The golden spotlight felt like it was melting over his shoulders. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a thunderous anthem dedicated to him. Elismar, wearing the yellow jersey of the Brazilian Futsal National Team, felt the weight of the world on his feet. The World Cup final. Score tied. Last second. The ball, an extension of his soul, clung to his foot. He spun, his body light as a feather, leaving the Argentine defender on the ground. One, two, three dribbles, as if choreographed by the gods of football. The opposing goalkeeper, a giant with open arms, was the final barrier. Elismar didn't shoot. He gave a subtle touch, a little lob that made the ball float, kiss the net, and die in the back of the goal.
GOOOOOAL!
The world exploded. His teammates lifted him up. He raised the golden trophy, the most beautiful object he had ever seen. The Tigres Mansos, his neighborhood team, were now the foundation of the world champion national squad. He was the best in the world.
Meow.A high-pitched, insistent sound.Mrrrrow.
The golden light turned into a stubborn ray of sunlight slipping through the curtain. The heavy trophy became a warm, furry weight on his chest. Elismar opened his eyes. A pair of green eyes stared at him, just inches from his face.
"Ah... it was you, Furball," Elismar muttered, his voice hoarse from sleep.
The cat, a gray-and-white ball of fluff, purred like a tiny engine. Beside the bed, Light Paw, a sleek black cat, was sharpening its claws on the wooden bed leg with surgical precision.
"Good morning to you too, my champs." Elismar sat up, his 11-year-old body already protesting. He looked at his own feet. Crooked. His toes pointed slightly inward, as if they were shy. Champion's feet, he thought—only the world didn't know it yet."Light Paw, your tail-dribble is better than mine. And you, Furball, you'd be a better goalie than Markin. At least you're not afraid of the ball."
Reality hit him like a rough tackle. No trophy, no glory. Just a small bedroom in Feira do Bairro, the smell of couscous coming from the kitchen, and the undeniable truth: it was Monday. School day. And time to face it—Tigres Mansos were possibly the worst futsal team in human history.
After chatting a bit more with the only teammates who didn't complain about his passes, Elismar dragged himself out of the room. Breakfast with his mom, Dona Valdi, was quick. She was a woman with a warm smile and calloused hands—the pillar that held his world.
"Excited for school, my son?"
"Of course, Mom. Today we talk about the interclass tourney," he said, stuffing his mouth with buttered bread.
"Oh, how nice! Go get 'em, you Tigres!"
Elismar smiled. The name "Tigres Mansos" was his idea. It was supposed to be ironic. Unfortunately, it ended up being painfully accurate.
A quick shower, the Santo Sertão School uniform, and he was out the door. Bahia's heat was already rising, the air buzzing with cars and street vendor calls. Life in Feira do Bairro was like futsal—always dodging people, potholes, and problems.
Arriving at the school's imposing gate, he spotted his squad. The elite of failure gathered near the water fountain.
First, Markin. The goalkeeper. He was so big he nearly blocked the sunlight and was currently struggling to tie his shoelaces, already panting from the effort. His hands, which should've been firm to catch balls, looked more like jello.
"Hey, Elismar," Markin puffed. "I dreamed I saved a penalty. Woke up hugging my pillow."
Next to him, Piter—the pivot-goalie. A little less fat than Markin, but equally averse to sudden movement. His superpower was a kick that sometimes came out strong, but mostly aimed toward the school canteen's windows rather than the goal.
"Are we really signing up for the interclass?" asked Piter, mouth full of a greasy pastry. "The 9th grade team said if they face us, it'll be fifteen to zero."
"He's being optimistic. Fifteen is too little," said Lester, the winger. Skinny, with thin legs, he had what others called a "girl's kick": weak, parabolic, and harmless. "My shot's dialed in. Yesterday I hit my gate. Once. In thirty tries."
And finally, Ryan. Small, with a bowl-cut hairstyle that looked like a helmet, he was the image of defeat. "Guys, Sophia's coming," he whispered, panicking.
Elismar's stomach sank. Sophia. She walked through the courtyard, her black hair swaying, her smile radiant. To Elismar, she was more beautiful than the World Cup trophy. She passed by them, chatting with one of the school's main team players—a guy who could do keepie-uppies with his eyes closed. She looked at the Tigres Mansos crew, and a half-smile—part pity, part mockery—crossed her face before she turned back to her football god.
That hurt more than any ball to the face.
"She laughed at us," Ryan muttered, head down. "Remember when I lost one-on-one to Leo's little sister? She was there. She saw."
"Relax, Ryan. We're gonna shut everyone up," said Elismar, with more conviction than he felt. He was the fixo—the defender. His job wasn't to score, but to stop others from doing it. To shield the goal and poor Markin from whatever came their way. "My job is to be your human shield. Let the shots come. No pause, no shame."
The joke got a few weak chuckles.
"That's right!" said Markin, finally tying his shoe. "Our defense will be a wall!"
"A wall made of cheese, maybe," mumbled Piter.
The bell rang, and the crowd of students moved to their classrooms. As he walked, Elismar heard the whispers."Look, it's the Tigres Mansos.""They're gonna embarrass themselves again.""I bet a coxinha they won't score once in the whole tournament."
He clenched his fists. They could laugh. Mock his crooked feet, his disaster of a team. But they couldn't see the fire inside him. The dream of that final goal, of the golden trophy. One day, he thought, he wouldn't be just Elismar, the clumsy boy from Tigres Mansos. He'd be Elismar, the best in the world. The owner of the Ballon d'Or. Sophia would beg for his autograph.
Classes dragged on like a game stuck in overtime. Math, Portuguese, history… nothing held his attention. His mind was on the court, on the smell of rubber soles, on the sound of the ball hitting the post.
When the final bell rang, he said goodbye to his friends and walked home, his head full of impossible tactics and miraculous plays.
At home, the routine repeated. Shower. Dinner. Chat with Mom.
"How was school, son?" asked Dona Valdi, clearing the table.
"It was good, Mom. We're playing the interclass tournament on Friday."
"How wonderful! I'll bake a cake to celebrate your victory."
Elismar smiled, a sad smile. His mother's faith was the only thing more stubborn than his dream."Save the recipe, Mom. Might need it in the team's next life."
She laughed and ruffled his hair. "Don't be silly. Your feet will take you wherever your heart tells them to go."
Later, lying in bed, with Furball curled up on his chest and Light Paw asleep at his feet, Elismar stared at the ceiling. Monday. Four long days until the humiliation… or the beginning of a legend.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered to the cats, who only purred in reply. "One day, you'll see. We'll make it."
He closed his eyes, and the image of the golden ball—the Ballon d'Or—shone in the darkness. It was a distant dream, almost impossible. But it was his dream. And for that, it was worth enduring any score life threw his way.