The System Makes Me a Player Chapter 98

Diego’s Perspective:

I rember everything. Every missed shot, every disapproving look, every ti I promised to be the best and failed. I grew up with the feeling that I was never enough, that every step I took had to be asured, evaluated, compared. My father always said I had talent, but I was never talented enough for him. He would applaud the successes, but every mistake was an invisible slap, a reminder that I needed to run faster, kick harder, dribble better. My mother... well, my mother always tried to calm , but even her smile seed burdened with worry. I knew she wanted to be happy, but happiness didn’t matter. On the field, I had to win. I had to succeed. I had to prove that I was worth sothing. And when I failed, it felt like the whole world laughed at . I grew up tasting the bitter flavor of frustration mixed with the salt of anger.

In big gas, the pressure was suffocating. My parents watched from outside the field, every glance weighing on as if they could asure every breath, every step. They didn’t just want to play well — they wanted to be decisive, to solve everything, to carry the entire team on my back. And there was my uncle, always quieter, yet more intense. He would smile, cheer with , hug during training, but there was a silence that said far more than any words: whenever the team needed a hero, he disappeared. Not because he didn’t care, but because he knew I needed to feel the weight of the world alone. I loved my uncle, but I hated that silence in the decisive monts. And now, once again, I found myself alone because of one guy — Oliveira.

In the neighborhood where I grew up, everyone played football. Every comparison, every comnt, every taunt was engraved inside , burning, making fierce, hardened. I learned early to fight alone, to expect nothing from anyone. Every missed pass, every shout from the coach, every doubt from a teammate, everything fernted inside like poison. When I finally got it right, it was never enough. Never enough. So I learned: if I failed, it would be my fault. Always.

And that turned into anger. Anger at myself, anger at those who watched , anger at every obstacle. Anger that burned in my chest and pushed to prove sothing — not just to others, but to myself. Every ball I received was a chance for redemption, every dribble a cry that I wouldn’t fail again. Every defender in front of reminded of all those childhood gas, all those tis I felt the world depended on and nobody was there to catch .

Biel is going for the corner; it’s the last play of the ga. My heart beats as if it’s about to explode, every breath is short, every muscle tense. Sweat runs down my face, the world seems to spin in slow motion. I hear the crowd, but it’s no longer a continuous sound; it’s a sea of fragnted noises, every shout cut off, every clap echoing like drumbeats in the back of my mind. I take a deep breath, trying to silence all those voices from the past — my father, my mother, every imaginary spectator who judged . I will silence these voices by scoring the goal. I just have to do it. Just one shot, just one chance.

I look at the box. I see jerseys moving, arms stretching, eyes locked on the ball. The sll of wet grass fills my nostrils; the sun is almost gone, painting the field in a weak gold. My cleats dig into the ground, I feel the turf give way beneath my feet as if trembling. Everything is alive, everything pulses. The players’ breaths mingle with mine, and for a mont it feels like we’re all trapped in the sa lung.

Biel places the ball in the corner. He doesn’t look at , he doesn’t need to. His cross is always a thread of trust, a silent ssage. I feel the seconds drag. The referee blows the whistle, raising his arm. I close my eyes and see flashes: my father in the stands, my uncle by the sideline, my mother with her hands clasped, nervous. The boy I was, sweaty and frustrated, stares back at from the other side of mory.

Biel crosses the ball. The sound of impact is sharp, cutting through the air. The ball rises and spins, slow like a planet, tracing a perfect curve. I feel my body move before thought; every fiber, every muscle, every mory pushing forward.

Luquinhas has his back to . He doesn’t look nervous; he looks at peace, as if he already knows everything that will happen. He slightly opens his arms, receives the ball on his chest with absurd precision. The touch is soft, almost silent, and ti stops completely. I can hear my own heartbeat, the scrape of his cleats on the ground, feel the air moving through my hair.

Without looking, he makes a heel pass. It’s a quick, natural movent, like breathing. A touch of genius. The ball rolls to with a softness that contrasts with the violence of my heart.

“My body told to pass it there, so... score the goal, Diego”, he says. His voice is calm, low, almost a whisper, but to it’s thunder. Thunder that gives everything, that gives the chance to be what I was always promised I would be.

I feel the explosion in every muscle. The power rises from my leg, flows to my feet. I don’t even think, I just act. The shot leaves like a reflex, as if it’s not , but sothing bigger. I strike the ball first ti, feeling the impact surge through my shin, hip, chest.

And the mont the ball approaches the goal... Dante appears. He reads every movent, every intention, every mory of my past, and throws himself. His body becos a living wall. His chest blocks my shot. The sound of impact is sharp, brutal. The ball bounces, nervous, spinning in the air as if undecided. It’s still alive. There’s still a chance. I can still try.

I take a step, ready for the rebound, but Oliveira has already moved. A predator who knows where the blood will fall. He intercepts the ball before , firm, his body solid as a wall. He doesn’t hesitate; he kicks it away with precision, sending the ball far, into nothing.

My heart races, not from the effort — from disbelief. It can’t be. Every childhood mory, every pressure, every expectation that shaped , every ti soone disappeared when I needed them most, all rge in this mont.

The referee’s whistle sounds, echoing like thunder in my chest. The ga is over.

I stand still. Ti returns to normal. The sounds of the crowd blend into a confused roar. The sll of grass returns, stronger. I feel my legs heavy, my shoulders collapse. I gasp, feeling every drop of sweat, every exhausted muscle, every crushed expectation. My heart still throbs in despair, the world spins slowly. I lost. Everything I fought to overco, all the mories that drove ... and I failed. I should have been the hero, but once again I’m alone, defeated, powerless.

I lost.

“It’s okay, Diego. Next year we try again,” Luquinhas tells , while watching the Sanu team celebrate.

“Hey, Luquinhas...” I look at him, “I’m sorry... I ssed up”