grass felt different. Firmer. More alive. Every fan now seemed to lean forward, their anticipation tangible.

Ronaldo jogged past me and gave me a light tap on the back. "Let's write our story," he said.

And just like that, it began. The opening ceremony wasn't just a show. It was the final breath before the plunge. A signal that the talking was over.

Now it was time to play.

***

The hours after the opening ceremony passed quickly. The sounds of drums, the colors of the crowd, and the beat of the anthem still echoed in my head as we returned to the locker rooms, then headed up into the stands. The opening match was about to begin: Brazil versus Croatia. The stadium was full—over 60,000 fans packed into the seats, their cheers rolling like thunder.

I sat among my teammates, high in the stands with a clear view of the pitch. We wore our team tracksuits, a wall of red and green watching silently as Brazil took the field to a deafening roar. I crossed my arms and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, watching every movement with sharp focus. This was more than entertainment. This was education.

The game started fast. Brazil pushed forward, but it was Croatia that struck first. A cross whipped in from the right, a misjudgment from Marcelo, and suddenly the ball was in his own net. Silence hit the Brazilian fans for a second, a collective breath stolen from 60,000 lungs. Marcelo dropped his head. Croatia led 1-0.

I glanced at João beside me. "That's rough," I said.

He nodded. "Early nerves. But Brazil won't stay down long."

He was right. Neymar equalized not long after—driving forward with purpose, curling a low shot past the Croatian keeper. The crowd exploded. Flags waved. People cried. I sat back, shaking my head at how quickly the tide turned.

The second half started, and Brazil looked more composed. Neymar scored again from the penalty spot. Controversial, sure—but it counted. Then Oscar, always overlooked, capped it off with a solo run and toe-poked it home past the keeper.

3-1 Brazil. The stadium shook. Fans jumped, sang, screamed. The Brazilian players huddled in celebration. Around us, the joy was contagious. Even I smiled.

I thought of my father, probably watching from somewhere in the stands, decked out in his old Brazil jersey. Even though I wore the Portugal badge now, I knew he was proud. I could picture him standing, arms crossed, grinning at Neymar's goals like a kid.

The post-match press conference was all about Neymar. The reporters threw questions about his composure, his leadership, his role in Brazil's World Cup hopes. The phrase "hexa"—Brazil's quest for a sixth World Cup—was repeated like a chant.

But while the rest of the city celebrated, we went back to our base camp. The victory was exciting, but it wasn't ours. It was a reminder. A show of what we were up against. Brazil was the host, but Germany was our first real test.

At training the next morning, things felt different. The mood was focused. There was less talk, more work. The drills were sharper, the runs longer. Coach Santos pushed us harder. We weren't just preparing; we were refining.

Our strategy was clear: Ronaldo up front, me just behind him. The dual-core attack. Coach called it "the axis." Everything flowed through us—whether it was a burst down the wing or a pass slicing through the middle.

"You see everything," Coach told me one afternoon after training. We were alone on the pitch. The others had headed in. "I need you to trust your instinct. Don't wait for Ronaldo. Create with him. If he's double-marked, you attack. If he runs, you feed him. If it breaks down, you rebuild."

"So I'm the fallback?" I asked.

"No," he said. "You're the blacksmith. He's the hammer. You're the hand that swings it."

Those words stuck with me.

We studied Germany in detail. We watched their qualifiers, their friendlies, their tactical patterns. Lahm in midfield, Müller's late runs, Kroos dictating tempo, and that high defensive line. We broke it all down, play by play.

We used data from previous World Cups, analyzing their pass maps, heat zones, average shot distances. We tracked how they built their play from the back, how they responded to pressure, how often they switched flanks.

In team meetings, I asked questions. I wanted to understand how their patterns could be broken.

"If Lahm pushes forward, who fills the space behind?" I asked during one session.

"Mertesacker tucks in," replied our analyst. "But he's slower. If we win the ball in midfield, that's your lane."

I nodded, noting it down.

By the end of the third day, we weren't just physically prepared—we were mentally sharp. Every player knew his role. Every pass in training had a purpose. We weren't just hoping to win. We were planning to.

That night, I sat in my room, watching highlights of Germany's Euro 2012 matches. My headphones buzzed with the commentary. I wasn't looking for goals. I was watching their transitions. Where they hesitated. Where space opened.

I thought back to the opening ceremony, the lights, the music, the sense of unity. All of that had led to this.

June 16. Germany. Our first battle.

We were ready.

***

As we geared up for our own challenge, the tournament was already turning into a whirlwind of surprises and upsets. Football giants were falling, and new heroes were rising.

Spain, the reigning champions, were humbled in a brutal 1–5 loss to the Netherlands. We all watched it in stunned silence from our hotel lounge. The room had started off buzzing with chatter and casual jokes, but as the goals piled up, one after another, the atmosphere shifted. Van Persie's flying header—that absurd, beautiful goal—drew gasps even from our most stoic teammates. I glanced at Ronaldo. He didn't say much, but I could see it in his eyes. That match sent a message to all of us: no one was safe.

