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

Chapter 13 – Marked Men (600 words

Lisbon, 2014. Sporting Academy Ground. Late Afternoon.

The whistle pierced the air like a blade.

"11 v 11," barked the assistant coach. "Mixed ages. Full contact."

João's stomach tightened. He was the youngest on the pitch — again. His boots sank into the thick turf as the U19s jogged past, muscles cut, faces hard. They barely looked at him.

"Stick the runt in midfield," someone muttered.

The nickname had caught on. Runt. Too skinny. Too quiet. Too slow—until the ball came.

Today, João was the easiest one to step on.

Tiago wasn't watching. The staff told him to sit this one out. João was on his own.

First five minutes — chaos. João moved like a ghost, darting into soft spots, checking in and out of pressure. He didn't demand the ball. He invited it.

Then he saw it — a loose shape, a weak gap behind the opposing pivot. João checked his shoulder, drifted between the lines, and called for it softly.

One touch — weight perfect. João spun.

A body slammed into his ribs. Air gone. He hit the ground.

"Get up," the defender grunted. U18 center back. Six inches taller.

João didn't reply. He stood. Shook it off.

Minute 11. The ball spun loose after a poor clearance. João stepped in first. Tap forward.

Another hit. This time late — boot to shin.

He winced. Hobbled three steps. Played through it.

Minute 19. He drifted wide, then cut back into the center. The defenders didn't follow. João took the lane. Quick one-two.

The final pass came at chest height.

He leapt, trapping it with his thigh, soft touchdown to his foot.

He dropped again, face in the turf, leg screaming.

No card. Just claps from the bench.

"Welcome to men's football, boy!" someone shouted.

He clenched his teeth. The pain pulsed, but the anger was louder.

This time — he stared at the defender.

João adjusted. He stopped drifting into obvious lanes. Instead, he ghosted behind his striker, pulled defenders out, and inverted his runs.

He became noise in the defense's brain.

And then — at minute 29 — he struck.

Midfielder pressed. João baited him, waited, timed it.

He snapped the ball into the 10 channel, spun wide to receive.

The defender didn't follow. Too slow.

João saw it all: keeper off-balance, left back overcommitting, winger making a diagonal.

One pass. Outside foot. Weight perfect.

He got hacked. Pulled. Spiked. Slammed.

But he found pockets, broke pressing angles, and forced older boys to run into shadows he created. A second assist. A pre-assist. A foul was drawn outside the box.

When the whistle finally blew, he limped to the sideline.

Someone clapped him on the shoulder.

"You don't bruise easily," the boy said.

João didn't smile. He didn't need to.

He had earned the only thing that mattered in this world: grudging respect.

Later, in the locker room, as João unwrapped his shin tape, he noticed the bruises—three deep ones on his right leg, one on his back.

And next time, they wouldn't be enough to stop him.