The sun rose on Saturday as if it knew this was no ordinary day.For Feira do Bairro, it was just another Saturday. For Elismar, it was D‑Day. He woke before any sound, his body vibrating with energy that was part nerves, part pure electricity. He looked at the small plastic medal he'd won in an old school game, hanging on the wall. Today, he'd fight for a real trophy.
He sat on the bed. Soft Paw and Fuzzball, his first and most loyal teammates, watched him curiously.
"It's today," he whispered, his voice solemn. "Everything we trained. All the shots to the face, the nutmegs I took, Lester's own‑goals… it all comes down to today. It's no longer about being the best in the world—not yet. Today is about being better than we were yesterday. About showing that school that the Gentle Tigers aren't gentle anymore."
He stood up, determined. The routine was the same, but the intention was new. The shower was to wake him. The meal was fuel. The conversation with his mother was a blessing.
"Go and make me proud, my son. Play with joy," said Dona Valdi, giving him a tight hug at the door.
"I'll play for us, Mom," he replied, and left.
Clara was waiting at the corner as promised. She wore a T‑shirt with "TIGRES" improvised in black tape. The sight of her, supporting him like that, almost made his confidence overflow.
"My personal cheerleader," he said, planting a quick kiss on her.
"Always," she replied, holding his hand. "Ready to make history?"
"I was born to write the first chapter."
Arriving at Colégio Santo Sertão's gates, the atmosphere felt like a festival. Loud music flowed from the speakers, and the teams warmed up in their corners. Elismar and Clara found Markin, Piter, Lester and Ryan near the water fountain. They no longer looked like a defeated bunch. There was tension in the air, yes—but the tension of expectation, not fear.
"Hey, everyone!" Elismar shouted, arriving with Clara. "Today's the day! The day we shut everyone up! The day we play like a real team!"
"Today my shot will be a torpedo!" declared Lester, pumping his fist.
"Today I won't just catch the ball — I'll absorb it!" announced Markin, patting his chest.
"TODAY IS THE DAY!" bellowed Piter.
The energy was contagious: everyone joined in, shouting in unison."TODAY IS THE DAAAAY!"
The P.E. teacher, clipboard in hand, approached, smiling at their enthusiasm. "I love this energy, Tigers! Because you're gonna need it. Opening match, main court: Gentle Tigers versus… the Asphalt Serpents!"
A murmur ran through the crowd. The Asphalt Serpents were the 8th‑grade B team. Fast, arrogant, known for slick passing and humiliating dribbles. They were the favorites.
Piter's smile faltered. Ryan's face drained of color.
Clara stepped in. She pulled the five into a tight circle.
"Hey, look at me!" she said, her voice firm, drawing all eyes. "Forget their name. Forget their reputation. There are five of you, five of them. They have two feet, you have two—even if some are a bit crooked," she winked at Elismar, who smiled back."Markin, you're a giant. Own that goal. Don't fear the ball — make it fear you. Lester, I saw you yesterday—you can pass. Forget shooting, be the playmaker today. Ryan, you're small and fast. Be their pest, don't let their brain breathe. Piter, you're our fortress. Nobody gets past you. And you," she said, turning to Elismar, her blue eyes fixed on his, "you are the heart. Everything starts and ends with you. Play for each other. Play for yourselves. Play for us."
She put her hand in the center. "Tigers on three?"
Elismar placed his hand over hers."TIGERS ON THREE!" he shouted. One by one, the others joined, stacking their hands, doubt crushed by unity.
"One, two, three… TIGERS!"
The whistle blew. The game began.
True to their name, the Serpents struck with venom. The ball moved between them at blinding speed. Their star, a boy named Leo, got the ball and charged at Elismar. He feinted and dribbled. The old Elismar would've fallen with the wind. The current Elismar held firm. He didn't watch Leo's feet — he watched the ball. When Leo cut inside, Elismar stretched his leg and, with the tip of his boot, deflected it out. Not beautiful, but effective.
The crowd, expecting a flashy move, gasped."Uhhh…"
The Serpents didn't flinch. They shot from distance. The ball rocked toward Markin's corner. The giant keeper didn't lunge—he took two deliberate steps and caught it to his chest, kneeling and hugging the ball like treasure. The crowd applauded.
The first five minutes were a bombardment. Lester, following Clara's instructions, abandoned the attack and shadowed the left wing, blocking a dangerous shot with his shin. The pain was sharp—but the satisfaction was sharper. Ryan ran like crazy after the Serpents' playmaker, who started to fume at the little pest on his heels.
