Chapter 6: Welcome to São Paulo
If the Premier League was considered hell-level intensity, then Brazilian football could only be described as purgatory.
Or worse.
The Brazilian Série A officially kicked off at the end of May, yet all thirty-eight league rounds had to be completed in less than seven months. Add continental competitions into the mix, and the calendar became brutally dense.
Did that mean Brazilian clubs rested before May?
Of course not.
If they did, Brazil would never have produced so many footballing prodigies.
Because of the country's size and the sheer number of clubs, every state ran its own championship. São Paulo State alone had the Campeonato Paulista, featuring sixteen teams split into groups, playing from January until the national league began.
For Brazilian clubs, the season never truly stopped.
Compared to Europe, their schedules were harsher—but their income was far lower. That contradiction was precisely why Brazilian players did everything possible to reach Europe.
That said, the overall match tempo in Brazil was noticeably slower than in Europe. Many games unfolded at a pace that lulled spectators into half-sleep.
If Brazilian clubs played at full European intensity year-round, the injury list would never end.
The Copa Libertadores was similar to the Champions League in structure, but ruthless in its own way. Teams from the same country could face each other at any stage, and no one complained.
The match Ken watched at Morumbi Stadium—São Paulo versus Atlético Mineiro—was the final group-stage fixture.
São Paulo entered with only four points, tied with Argentina's Arsenal de Sarandí. The Bolivian side The Strongest sat second with six points.
Atlético Mineiro, already on fifteen points, had secured qualification long before kickoff.
With no real rivalry left—
São Paulo still won, 2–0.
Arsenal also won their match, and São Paulo advanced on goal difference.
Football wasn't always about bloodshed.
Sometimes, it was about understanding how the world worked.
---
Bang!
Bang!
At eight in the morning, the sound of footballs striking nets echoed across São Paulo's training base.
In Brazil, most clubs didn't train early. Some started after ten. Others waited until afternoon. Actual training time rarely exceeded two hours.
Showing up this early was unusual.
In the security dormitory near the entrance, a man in his fifties stirred awake. Instead of annoyance, a rare smile crossed his face.
"…It's been two years," he murmured. "My alarm clock is finally back."
On the pitch, Ken was already sweating.
Dressed in training gear, he was practicing set pieces—free kicks, corner deliveries, second-ball strikes.
This was an assignment from Head Coach Ramalho.
And something Ken himself wanted to master as quickly as possible.
Each strike sent his hair flying, sweat scattering in fine arcs through the air.
Ken knew his own talent.
Brazil was full of gifted players—he had grown up among them. But talent alone meant nothing. Only those who survived pressure, discipline, and time truly made it.
That was why Ken never relied on talent.
He worked harder.
He always had.
From the age of seven, every staff member at São Paulo knew one thing clearly—Ken was the most diligent player in the academy.
Training was monotonous. Repetitive. Boring.
Ken never complained.
Kick. Retrieve. Reset.
Fifteen balls.
Again.
And again.
"Hey."
A voice broke the rhythm.
"Coming this early—trying to steal our jobs, kid?"
Ken turned around.
Two senior players stood behind him.
One was Lúcio.
The other was Denílson.
Not the famous "Samba Dancer"—that Denílson had long retired—but still a respected name.
In Brazil, shared names were common.
To Ken's generation, this Denílson was a legend in his own right.
Former youth national team captain.
Former Premier League player.
A career derailed by injuries.
Ken raised an eyebrow calmly.
"Real veterans don't fear being overtaken," he said. "Only those who've lost their hunger do."
Then he looked directly at Lúcio.
"So which one are you?"
For a brief moment, both men froze.
Then Lúcio burst out laughing.
"Haha—interesting kid," he said. "Which one am I? You'll find out yourself."
Denílson smiled and extended his hand.
"Welcome back."
Ken shook it firmly.
"When I first joined the academy," he said honestly, "your name was everywhere. Right after Kaká."
The sun climbed higher.
One by one, first-team players arrived, chatting casually as they stepped onto the pitch.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Everyone had gathered.
Head Coach Ramalho arrived with his staff.
"Alright," he called. "Over here."
Once the squad lined up, Ramalho brought Ken forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"This is Ken. Some of you already know him."
"He's a product of our academy."
"From today onward, he trains with the first team."
He turned to Lúcio.
"You're the senior here. Help him integrate."
"No problem," Lúcio replied.
Ramalho nodded.
"Warm up with Milton. Then we'll run some five-a-side games."
Ken turned to follow—
"Ken."
Ramalho stopped him.
"Wait a moment."