Those teachers were all I had most days.
In that game, we were tied. My mother and stepfather were watching this time, since it was near the start of Easter break, and they had come to pick me up and take me back to their home for a week. One of my teachers convinced them that they should come early to see me play.
Marco was there too, but he was just a baby. Every time I looked to the stands, my mother was fussing over him. Sometimes she wasn’t there at all, she was off on the sides with Marco, walking with him in her arms. I understand now that she was doing that to keep Marco entertained, that he would have started screaming otherwise. But back then all I noticed was that she didn’t care about me.
Then there was my stepfather, who never cheered for me once. He just watched me with his cold eyes. I swear he was rooting for the other team, looking disappointed whenever I managed to steal the ball.
Then I scored. The winning kick spinning and soaring past the goalie and everyone erupted into applause.
Everyone except my mother, who was nowhere to be found.
Everyone except my stepfather, who was staring right at me, not even managing a smile.
I’d like to say that it didn’t matter that day, because my team jumped on me in celebration, and the teachers were cheering for me, and my coach was hooting and hollering. I was the hero and it felt so fucking good.
But I would never be a hero to my family.
If anything, I was the villain.
I’d never find out why.
That night I went out for dinner with my mother and stepfather and Marco. I proudly wore the ribbon for winning. Marco reached out and took it, shoved it into his glass of milk.
I was angry. I reached out and got it out of the milk, but I knocked the glass over.
The milk spilled, went all over Marco, who started crying.
My mother was mad, she picked him up and took him to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
My stepfather just looked at me with a vicious glint in his eyes.
He said, so quietly that I could barely hear him, “If you ever make Marco cry again, I’m going to make you cry.”
But that wasn’t quite the truth.
Because later that night, he backhanded me for no reason.
And I didn’t cry.
And the years that passed, when he’d sling violent words at me, or whip me with his belt, or shove me into the wall, I never cried.
All that pain he caused, and I never cried.
And he never cheered.
Even now, as the crowd at Estádio José Alvalade goes nuts, waving their banners and flags, chanting and singing over the fact that we just won against Belenenses, I can see my stepfather in his usual seat, and he’s not cheering. Sure, the bigwigs he brought with him to the game are cheering loudly and the minute they catch on that he’s not, he jumps right into it, laughing and clapping politely, but I know the truth even if they don’t.
“Luciano Adrien Duarte Ribeiro!” our coach Leonardo practically yells at me, bringing my attention over to him, over to the things that matter.
I scored the winning goal this time, and the team is not about to let me forget it.
Leonardo puts his arm around my neck, pulling me down, and then a few of my teammates including Benedito pile on top of me until I have no choice but to collapse.
“Capitão!” someone yells. I think it was Fito. “Capitão! Capitão!”
Everyone is joyous, relieved. Hopeful.
It’s mid-December and this is our fifth win in a row, with only one more game before the end of the year. I’ve only been the team captain for a few months, yet this season it feels like we might have a chance at not only beating Benfica (who is currently ahead of us in points, but no matter), but qualifying for the Champions League.
Last year was the worst season ever in our club’s history. We were also eliminated from the Europa League group stage for the first time ever, ending in fourth place. After that, a lot of our team was traded, including our captain, which led to me stepping into my new role.
So far, it’s going well. Better than well. Even if we don’t come out on top, we’re doing a million times better than we were last year, working harder, playing like a unit, like a family out for blood. I feel like I’m finally doing what I’m meant to do, that I have the capabilities to lead and I’m finally using it to my advantage.
But while things in my career are finally picking up, finally starting to get me places, my relationship with my family has become more strained than ever.
My mother barely talks to me anymore, though to be fair, she’s withdrawing from everyone. She’s started drinking a lot and spends a lot of her time in their second home in Madeira, hiding from who knows what. Sometimes I wonder if my stepfather was ever abusive to her like he was to me, and if she’s hiding from him. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just life in general.
Tomás has worn a mask of pride in public. The more famous and revered I get, the more he pretends that he’s proud of me. He gets attention, as do his horses. He plays it up, all of the wealth and the success, like he’s trying to prove himself to someone, but I’m not sure who. All I know is what I’ve said in the past is true. The better I get, the more he hates me.
Late at night my mind takes on silly
