Chapter 3 – The Letter from Viseu
Chapter 3 – The Letter from Viseu
The sun had not yet risen when Jota awoke.
He lay still for a moment, listening to the soft breathing of Ana in the room next door and the distant bark of a dog somewhere across the hills. The letter from Senhor Manuel was tucked under his pillow, and its presence felt like a weight on his chest—light in size but heavy in meaning.
Viseu.
He whispered the name into the morning silence.
It was more than just a city. It was a chance. A bridge. A portal back to the life he once knew—or at least a new version of it. But it also meant questions. Exposure. People watching.
And he wasn't sure if he was ready.
---
Downstairs, Dona Helena stirred the pot on the stove as the smell of hot milk and barley porridge filled the air.
"Sit, menino," she said, not looking up. "You have something to show me?"
Jota hesitated, then placed the folded letter gently on the table.
Helena wiped her hands and picked it up. Her eyes moved slowly as she read. Her expression didn't change.
When she finished, she placed it back on the table and looked at him. "Is this what you want?"
He nodded.
She sighed—not from sadness, but from the deep breath a parent takes when they realize their child might be growing faster than they're ready for.
"Then we'll go. Saturday morning."
Ana clapped her hands from the hallway. "We're going to the city!"
Jota smiled faintly. He hadn't been this nervous since his first professional debut. Except back then, he had full confidence. Now, all he had was instinct—and a second chance.
---
School that day was a blur.
The kids buzzed about the upcoming selection week. Posters were pasted near the gate: Torneio Distrital de Jovens Talentos — District Tournament of Young Talents.
Viseu's best scouts would be there. Coaches from regional academies. Even whispers about Benfica's youth observers.
João Pedro, ever confident, boasted near the fountain. "I'll make the cut. My uncle says I run like Rui Costa."
Vasco rolled his eyes. "Your uncle also said you could sing like Amália Rodrigues."
The other kids laughed.
Jota said nothing. He didn't need to brag. The field would speak for him.
---
That afternoon, PE class was held earlier than usual. Senhor Manuel had brought cones, proper bibs, and even a new match ball.
"The school will send five boys and two girls to Viseu," he announced. "Today, I want to see hunger. Show me who wants it."
The game was sharper than usual.
Jota felt the difference immediately—less chaos, more pressure. Kids wanted the ball, wanted the glory. But they also made more mistakes. Nerves got in the way.
He didn't force himself into the center of action. Instead, he waited—drifting between the left touchline and midfield, reading the spaces.
When the ball finally came to him, he feinted once, cut inside, and curled a low shot that grazed the post.
"Nice try, Jota," said Senhor Manuel, scribbling notes.
A few minutes later, he intercepted a pass, dribbled past two, and laid off a perfect assist to Lúcia, who buried the shot.
Senhor Manuel blew his whistle.
"That's the kind of play we need!"
João Pedro sulked, kicking the dirt.
---
On Friday, after school, Helena borrowed her neighbor's cart and old donkey, tying down bags of bread and cheese for the road.
The journey to Viseu would take nearly two hours through the hills.
Jota sat by the window that night, boots cleaned and bag packed. Ana sat beside him, swinging her legs.
"Do you think they'll like you?" she asked.
He chuckled. "I hope they like my football, at least."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I'll draw a new flag for when you come home. A big one. With your name in gold."
He ruffled her hair gently.
"Obrigado, mana."
---
Saturday morning came with fog again.
The cart creaked along the cobbled roads as the early light broke through the vineyard mist. Helena sat beside Jota, her hands resting on her lap, quiet.
The closer they got to Viseu, the more the world changed—stone houses turned to brick, fields to roads, and quiet to traffic. The city buzzed with energy, signs, and voices.
It had been years since Helena last visited.
To Jota, it was like entering a memory.
People moved with purpose. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from corner stalls. And rising at the edge of the square was the old municipal stadium—simple, but proud.
Dozens of boys were already gathered, all in matching white shirts with blue numbers. Coaches paced with clipboards. Parents watched from the railings, tense with hope.
Jota stepped out of the cart slowly.
He wasn't the same Diogo Jota who had signed contracts and done interviews.
He was a boy again.
And yet... the fire still burned.
---
The tryouts began with physical drills—cones, sprint times, and balance tests. Jota wasn't the fastest, but he was smooth, fluid. He cut corners without wasting steps. He didn't force movements. He flowed.
One coach leaned to another. "That one—Number 17. He has timing."
Then came the technical drills: passing under pressure, one-touch combinations, vision.
Jota excelled.
He didn't show off.
He showed intelligence.
He passed when others forced shots, controlled when others rushed, and spoke only when needed.
"Who trained that boy?" asked one scout from Académica.
No one knew.
---
During the final scrimmage, Jota was placed on the left wing again. The other boys towered over him. But as soon as the whistle blew, he came alive.
A diagonal run. A through-ball intercept. A low cross.
Goal.
Then another.
He didn't score. He created.
His mind moved faster than his feet—and his feet moved faster than their eyes.
When the game ended, he stood still in the center circle, catching his breath.
A few boys stared at him in awe. Others avoided eye contact.
The coach clapped his hands.
"Well played, Number 17."
Jota walked off the field, sweaty but calm.
Helena waited near the fence. She didn't say anything—just handed him a bottle of water.
He drank, then finally asked, "Did I do okay?"
She nodded. "You did more than okay."
He looked back at the pitch.
"I don't want to waste this second life, mãe."
Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
He hesitated. "I mean… this chance."
She smiled softly. "Then don't."
---
By afternoon, the list of names was posted on a board by the stadium gate.
Jota walked toward it, heart pounding.
Twenty names.
His was number three.
Jota Dias, Left Wing, Escola Penedono.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he turned away.
He didn't need to shout. Didn't need to celebrate.
The real journey was just beginning.
And the world had no idea that a legend had just stepped back onto the path.
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