My Footballing Legend

The flight to São Paulo had been long and tense. You know the sort—hours blending together in that way that always happens on a flight when sleep never really arrives. Mauro, feverishly reading printed reports on São Paulo FC's youth academy and various contract clauses, was by the window; Laurence, head down, earbuds in, just staring straight ahead. Laurence's mind was already disengaged—not on the club—no, he was thinking about this 17-year-old kid who could write a different chapter in the CD Tenerife season... or not sign at all. 

The Neymar situation had developed quickly.

It started off promising, with a scout report coming back feting Neymar. The contact at Santos had also indicated the boy was open to a move. Then the tone started to shift. Bigger agents had started to surface. Neymar's father, Neymar's unofficial mouthpiece, started handling the inquiries directly. And the last thing Laurence heard, indirectly from Mauro's contact was coined clearly: 

"Neymar is flattered, but he is now searching for a more significant European club. He will wait." 

There was no blame to be placed.

To the outside world, Tenerife was just a digital blip--a club with no silverware, hardly recognizable outside of Spain; they had no stars, no Champions' League pedigree, no glamour, and they didn't even have any money. All they had was an idea.

Now it was Laurence's responsibility to sell it. Somehow.

The plane landed in São Paulo and the dry heat and glaring sun struck them as they exited the plane. They were met by Lemos, their long-time Brazilian scout who was short and stocky, tanned and with deep lines under his eyes, the result of decades of watching football through cheap binoculars.

With his usual exuberance, Lemos greeted them with hugs and whisked them into the waiting car.

"I've set up two meetings," Lemos explained on the drive. "Mauro, you're going straight to the São Paulo FC training center. Their sporting coordinator knows that we are interested in the boy Casemiro. He's willing to negotiate, but there is an expectation of clarity. No games."

"And there's no need for any games," Mauro replied. "I brought everything we need."

After that Lemos looked to Laurence.

"You... are the more difficult one."

Laurence gave a wan smile. "Is that your way of indicating I'm charging into a storm?"

Lemos didn't return the smile.

"Neymar's dad agreed to meet. He's heard your offer, but he believes the boy is bigger than Tenerife. He's been getting calls- Olympique Marseille, Ajax and even talk of Madrid scouts looking at tapes of him. They are patient. He can wait a year. He doesn't have to rush."

Laurence leaned back into the seat of the car and looked out the window. The traffic was thick. The streets were noisy. Somewhere in this city maybe the player who could turn everything upside down was resting, training, maybe even looking beyond them.

So why come?

That question clamored again in the back of his head.

Laurence's instinct was triggered by something about Neymar, not simply the skill set, but the moment. Every great adventure requires that one leap, that crazy leap that you take not because it is safe… but because if you don't, you'll be small forever.

By late afternoon, they went their separate ways. Mauro went to the club office to meet with São Paulo management about Casemiro. Laurence, with Lemos beside him, drove into the upscale neighborhoods and finally arrived at a home behind some serious gates.

By European football royalty standards, the house was modest but obviously comfortable. Neymar Sr. met them at the door; a stocky man in a black polo that didn't quite fit, hard eyes, and a handshake more business than warmth.

They led them into a shaded garden in the back where Neymar was sitting at a small table juggling a ball between his knees. He appeared younger than his age. Smaller. Loose in the shoulders. But the ball seemed to be magnetized to his foot.

He looked up, smiled politely, and then stood.

"Good afternoon, Mister," he said, with clear Portuguese-accented Spanish.

Laurence took his hand. "Good afternoon, Neymar. Thank you for meeting me."

They sat down.

The conversation began politely—from how he was enjoying playing at Santos, how the crowd treated him like a star, how he felt pressure at seventeen. Neymar's father did most of the talking, explaining how they weren't in a hurry to leave, how they believed in development, the right move, not the quickest.

Laurence nodded along, listening more than talking; then, slowly, he leaned forward.

"I won't pretend we are a big club," he said, "we are not Madrid. We are not Milan. But those clubs? You go now, you won't play. You are going to get minutes in the Cup. You will train with Giants, but you will be in the shadows."

He locked his gaze with Neymar.

"At Tenerife, I will build the attack around you. I will protect you. You will learn. You will make mistakes and you will be allowed to. I won't promise lights and gold. But I will promise you something that isn't offered to most seventeen-year-olds—freedom to fail, with a team that learns with you."

Neymar took his time to answer. He looked down to the grass, then looked to the ball resting at his feet.

"And what if I say yes?" he finally asked.

Laurence smiled. But he wasn't smiling in a way that told you he was confident in what he was pitching. No, it was tired smile. One that told you that this wasn't a done deal.

"Then I will ask you to believe in something that I am still in the learning process of believing in."

There was a lengthly silence broken only by the distant bark of a dog and the whistling movement of the breeze.

Laurence stood. Neymar stood.

The boy nodded, gave a hint of a smile, and said, "I'll think."

And that's all he could ask for.

As Laurence walked back to the car with Lemos, the exhaustion of the day began to sink in. 

It was all still uncertain.

But at least... he had planted a seed.