Some time ago in the dressing room...
The locker room door slammed shut behind the last player.
Nobody spoke or moved. They just stood there, sweaty and exhausted, waiting for what was coming.
Coach Domingos, eyes red and jaw clenched, walked to the center of the room. He didn't yell right away, even though that might have been easier. Instead, he stood in silence, staring at each player. The quiet felt heavier than any shout.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low.
"What. Was. That?"
Nobody answered.
"I asked you a question!" His voice exploded like thunder. "What the hell was that out there?!"
The players stared at the floor.
Coach Domingos kicked a water bottle across the room. It smashed against the wall and exploded, water spraying everywhere.
"You had scouts watching! SCOUTS! From Europe! From America! From some of the biggest clubs in Brazil!" He pointed toward the door. "And you go out there and play like a bunch of amateurs who've never seen a football before!"
He turned to the defense. "You! Davi! What were you thinking with that penalty? You got the ball, sure, but you went through the man like a bulldozer!"
Davi opened his mouth to defend himself, but then closed it.
"And the rest of you!" Coach swept his arm across the group. "Sloppy passes. Bad touches. No communication. Zero intensity until you were already losing!"
He walked over to Rafael and stood right in front of him.
"You. How many chances did you get? Three? Four? How many did you put away?"
Rafael's voice was barely a whisper. "None, Coach."
"None! Exactly!" Coach moved on to Bernardo, then paused for a moment. "You played well. Made good decisions. But you're surrounded by players who can't finish what you create!"
Then he stopped and turned slowly. His eyes locked on one player in particular.
Gustavo.
The winger was sitting in the corner with his head down, hands clasped together. He looked like he wanted to disappear from existence.
"And you." Coach's already cold voice dropped again. "Stand up."
Gustavo stood slowly. His legs trembled slightly.
"Look at me."
Gustavo lifted his head. His eyes were red.
"What happened out there?" Coach asked. "Tell me. Because the player I saw throughout the reserve league campaign and in training yesterday doesn't match the player I just watched for forty-five minutes."
"I... I don't know, Coach. I just—"
"You just what? Panicked? Froze? Forgot how to play football?"
Gustavo said nothing.
"You had chances. More than one. One-on-one with the keeper. Teammates open for the final pass. Space to use." Coach stepped closer. "But what did you do? You tried to be the hero. Tried to do it all yourself. You lost the ball, and they scored."
"I'm sorry—"
"Sorry doesn't fix it!" Coach's voice got louder. "And then, you begged to take a penalty that wasn't yours. Bernardo is our taker. He's scored four out of five this season. But you talked him into letting you take it because you wanted to 'make it right.'"
The room was completely silent now. Everyone just stared.
"And you missed," Coach said flatly. "You hit the post and gave away our chance to equalize before halftime."
Gustavo's jaw trembled. "I thought... I thought I could—"
"You thought wrong." Coach turned away from him. "Sit down."
Gustavo collapsed back onto the bench.
Coach Domingos looked around the room again. His anger was still there, but something else crept into his voice.
"Listen to me. All of you. This isn't just another match. This isn't training or a regular season game where you can mess up and fix it next week."
He pointed up. "Right now, there are scouts above us who can change your lives. One signature, one contract, and you're not playing in front of 4,000 people in a small stadium anymore. You're playing in front of 50,000 or even 70,000. You could earn more in a year than your parents have made so far in their whole lives."
Some players looked up and started paying attention.
"But they don't give chances to players who break under pressure," the coach went on. "They don't sign players who can't handle big moments. They don't invest in players who fall apart when it matters most."
He let that sink in.
"Most of you are seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen. This could be your only chance. Maybe there's another scouting event next year, maybe not. You might never get this opportunity again."
Rafael shifted uncomfortably.
"If you waste this, that's it," Coach said. "Your career ends before it begins. You'll play in the reserves for a year or two, then get released. You'll end up playing amateur football for beer money and working a regular job."
He paused to let the weight of those words settle on them.
"Or," his voice softened slightly, "you can go out there in the second half and show them what you're really capable of. Show them you can fight back. Show them you have heart."
Leandro sat on the bench against the wall, listening to every word. His heart was pounding.
Coach Domingos walked to the tactical board and grabbed a marker.
"Alright. Second half. We need changes, so we're going back to basics." He drew the formation on the board. "4-3-3, but the midfield is tighter. Davi, sit deeper and protect the defense. Enzo, you're box-to-box—I want you everywhere. Bernardo, you can roam, but stay connected to the midfield."
He pointed at the front three. "Rafael, don't drop so deep. Stay high and keep their center-backs busy. Luiz, do what you did in the first half, but make smarter runs and pull defenders away."
Then he turned to Gustavo. The winger looked up, hope flickering in his eyes.
"Gustavo, you're playing the first five minutes of the second half. That's it. Five minutes to show me something. Anything. If you can't, you're coming off."
Gustavo nodded quickly. "Yes, Coach. I'll—"
"Don't talk. Just do it."
Coach looked at the substitutes on the side. "I'm making changes in the fiftieth minute. Multiple changes. Be ready."
Leandro felt butterflies in his stomach. He was getting a bit anxious to play.
Coach's eyes found him in the group just for a second. He took a brief glance, then moved on.
"Alright. Drink water. Tape up anything that hurts. We're going back out there in three minutes."
The players started moving. Grabbing water bottles and retaping ankles. Some went to the bathroom. Others just sat there, staring at nothing.
Leandro stood up. The nerves were there, but underneath was something else. Hunger. He walked out of the locker room with the other substitutes.
They emerged into the sunlight and headed to the dugout. Leandro took his seat at the end of the bench.
The main team came out moments later, jogging onto the pitch.
Gustavo didn't look at anyone. Just kept his head down and moved to his position on the left wing.
The referee checked that both teams were ready.
The Atlético players stood waiting, looking confident. They were up 2-1. Just needed forty-five more minutes to hold on.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips.
Fweeeeee!
The second half began.