They say the sun always rises early in Natal. They’re right, but I beat it most mornings.
I’m up before dawn, lacing my boots in blackness, a bit of yesterday’s sand still stuck to the soles. The ocean’s breeze creeps through the open window, salty and soft, just the way I like it. Before I even brush my teeth, I say a quick prayer. Obrigado, Deus, thank you God for another day, another chance to run like the wind and let the samba in my blood do its thing.
At the academy, it’s all business, but for me? It’s joy. Pure joy. Every morning starts with a jog along the beach, and I always take the long route. Not because I have to, but because I need to feel the rhythm. Sand underfoot, water kissing the shoreline, the sounds of waves and gulls and distant fishermen arguing like uncles at a Sunday barbecue, it puts my head in the right place. Sometimes, I picture myself at the Maracana Stadium. Not the old one from the black and white videos my grandfather showed me, but the one from my dreams. Full house. Sky turning golden. My name blaring out the stadium speakers. It’s not arrogance. It’s faith.
Back at the training grounds, I’m one of the first to arrive. Coach calls me "O viento," but the lads just call me Sandro. I like that. Simple. Direct. No need for big talk. I let my feet do that.
First up, touches. Ball control drills. I close my eyes sometimes, just to see how long I can keep the ball off the ground. Ten, fifteen, twenty juggles. Left, right, shoulder, head, back to left. My record is one-hundred and forty-nine. Not that I’m counting (I am).
By mid-morning, the team’s training in full swing. Positioning, recovery runs, crosses into the box. This is where I come alive. There’s this split second, when I get the ball on the right flank, and the defender in front of me squares up, and I already know. I push the ball past him, like a whisper on the breeze, and it’s over before he blinks. That’s the part I live for. That rush. That whoosh as I disappear past him, already scanning the box for a teammate making a run. Coach says I’ve got Bale’s speed and Cafu’s lungs. I say I’ve got my mother’s work ethic and my father’s prayer beads.
Lunchtime, we gather in the cafeteria. The lads joke, talk about the weekend, argue over who’s better at FIFA. I keep it lowkey, mostly listening, but I light up when the food comes. Rice, beans, grilled shrimp, bananas, all fuel for the machine. I eat with my hands sometimes, just to feel more connected. My grandmother says food tastes better that way, and she’s not wrong.
After lunch, we have film review. I watch my own footage like a fan, analyzing every touch, every sprint, every cross. But it’s not just critique. It’s celebration. Look at that run. Look at that recovery tackle. That’s me. That’s the dream unfolding, frame by frame.
Afternoons are quieter. Light technical drills, sometimes weights, sometimes beach sprints. Coach says balance is important. Can’t be all flash and fury. Gotta have flow too. I’m learning that. Learning to breathe through the tension. To stretch out my emotion and release it back into the universe.
Evenings, I head back home. My little room above the padaria smells like sugar and fresh bread. My mom hugs me like I’ve just come back from war. My sister teases me about my curly hair, says I look like I’m in a shampoo commercial. I remind her I’m the reason we have Wi-Fi and air conditioning.
After dinner, I sit on the roof, watching the stars come out. I play a little music. Old samba, some Jorge Ben, a bit of universitario sertanejo. I write in my journal. Just a few lines. Today’s entry reads: “Nutmegged Emerson in training. Again. Assited two goals with my crosses. Felt like I was flying. Obrigado, Deus.” Sometimes, I talk to the moon as it hovers out over the sea. Tell it my dreams. I want to play in Europe someday. Or at least a big city like Rio or Sao Paulo. I want to wear the yellow shirt of Brazil and sing the anthem with tears in my eyes. I want to dance past defenders on the world’s biggest stage and bring pride to every barefoot kid juggling a ball on the beaches of Natal.
And when I finally lay down to sleep, body sore, heart full, I smile. Because tomorrow, I get to do it all over again.
