Chapter 6 – Lisbon Dreams and Village Bonds
Summer in Penedono arrived like a soft lullaby—warm winds brushing the vineyards, buzzing cicadas in the grass, and golden mornings that made everything feel possible.
But for Jota, the season brought more than sunlight.
It brought Lisbon.
---
The letter from Benfica requested his presence for a ten-day evaluation camp at their Seixal training complex. The schedule was tight—tactical drills, physical tests, matches against other young prospects from across the country.
The problem wasn't talent.
It was money.
Bus fare, accommodation, meals—it added up. Even with Benfica covering training costs, Helena still needed to feed two children and a guest. Bread sales had slowed, and the goat's milk couldn't stretch much farther.
Jota knew this.
So he woke earlier.
Trained harder.
Helped bake bread in the morning.
Sold firewood in the afternoon.
And when Ana asked why he never rested, he simply said, "Because Lisbon isn't free."
---
One evening, after dinner, Miguel approached him.
"I've saved some coins. From when my mother was still around. It's not much, but…"
He held out a small pouch tied with string.
Jota shook his head. "Keep it. You'll need it."
Miguel frowned. "But you're going alone."
Jota paused. "Then you'll have to hold this place for me. Train. Get stronger. So when I come back…"
"You won't forget?"
"I couldn't even if I tried."
They shook hands. No words needed.
---
The bus to Lisbon left at dawn.
Helena packed a wool sweater, a loaf of rye bread, and a photograph of the family—creased but treasured.
Ana hugged him five times.
"Bring me something red!" she yelled. "Benfica is red!"
Helena wiped her eyes discreetly. "You come back the same boy, you hear?"
Jota smiled. "No. I'll come back better."
Then the bus rolled down the hill and away from the only home he knew.
---
Lisbon was a different world.
Wider roads. Taller buildings. Streetcars buzzing like bees. People moved fast, talked loud, dressed sharp.
But Jota's focus narrowed the moment he stepped into the Seixal facility.
It wasn't just a football center. It was a factory of legends. Posters of Rui Costa, João Félix, and Bernardo Silva lined the entrance. Young players in bright red kits jogged across pristine grass. Trainers barked orders. Whistles echoed.
He was given a dorm bed, a red kit with "J. DIAS – 17," and a training schedule that left no room for excuses.
Day one began with endurance runs.
By lunchtime, three boys had quit.
Not Jota.
---
The other kids were fast. Technical. Competitive. Some had been in academies since age six. Others came from Porto, Faro, or Braga. Many had agents waiting outside the fence.
But Jota didn't envy them.
He watched them.
Their habits. Their reactions. Their laziness after drills. Their pride after goals.
And he trained like no one was watching.
But everyone was.
---
Coach Nuno, head of youth development, observed silently from the balcony. On day three, he approached Jota during a water break.
"You play like someone who's lost something."
Jota wiped his forehead. "Maybe I did."
"And trying to earn it back?"
Jota nodded.
Coach Nuno smiled. "That's good. Hungry players grow."
Then he added, "But don't lose joy. Football without joy is just running in circles."
Those words stuck.
That night, Jota stood alone on the practice pitch and smiled for the first time in days as he nutmegged a cone.
---
Back in Penedono, Miguel didn't stop training either.
He rose at sunrise, ran laps around the vineyards, practiced passes against the barn wall, and taught Ana how to do toe-touches. Helena often found him fixing broken cleats with twine or re-stitching a torn sock.
"I need to be ready," he once told her.
"For what?" she asked.
Miguel smiled. "When he comes back."
And so the boy without a home finally found one.
---
On the seventh day of camp, the players were divided for an internal tournament. Scouts and directors would watch the final match.
Jota's team wasn't favored. But when the first whistle blew, he controlled the pace like a silent metronome—intercepting, assisting, repositioning.
In the semi-final, he scored the only goal.
In the final, he made two assists and blocked a goal-line shot in stoppage time.
When the match ended, Coach Nuno approached slowly.
"You don't shine like fireworks," he said. "But you burn like coals."
Jota replied, "Fireworks fade fast."
Nuno chuckled. "Would you like to stay?"
Jota blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Benfica. Youth team. Full scholarship. You'll live here. Train here. Study here. Start in September."
The boy didn't smile. Not yet.
"Can I tell my family first?"
Nuno nodded. "Of course. Go home. We'll be waiting."
---
The return to Penedono was quiet.
He stepped off the bus at dusk. Dust rose from the road. The vineyards were heavy with grapes. Crickets sang in the grass.
Ana spotted him first and ran. "You brought something red?!"
He pulled out a red keychain with a tiny Benfica crest. She screamed with joy.
Helena embraced him tightly. "Did you do your best?"
"I did."
Miguel approached last.
"Well?" he asked.
Jota handed him the letter.
Miguel read. Then looked up.
"You're leaving."
"In September."
Miguel nodded. "Then we train harder until then."
And just like that, the celebration became motivation.
---
The rest of the summer was simple.
Mornings began with footwork. Afternoons were spent helping in the bakery or studying. Evenings meant scrimmages in the field with Miguel and Ana as their cheerleader.
Sometimes other village kids joined.
Sometimes adults watched from porches.
Sometimes the air felt thick with dreams.
One evening, after sunset, Jota and Miguel lay on the hill behind the goat shed, watching stars flicker.
"Do you think I'll make it?" Miguel asked.
Jota looked at him. "You've already made it further than anyone thought."
Miguel smirked. "Still not enough."
Jota pointed at the stars. "Then keep climbing."
---
As August waned, the village prepared for harvest. Grape carts rumbled through the dirt paths. Smoke rose from chimneys again. School supplies were bought. Wool clothes pulled from closets.
And Helena packed Jota's bag quietly each night, one item at a time—shirts, socks, the photo frame.
On the final Sunday, the village priest offered a blessing for his journey. Ana cried, but promised to write letters. Miguel gave him his old whistle on a string.
"For luck," he said.
"Or for calling you back?" Jota teased.
Miguel shrugged. "Both."
---
On the morning of his departure, as the bus pulled into the square, Jota stood one last time before the vineyard rows.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered everything—the wind, the cold training mornings, the goat's bleating, Ana's laughter, Helena's hands kneading dough.
He remembered who he had become.
And who he had once been.
Then he stepped onto the bus with a single promise in his chest:
> I will not waste this second life.
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