Defeat had a bitter taste and a gray color.Elismar woke up on Thursday feeling the phantom weight of each of the 23 goals on his back. The dream about the World Cup hadn't come that night. It had been replaced by short, repetitive nightmares where a futsal ball chased him down an endless hallway, laughing at him.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he picked up his phone. But instead of opening a random game, he went straight to YouTube. His idols, the flashy dribblers, were no use now. He needed something more fundamental, more raw. He typed into the search bar: "how a futsal defender should mark," "best amateur futsal tackles," "what to do when your team sucks."
The screen filled with videos. Stocky and agile men throwing themselves to the ground, using their bodies to block shots, anticipating passes with a kind of intelligence that seemed like witchcraft. He watched a slow-motion video of a defender taking the ball from an attacker without fouling. The movement was simple: a quick step, the foot firm at the exact moment. Elismar tried to mimic the movement sitting on the bed—and nearly knocked over the lamp. It was useless. Theory was one thing; having feet that obeyed was a whole different story.
"Elismar! Breakfast is on the table! You're going to be late for school!" Dona Valdi's voice came from the kitchen, cutting through his focus.
He got up, his mind racing. School? How could he think about equations and grammar when his team had just suffered the worst humiliation in the history of Feira do Bairro?
"Mom!" he shouted, already appearing in the kitchen doorway. "I don't think I'm going to school today. I need to train. The interclass is tomorrow!"
Dona Valdi stopped with the coffee pot in her hand and gave him a look more intimidating than any striker."What did you say, Elismar Valença? You're skipping class to kick a ball? After losing twenty-three to zero? If your studies had the same score, you'd be a doctor at Harvard by now."
"But Mom, that's exactly why! I need to improve! I just stood there watching the guys pass me!"
"And you think you're going to get better by skipping Portuguese class? So you can write a nice apology letter to your fans?" she shot back, her irony as sharp as a knife. "You're going to school, you're going to learn, and later, if there's time and sense left, you can train. Eat your couscous and get dressed. This conversation is over."
Defeated before even leaving the house, Elismar obeyed.
Arriving at Colégio Santo Sertão felt like walking down a gauntlet. The laughs weren't whispers anymore; they were loud, open cackles. Someone shouted, "LOOK, IT'S THE STAR PLAYER FROM THE 23-NIL TEAM!" from one side. On the other, a group of boys counted loudly: "…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three! Game over!"
He walked with his head down, feeling his face burn. Then, he saw her. Sophia. She was talking to her friends and looked his way. Their eyes met for a split second. She didn't laugh. She did something worse. She rolled her eyes and made a small grimace of disgust, like she had seen something spoiled, then turned her back and continued her lively conversation.
That was a punch to the gut. The humiliation of the score hurt, but her disdain broke him.
"Hey, Elismar!" Markin's breathless voice reached him. The goalkeeper was with the rest of the team, all with the same funeral expression. "Don't mind them. Want half my pastry?"
"We lost, but we lost together," added Piter, giving Elismar a clumsy pat on the shoulder. "That's what matters."
"Yeah, and next time I promise my shot will at least head in the right direction," said Lester sincerely.
Elismar forced a smile. "Thanks, guys. Listen, what if we go to the court after school? Today. To really train. I watched some videos, some tactics…"
Their faces twisted.
"Ugh, can't today," said Markin. "My mom said if I come home with one more scrape, I'm grounded until Christmas."
"Mine said I have to clean my room. Threatened to throw out my bottle cap collection," Piter lamented.
"I have a dentist appointment," Lester lied, unconvincingly.
Ryan didn't even have to speak—he just shook his head.
The reality was clear: the trauma from the defeat had been so massive that even the desire to train didn't survive. He was alone in this.
After the last class ended, Elismar didn't go home. With his backpack on his back, he walked the other way, toward the court known as "The Oven." It was empty and quiet, except for a strange sound. THUMP… quiet curse… THUMP… frustrated sigh.
He peeked through the gate. There was a girl there. A girl he had never seen before. She was Black, with straight black hair down to her shoulders and, even from afar, he could see her eyes were a stunning blue—like two little pools in the middle of the drylands. She was trying to control a ball, but with every touch, it bounced away like it had a will of its own.
"Stupid ball!" she kicked the ground, frustrated.
Elismar opened the gate and stepped in. The girl turned, startled. When she saw him, she immediately became defensive, her face closed.
"What? You came to laugh too?" she snapped. "Great, another one for the audience."
Elismar just shook his head. "No. I came to train."
She looked him up and down, skeptical. "You? Train? Do you even know how to play?" Without waiting for an answer, she kicked the ball toward him, more out of anger than skill. "Here then, apartment Pelé!"
Elismar prepared himself. This was his chance to apply what he'd seen in the videos. Body position, plant foot firm, control with the inside of the foot… The ball came high, toward his chest. He tried to soften it. The result was a disaster. The ball hit his collarbone, bounced up, and smacked him right in the forehead with a hollow, comedic THUD.
He staggered back, seeing stars, his backpack throwing him off balance.
The girl stood frozen for a second. Her lips twitched. Then she made a sound—a small snort she tried to hold back. She failed. The laughter exploded out of her, loud, genuine, and uncontrollable. She doubled over, hands on her knees, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
"Oh my God…" she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "You… you're worse than me!"
Elismar, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead, couldn't be mad. Her laugh wasn't like the ones from the boys at school. It wasn't mean. It was the laugh of someone who recognized an equal. An equal in failure.
He smiled. "My feet are crooked. My head, apparently, is straight."
The girl stopped laughing and smiled back—a smile that lit up the whole court. "I'm Clara."
"Elismar."
They spent the next hour in what could only be described as a ballet of uncoordination. They tried to pass the ball to each other. Elismar's passes were weak, and Clara's were off target. They tried to shoot at the goal. Elismar's barely reached it, and Clara's almost hit the pigeons on the gym roof. But for the first time in a long while, Elismar was having fun. The weight of the 23-0 had vanished. Sophia's grimace was forgotten. There was only him, Clara, a stubborn ball, and the sound of their laughter echoing in the empty court.
When the sun began to set, he realized he was way past curfew.
"I gotta go. My mom's gonna kill me."
"Mine too," Clara said, grabbing the ball. "Tomorrow, same time?"
"Deal," Elismar replied, feeling more excitement than he had in days.
He ran home. Dona Valdi was waiting at the door, arms crossed.
"Elismar Valença, where have you been?"
"Sorry, Mom. I… I left school and went to play soccer," he said, bracing for the scolding.
But she looked at him for a moment, and her stern expression softened. "Your eyes… they're shining differently. Go take a shower, dinner's getting cold."
Later, in his room, with Bola de Pelo purring on his lap and Mão Leve watching from atop the wardrobe, Elismar couldn't stop smiling.
"You guys won't believe it," he whispered to the cats. "Her name is Clara. And she's terrible at soccer. Just as bad as me. And her eyes… they're blue! And she laughed at me, but not to mock. It was… because she understood. She's amazing."
He lay down, and for the first time, the image that came to mind before sleep wasn't the Golden Ball, nor Sophia's pretty but distant face. It was Clara's smile, laughing after the ball hit his head.
Sophia? Who was Sophia? Suddenly, the golden dream seemed to have gained a new color: the blue of his new and clumsy training partner's eyes.