The morning air in Vila Esperança was filled with the scent of pão de queijo and the rumble of motorbikes weaving through tight alleys.
Lucas Santiago was already up, juggling a football in the courtyard of his building while the neighborhood stirred awake.
He didn't need an alarm. His dreams woke him earlier than any clock ever could.
He had school in an hour, but football came first.
"Se você não sair daí, vai se atrasar de novo!" his mother warned from the window, apron tied and hair wrapped.
"Mais cinco minutos!" Lucas called back, catching the ball on the back of his neck and balancing it as if it belonged there.
In those five minutes, Lucas wasn't just a boy in Rio. He was in Paris, in Barcelona, in the biggest stadiums in the world.
He was dancing past defenders, signing autographs, wearing boots with his name etched in gold.
But for now, he was just the skinny kid with the wild curls and fast feet.
Later that day, Lucas sat in the back of his classroom, staring out the window as the teacher explained something about Portuguese literature.
His notebook was filled—not with notes, but with doodles of football shoes, pitch diagrams, and jersey designs with his future number: #11.
His best friend, Júlio, leaned over and whispered, "You heard about the tryouts?"
Lucas blinked. "What tryouts?"
"Grêmio Esperança. They're picking two kids for the under-14 team. This Saturday."
Lucas felt a spark in his chest.
Grêmio Esperança wasn't a big club, but they had real training, real kits, real scouts.
"How do I get in?"
Júlio grinned. "You show up. And you show out."
That night, Lucas couldn't sleep. The cheap fan in his room buzzed like a mosquito, and the city lights leaked through the broken shutters.
But it wasn't the heat keeping him up.
It was the thought of that tryout.
He imagined the field, the scouts, the nervous boys lined up. He pictured himself doing a step-over, a rainbow flick, that signature body feint he'd been perfecting since age seven.
But then another thought crept in—what if he wasn't good enough?
He shook his head and whispered to the ceiling, "You're not just good, you're magic."
He reached under his bed and pulled out his secret weapon: a pair of old Nike Mercurials. They were torn and two sizes too small, but they were his. He touched the fading swoosh gently.
"Time to show them who the next legend is."