GOAT7

its the year 2014 14 Year old João Félix is a prodigious young talent playing in FC Porto's youth academy. Though physically undersized, he demonstrates exceptional spatial intelligence, technique, and tactical awareness. His teammates call him “O Mago” (The Magician) for the way he creates opportunities from impossible angles. His family is supportive but modest—his father a teacher, his brother Hugo a fellow academy player.

But João’s rise halts abruptly when he is cut from the FC Porto youth system, with the reason cited as “developmental concerns” (a euphemism for being too small and not physically developed enough). The decision devastates him. Suddenly, the player everyone was talking about disappears from the football world. Teammates stop replying to his messages. His name fades from league records. No clubs call. João becomes invisible.

He returns to Viseu, haunted by shame and self-doubt. He refuses to train. Watches old match footage in silence. The once-prodigy now battles depression and isolation.

Then, during a solo jog, João notices a man watching him from afar. This man, Tiago, introduces himself as a former analyst from Porto. He presents João with a notebook—filled with diagrams and data focused solely on João’s off-the-ball movements. Tiago offers him something no one else has: belief and a new system of training. He calls it “Jogo Sem Bola”—the game without the ball.

João accepts. He will train in secret. No spotlight. No club. No recognition.

Just the work.

The Ghost of Portugal

João slipped through the tunnel, boots slung over his wrist, socks still damp with sweat—his second game for Sporting's U23s — another quiet masterclass. No goals, no viral clips. Just movement, rhythm, and results.

They won 3–1. He played 65 minutes. Controlled 90% of it.

But he didn't care about the numbers.

As he stepped into the crisp Lisbon evening, a man waited by the security gate. Sharp suit. No club badge. Sunglasses — even though the sun was setting.

"João Félix," the man said, voice smooth. Accent southern.

"I represent players," the man continued. "Real players. Ones who don't wait five years for a paycheck."

João tilted his head. "I already have an agent."

The man smirked. "Tiago? Please. That's not an agent. That's a babysitter with a car."

João stepped closer, shoulders tight.

The man nodded. "Of course. You're not flashy, but you're clever. Coaches notice. But coaches don't make careers. I do."

He handed João a card. Black. Embossed gold.

Leonel Cortez. Talent Broker. European Network.

"I'm building something," João said quietly.

Cortez smiled wider. "You? Building? With Sporting? They'll use you to prop up the next academy golden boy. You'll do the work. Someone else will get the headlines."

"But I can get you to Germany. Spain. Even Italy. Clubs looking for thinkers. For systems players. Real money. Real minutes."

"What do you know about The System?"

Cortez laughed. "I know it doesn't matter unless the right eyes see it."

This time, João took it — only to tear it in half.

"I don't need shortcuts," he said. "I make players better. That's my value."

"You'll learn," he said, turning away. "They all do—eventually."

Tiago slammed the car door harder than usual.

"Everything. In exchange for everything."

"That man moves like smoke," he said. "The kind who offers a plane ticket before he asks your age."

Tiago's knuckles tightened on the wheel. "Of course he did."

João watched the Lisbon streets blur past. Quiet for a long time.

"Is he right?" he asked. "About the system. About coaches not being enough."

"Football's full of shortcuts," he finally said. "And graveyards built by them."

Then João said, softly, "If we wait too long, someone else will get the headlines."

Tiago looked at him, this time not as a mentor — but as a man seeing the fire catch in someone younger.

"You're not invisible anymore, João."

Later that night, João sat in his apartment alowas ne. A notepad was open on his bed. A drawing of pitch zones — hand-sketched. Arrows, triangles, movement. Notes scribbled beside them.

"Bend pressing mistakes invite mistake."

"Disguise run. Delay the third man."

A quote that Tiago had told him early on, scrawled in the margin.

"You don't beat the game with speed. You beat it with time."

João looked at it for a long time.

But João wanted time. Control. Precision.

He opened his laptop. Searched Sporting's next opponent.

Only this time — it would be the seniors watching.

The system would face its first real test.

In the shadows