I’m up before dawn, lacing my boots in blackness, a bit of yesterday’s sand still stuck to the soles. The ocean’s breeze creeps through the open window, salty and soft, just the way I like it. Before I even brush my teeth, I say a quick prayer. Obrigado, Deus, thank you God for another day, another chance to run like the wind and let the samba in my blood do its thing.
At the academy, it’s all business, but for me? It’s joy. Pure joy. Every morning starts with a jog along the beach, and I always take the long route. Not because I have to, but because I need to feel the rhythm. Sand underfoot, water kissing the shoreline, the sounds of waves and gulls and distant fishermen arguing like uncles at a Sunday barbecue, it puts my head in the right place. Sometimes, I picture myself at the Maracana Stadium. Not the old one from the black and white videos my grandfather showed me, but the one from my dreams. Full house. Sky turning golden. My name blaring out the stadium speakers. It’s not arrogance. It’s faith.
Back at the training grounds, I’m one of the first to arrive. Coach calls me "O viento," but the lads just call me Sandro. I like that. Simple. Direct. No need for big talk. I let my feet do that.
First up, touches. Ball control drills. I close my eyes sometimes, just to see how long I can keep the ball off the ground. Ten, fifteen, twenty juggles. Left, right, shoulder, head, back to left. My record is one-hundred and forty-nine. Not that I’m counting (I am).
By mid-morning, the team’s training in full swing. Positioning, recovery runs, crosses into the box. This is where I come alive. There’s this split second, when I get the ball on the right flank, and the defender in front of me squares up, and I already know. I push the ball past him, like a whisper on the breeze, and it’s over before he blinks. That’s the part I live for. That rush. That whoosh as I disappear past him, already scanning the box for a teammate making a run. Coach says I’ve got Bale’s speed and Cafu’s lungs. I say I’ve got my mother’s work ethic and my father’s prayer beads.
Lunchtime, we gather in the cafeteria. The lads joke, talk about the weekend, argue over who’s better at FIFA. I keep it lowkey, mostly listening, but I light up when the food comes. Rice, beans, grilled shrimp, bananas, all fuel for the machine. I eat with my hands sometimes, just to feel more connected. My grandmother says food tastes better that way, and she’s not wrong.
After lunch, we have film review. I watch my own footage like a fan, analyzing every touch, every sprint, every cross. But it’s not just critique. It’s celebration. Look at that run. Look at that recovery tackle. That’s me. That’s the dream unfolding, frame by frame.
Afternoons are quieter. Light technical drills, sometimes weights, sometimes beach sprints. Coach says balance is important. Can’t be all flash and fury. Gotta have flow too. I’m learning that. Learning to breathe through the tension. To stretch out my emotion and release it back into the universe.
Evenings, I head back home. My little room above the padaria smells like sugar and fresh bread. My mom hugs me like I’ve just come back from war. My sister teases me about my curly hair, says I look like I’m in a shampoo commercial. I remind her I’m the reason we have Wi-Fi and air conditioning.
After dinner, I sit on the roof, watching the stars come out. I play a little music. Old samba, some Jorge Ben, a bit of universitario sertanejo. I write in my journal. Just a few lines. Today’s entry reads: “Nutmegged Emerson in training. Again. Assited two goals with my crosses. Felt like I was flying. Obrigado, Deus.” Sometimes, I talk to the moon as it hovers out over the sea. Tell it my dreams. I want to play in Europe someday. Or at least a big city like Rio or Sao Paulo. I want to wear the yellow shirt of Brazil and sing the anthem with tears in my eyes. I want to dance past defenders on the world’s biggest stage and bring pride to every barefoot kid juggling a ball on the beaches of Natal.
And when I finally lay down to sleep, body sore, heart full, I smile. Because tomorrow, I get to do it all over again.
![[Image: C75197-D1-9-E74-4-DC5-836-E-981-D75-A96413.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/nc8qJ0Nf/C75197-D1-9-E74-4-DC5-836-E-981-D75-A96413.png)
