Chapter 7 – Benfica Academy and the First Walls
The Seixal Training Complex was quiet at sunrise.
The dormitory lights hummed faintly, and the air still smelled of detergent and new shoes. Jota stood by the window of his new shared room—second floor, building C—watching the mist float over the empty pitches.
This was it.
Not a visit.
Not a camp.
But the beginning of his new life.
---
Orientation day was a blur of uniforms, documents, lockers, and tight schedules. Each scholar-athlete received a red academy backpack, a laptop for school use, and a timetable that left little breathing room.
Monday to Friday:
🕕 6:00 – Morning Conditioning
🕖 7:30 – Breakfast
🕗 8:00 – Classes (Math, Language, History, Science)
🕐 13:00 – Lunch
🕝 14:00 – Tactical Sessions or Video Review
🕞 15:30 – Field Training
🕖 18:00 – Recovery, Showers
🕢 19:00 – Dinner
🕣 20:00 – Study Hall or Mentorship
🕥 22:00 – Lights Out
"Discipline is not punishment," Coach Nuno reminded them. "It's protection. It protects your dream from the laziness of others."
Jota listened quietly.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't try to impress.
He simply absorbed.
---
His roommate was a boy named Leonel, a right back from Madeira who liked loud music and wore his socks inside out for "good luck."
"Where you from again?" Leonel asked as he unpacked.
"Penedono. Small village up north."
"Never heard of it." Leonel shrugged. "You fast?"
"Fast enough."
Leonel grinned. "Good. I hate chasing slow people."
They got along surprisingly well—Leonel was talkative, but never unkind. He didn't ask much about Jota's past. And Jota never offered.
---
Training sessions were intense.
The coaches at Benfica didn't care about how talented you were. They cared about how you used it. Every pass had to be to the correct foot. Every sprint had to be full. Every touch, deliberate.
Mistakes were tolerated. Laziness was not.
Jota found himself in a sea of excellence. Wingers who could dribble three defenders. Forwards who could volley blind. Midfielders who never lost the ball.
And yet…
He was not afraid.
He was familiar with pressure. He had played under brighter lights, in a former life. The rhythm of competition didn't crush him—it centered him.
Still, there were challenges.
---
Week two, during a short scrimmage, he faced Bruno—a tall, muscular center back with a sharp tongue.
When Jota tried to cut inside, Bruno body-checked him hard to the ground.
"Stay in the village, farmer," he muttered.
Jota stood up in silence, dusted his shorts, and didn't respond.
But the next time he received the ball, he didn't rush.
He waited.
He slowed time.
Then, with a feint and flick, he sent the ball through Bruno's legs, rounded him, and delivered a cross so precise it curled into the net without a touch.
No celebration.
Just a glance.
Bruno looked away.
Coach Nuno smiled faintly from the sidelines.
---
Life outside the field wasn't easy either.
The academics were serious. Teachers expected excellence. No excuses. If you missed an assignment, you missed training. Simple.
Jota's math was solid. His Portuguese composition was average. Science, not great.
But he worked. Hard.
During study hall, he often sat with Sofia—an academy tutor with short hair and a sharp mind. She didn't ask about football. Only verbs, formulas, and grammar.
"You have a patient brain," she once said. "Use it wisely."
Jota nodded. "My sister says I think too much."
Sofia laughed. "That's a gift. Don't let this place turn you into just feet."
---
Back home, Helena received his first letter after ten days.
Dear Mãe,
I train every day. The food is good, but not like yours. My roommate snores. My teacher says I'm improving in reading. I miss Ana. I miss Miguel. Tell them I'm still the same, just with more sweat.
I'll make you proud. Love, Jota.
Ana drew a picture in reply—Jota as a superhero kicking a ball at a giant city. Miguel sent a postcard with one sentence:
> "We're all still training. Don't slow down."
Jota pinned both on his wall.
---
One rainy afternoon, after a long tactical session, Jota lingered in the video room.
Coach Nuno walked in. "Still studying?"
"I want to understand their shape better. The 3-5-2."
Nuno nodded. "You see the details."
"Sometimes."
"Details are what separate the great from the remembered."
Then he sat beside Jota.
"You know," he said, "many boys who come here break after three months. Not from injury. From silence. Homesickness. Self-doubt."
"I won't break."
"I believe you."
Then, after a pause: "Where did you really learn to play like this?"
Jota looked at the screen. "From another life."
Coach Nuno raised an eyebrow.
But didn't press.
---
Week four brought the first academy match against Sporting's U13 squad. It would be a friendly—but nothing in Lisbon football was ever friendly.
Jota was named to the starting eleven.
The stadium wasn't large, but it had seats, lights, lines, and pressure. Families came. Scouts came. Staff from Benfica's senior team even peeked from the stands.
Jota's hands were cold before kickoff.
Not from nerves.
From the weight of meaning.
He thought of Penedono.
Of Ana's drawings.
Of Miguel's postcard.
Then the whistle blew.
---
Sporting came in strong—tight passing, quick overlaps, aggressive pressing.
Benfica responded with structure.
But in the first half, no goals came.
Jota saw little of the ball. Bruno, now his teammate, barked directions. Leonel made overlapping runs that went unused.
At halftime, Coach Nuno gathered them in the tunnel.
"You're thinking too much," he said. "Let go. Trust the rhythm. Trust yourself."
In the second half, Jota moved wider.
He stopped waiting for instructions.
He began to feel the tempo.
And when the ball finally came, he made it count.
One touch to settle. One glance. One low cross.
Goal.
Benfica 1–0.
---
The match ended 2–1.
Jota didn't score, but he commanded.
Scouts murmured. Coaches nodded.
Afterward, as the players left the field, Leonel patted him on the back.
"Didn't think you had that in you, village boy."
Jota smiled. "There's more where that came from."
Back in the locker room, Coach Nuno walked past him slowly, then whispered:
> "You're starting to burn."
---
That night, Jota sat on his bed, muscles sore, heart calm.
He opened a blank notebook and wrote five words:
> "This life will be different."
Then he closed it.
And slept.
With no regrets.
---