The team has already debuted in the World Cup, the competition that defines which country is the best in football. Our football. This always affects us, whether we like it or not. Because in the ball, on the pitch, in the goal shout there is a lot of our history and our scars.
On the one hand, a part of us says: “Protect yourself, don’t believe it, you’ve been hurt before.” The other part, seductively, asks: “What if it works? A lot has changed. Do you remember how she once made you so happy?”
And we remember every moment, the family together, the friends hugging each other, the cry for a goal, Galvão shouting “It’s four! It’s four!”. Even those who were never born listen to the stories and are enchanted.
But we also remember the pain, the disappointment, the crying. And that’s what keeps us in this ambivalence: between the memory of what was good and the fear that it will hurt again.
When a passion disappoints us, it hurts. We continue, partly overcoming, partly sweeping it under the rug. But then hope knocks on the door. After all, it is her: the yellow one, the only one with five stars. When she enters the field, something happens, not in reason, but in the heart. We defend ourselves or surrender, but no one remains indifferent.
The trauma exists. The bitter taste of 7-1, the frustrated expectations in so many World Cups. The mind quickly learns to avoid what hurts. We call this prudence, maturity, realism. But, often, it is fear disguised as lucidity. When we try to eliminate the risk of frustration, we also eliminate the possibility of joy. Those who close themselves off don’t suffer less, they just live less.
The World Cup gives us collective permission to feel. But feeling is exactly what scares. Because the same opening that lets in the joy of the goal also lets in the pain of defeat. Maybe that’s what’s at stake when we hesitate to support: it’s not just fear of losing. It’s fear of feeling.
I’ve worked with athletes for many years and I’ve learned one thing: those who stop in trauma don’t win. Keep monitoring the risk instead of playing. Protects the body, avoids the shot, the dribble, retreats before being tackled.
The best competitors in the world enter the field not because they are guaranteed victory. They enter because they have developed the ability to believe even when defeat is a real possibility. Hope is not naivety. It is what precedes the action. Without it, the athlete enters the field, but is not there in one piece.
I’ve seen athletes enter important competitions monitoring each step so as not to make mistakes. Technically prepared, emotionally closed. The body is there, the head too, but something essential was left out: the willingness to take risks, to expose oneself, to truly want. Without this, performance is just execution. It’s never the best that that person has.
And then I catch myself thinking about the fan who closes himself off, crosses his arms, refuses to believe and still wants the team to enter the open field, willing, hungry for a goal and loving the shirt. We demand from the team exactly what they refuse to do: take risks, play, believe before being sure. The selection on the field ends up being a mirror. What we do with it says something about what we do with life.
The first game passed and perhaps brought even more ambivalence and doubt. It’s part of it. High performance is not built in just one game, and neither is true passion. The team returns to the field. The question that remains is simple and uncomfortable: will you come back too?
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