Limitless Pitch

The morning air was too quiet for a final.

Not a bird, not a breeze. Just the slow hum of the city beyond the hotel window, distant and unreachable. Thiago sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the door, a phone pressed to his ear.

"Clara’s waiting," his mother said gently. "She’s set the living room up like a stadium. Little paper banners. Your name on everything."

"Did she leave room for João?"

"She tore his name off after that penalty he missed last year."

Thiago laughed—genuine, soft.

"I wish I could be there."

"You are," she replied. "Every time that ball touches your feet."

There was a pause.

Then she added, "Play free, meu filho. You don’t need to prove anything. Just play like it’s the streets again."

Thiago closed his eyes.