Uruguay's 1–3 defeat to Costa Rica was another shock. Keylor Navas was a wall in goal. Every save he made seemed to increase his legend. We were all talking about him the next morning at breakfast. Even our goalkeeper Eduardo said, "That kid's going to get a big move soon. Just watch."

Colombia looked electric in their 3–0 win over Greece. James Rodríguez ran the show. You could see he was on the cusp of something special. England's 1–2 loss to Italy didn't surprise many, but it was a reminder of how fine the margins could be in this tournament. Argentina's narrow 2–1 win over Bosnia came down to Messi's brilliance, as usual. Every great performance lit a fire in Ronaldo. I saw him watching those highlights later that night, earbuds in, leaning forward, completely focused.

France and Belgium also started strong, winning their openers and making their presence known. The road ahead wouldn't be easy.

By the time June 16 arrived, we felt the full weight of the tournament pressing down. Our flight to Salvador was quiet, more subdued than usual. I sat next to Ronaldo. He looked out the window most of the flight, but we spoke quietly in between stretches of silence.

"You ready?" he asked at one point.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied.

He nodded. "We carry more than just a jersey out there. You know that. Every touch matters."

"I know. We make the play, or we don't. There's no in-between."

"Good," he said. "Because the world will be watching."

The Taipava Arena Fonte Nova in Salvador was a spectacle. Wide, modern, filled with color and noise. The stadium pulsed with energy. Portuguese flags fluttered in the stands, faces painted, chants already ringing out even before warmups began. I felt it deep in my chest—that shared heartbeat of a nation clinging to hope.

Back in the locker room, the tension was a quiet one. No nerves spilling over, just focus. Everyone had their own rituals. Pepe tied and retied his boots. Nani bounced a ball off the wall, over and over. Ronaldo sat with his headphones in, eyes closed.

I sat for a moment by myself, hands clasped, thinking about the journey that led me here. The words of Coach Santos played in my head: the need to control the midfield, to be the pivot. Not just to feed Ronaldo or Eder, but to lead when the match tilted either way.

Around me, I saw men I trusted. Pepe, fierce as ever. Nani, unpredictable but brilliant. João Moutinho, reliable and smart. Coentrão, always ready to run through walls for the team. Eder, the wild card with a point to prove.

I wished Quaresma was here. His flair could've made a difference. But Santos had made the call, citing his attitude and fitness. Harsh, but understandable. At this level, ego and talent alone weren't enough.

Then came the final team talk. We gathered in a half-circle around Santos. He stood calm, eyes steady.

"Germany is relentless," he said. "They don't stop pressing. They won't give you space. They won't let you breathe. But they're not invincible."

He pointed at the board. Diagrams showed movement patterns, weaknesses, tendencies.

"Adriano," he said, locking eyes with me. "Gain control of the midfield early. Make them chase. Find Cristiano when you can, but don't force it. Play smart. Play calm."

He turned to Ronaldo. "Cristiano, stay wide. Draw their defenders out. Drop deeper if needed. Don't wait for the ball. Go and get it."

"Pepe, no reckless tackles. Stay sharp. You'll get your chance to hit someone," he added with a small smile.

"Coentrão, help him on the wing. Eder, don't hesitate to shoot. Make them uncomfortable. We win this together, or not at all."

He stepped back. "No miracles. Just football. Play our game. Make them adapt. We can do this."

We stood. Hands clapped shoulders. A few quiet words passed between us. Then we moved toward the tunnel.

Outside, the stadium roared.

It was time.

I walked into the tunnel with my teammates, the noise of the crowd above a distant hum behind the concrete walls. My face was calm, but inside, I was focused—sharpened by the weight of the moment. This wasn't just about playing well. It was about proving that I belonged here, that I wasn't just another young talent. I was here to lead, to win, and to leave my mark.

As we lined up in the tunnel, shoulder to shoulder with the German team, I caught sight of the player standing next to me—Toni Kroos. The player whose skills started me on my journey that got me here.

I smiled politely and spoke in English, "Hello Toni, best of luck out there, " 

He looked over, slightly surprised, then gave a nod and a polite smile. "Thanks, Adriano. You too. I've seen you play. You've got a similar rhythm… just more aggressive going forward."

I smiled back. "Yeah, I know. I've studied your matches a lot. I admire the way you manage the tempo and control space, but I've always leaned into the attack. Can't help it."

He chuckled. "Makes sense. You're quicker to push forward, take more risks. I respect that."

We stood in silence for a second, both listening to the announcer's voice echoing above, calling the names of players. Then he added, with a small grin, "Let's see if that attacking flair is enough to get past us."

I smiled, but didn't answer. Not out loud, anyway. Inside my head, I said it clearly: It will. It surely will.