But the pressure was too great. In one quick passing exchange, Leo shook off Ryan and one‑two'd with a teammate, finding a gap between Piter and Elismar. He broke through and faced Markin. The keeper advanced to narrow the angle, but Leo delicately tapped the ball to the corner.
Goal. 1–0 for the Asphalt Serpents.
Their fans erupted. The Serpents celebrated with a practiced dance. The ghosts of past blowouts loomed over the Tigers.
"DON'T LOWER YOUR HEADS!" Elismar yelled louder than their cheers. "IT'S JUST ONE GOAL! WE'RE IN THIS! LET'S GO!"
His words, powered by Clara's kiss, acted like a defibrillator. The team reformed. The kickoff was theirs. Elismar passed to Piter, who held it and returned. They started moving the ball, unhurried, just to feel the game.
The first half ended 1–0.
During the break, they regrouped, gasping for breath.
"They're fast," Piter panted.
"But we're marking," Elismar said. "They've only scored one! We've never lasted five minutes without conceding. Markin, you've been a monster! Lester, your defense was crucial! We're alive! Now we push."
The second half began. The Tigers came back different. The shame of attacking was gone. Elismar stole the ball at midfield and, instead of retreating, advanced. He spotted Lester sprinting down the wing. The pass was perfect. Lester didn't trap to shoot. He eyed the box and crossed low. The ball flew through untouched and found Ryan at the far post. He stretched and nudged it, and the ball crashed magnificently against the post.
The crowd's "ALMOOST!" was a beautiful new sound.
That moment shifted everything. The Serpents realized their opponent wasn't dead. The neutral crowd, always rooting for the underdog, began chanting,"TIGERS! TIGERS!"
With five minutes left, the moment arrived. Leo, their star, tried a daring trick on Elismar. Elismar didn't fall for it. He read the move and, with a clean sliding tackle, won the ball. The crowd roared. He sprang up and launched the ball forward. Piter chested it, turned past a defender, and struck it hard. The Serpents' keeper parried. The rebound fell into the penalty area. Lester was there. His instinct screamed "SHOOT!" but Clara's voice echoed in his mind: "be the playmaker." He saw Elismar free in front of goal. Instead of a meek shot, Lester back‑heeled the ball, setting Elismar up one‑on‑one with the keeper.
Time froze. Elismar, the goal, the keeper. Dream and reality fused. He didn't dribble. He didn't attempt a chip. He struck it—with the top of his foot, all his anger, all his hope. The ball soared like a missile and ripped the net.
GOOOOOOOOOOAL! 1–1!
Elismar sprinted to the crowd and to Clara, who jumped and cheered, face flushed with emotion. His teammates buried him in a jubilant hug.
The game resumed with two minutes left. The wounded Serpents went all‑out. It was attack versus defense. A Leo shot was deflected by Piter and hit the post. A corner was punched clear by a heroic Markin.
Final minute. The Serpents had the ball. Desperate, they launched a final attack. The pass was errant. Ryan, the little giant, intercepted. He raced toward goal, lungs burning. Too far for a shot. He spotted Piter ahead. He passed. Piter held it and waited for Elismar. The defender closed the passing lane.
But Elismar, with game‑vision he never knew he had, didn't run toward goal. He set a screen. Let the ball roll, fooling the marker. And the ball, as if by a magic script, arrived perfectly for Lester running behind.
Lester was alone at the edge of the box. His moment. Redemption. He took a deep breath. And struck. It wasn't a torpedo. It wasn't thunder. It was placed, technical, with the inside of his foot. The ball curved smoothly out of the keeper's reach, kissed the post's inside and nestled just inside the net.
GOOOOOOOOOOAL! 2–1! GENTLE TIGERS!
Before the Serpents could restart, the final whistle blew.
The court erupted. The small Tigers' fans stormed the pitch. Even Red Fury, who'd lost to them in training, applauded from the stands. The Asphalt Serpents lay on the court, defeated and stunned.
Elismar was on his knees, crying—not from sadness, but relief, joy, everything. His friends lifted him. During the celebration, his eyes locked only on one person. Clara ran to him and leapt into his arms, and amidst the crowd and noise, she kissed him. A real kiss, not just a peck. A victory kiss.
They had won. The Gentle Tigers—the school joke—had beaten the Asphalt Serpents. This story had only just begun.