The morning sun over Lombardy cut through the light fog rising off the grass at the AC Milan Academy Camp - Sporteventi
For the players of AC Milan's Under 9 squad, it was just another session in their preseason calendar. They were eight and nine year olds dressed in pristine red and black training kit, chatting in rapid Italian, laughing, and doing light warm up stretches under the watchful eye of their youth head coach, Coach Matteo.
Then Marco walked out from the main building alongside an unfamiliar kid and an older man.
The chatter tapered off. Eight pairs of young eyes locked onto Raphael.
To the boys on the pitch, Raphael looked like an outsider, a kid brought in on a trial who probably didn't even speak the language. There was an unspoken expectation among youth academy regulars: outsiders usually stuck out in a bad way. They were either too stiff from nerves, sloppy under pressure, or unable to keep up with the tactical tempo drilled into Milan academy players.
"Alright, boys!" Coach Matteo called out, his voice sharp and authoritative. "We have a guest today for our session. This is Raphael. He's joining us for training."
Raphael offered a polite nod, his green eyes calm and unbothered.
"We start with our usual passing square," Matteo barked, clapping his hands. "Focus on speed, weight of the pass, and two touch mechanics. Go!"
The drill began. The drill was designed to expose any weakness in a player's fundamentals. A poor pass would bobble off the grass; a slow turn would ruin the rhythm; a stiff ankle would cause the ball to spill outward, showcasing a loss of control.
When the ball was zipping toward Raphael, he didn't wait passively for it to reach his feet. He took half a step forward, cushioning the leather with the inside of his boot so cleanly that the ball seemed to lose all bounce upon impact.
Zip.
Before the boy across from him could even reset his stance, Raphael struck the ball back across the square, a crisp, flat ground pass that hugged the grass without a single bobble.
His body positioning was already angled to receive the next return. His head remained up, his scanning constant, his turns executed on the balls of his feet with razor sharp agility. There were no wasted movements, no awkward adjustments.
Coach Matteo glanced over at Marco, raising a subtle eyebrow. 'He's not just keeping up,' Matteo noted internally. 'He's setting the tempo for the entire square.'
Next was the finishing drill.
Players lined up twenty yards out, receiving a lay off pass from an assistant coach before taking a single setup touch and striking on goal. Most kids at this age instinctively tried to put as much power into their shots as possible, resulting in wild blasts over the crossbar or scuffed drives straight into the keeper's gloves.
Raphael took his turn. As the ball rolled across his path, his first touch was an art form in and of itself, a delicate, oriented touch that nudged the ball precisely in his path, giving him the perfect runway to open his hips.
He didn't aim for maximum force. Instead, he snapped his ankle with crisp technique.
The ball struck the absolute bottom corner of the net, right where the grass met the post. The young goalkeeper dived at full stretch, but the placement was so absolute that his fingertips missed by inches.
"Next!" Matteo called.
Raphael stepped up again, this time receiving the pass on his left side. Without hesitating, he let the ball roll onto his left boot, his non-dominant side, and struck a laser like rifle straight into the top left corner.
BOOM!
The ball hit the roof of the net with a sharp snap before bouncing back out.
Raphael turned back toward the line, his expression completely relaxed.
That left foot wasn't a sudden miracle; it was the result of endless hours in Brazil under Oscar's relentless guidance, drilling wall passes and strikes with his left until it felt almost as natural as his right.
"Right then," Matteo said, blowing his whistle to gather the squad. "Five a side keep away scrimmage. Standard rules: ten consecutive passes count as two goals. A direct goal in the small nets counts as one. No touch limits, but keep the ball moving."
This was where Raphael truly turned the pitch into his personal playground.
Split into teams of five on a tight, thirty yard grid, space was practically nonexistent. The other team immediately attempted to press Raphael, hoping to smother him before he could turn.
Raphael didn't care about the tight space. He welcomed it.
When two defenders rushed him simultaneously, Raphael used his low center of gravity to drop his shoulder right, faking a drive down the sideline. As both boys shifted their weight, Raphael dragged the ball back with the outside of his boot, smoothly executing a faint.
He didn't just escape the press; he pulled both defenders out of position, opening a huge canyon in the middle of the pitch.
One pass.
He zipped a thirty foot ground ball between the legs of an advancing midfielder, landing it right onto the tape of his teammate's boot.
'Two'... 'three'... 'four'...
Raphael moved like a phantom across the grid. Every time a teammate found himself under pressure, Raphael was already standing in the open passing lane, holding up two fingers or making a subtle gesture with his head to direct the play.
He played as if he were looking down at the pitch from twenty feet in the air.
'Eight'... 'nine'...
The opposing team was growing visibly frustrated, chasing shadows as Raphael's team effortlessly moved the ball. On the ninth pass, Raphael received the ball with his back to goal. A defender tried to lean into his spine to push him off balance.
Raphael didn't fight the physical contact. Instead, he used the defender's generated momentum against him, pushing the ball forward with a slight touch before cutting it around the defender with a revy pass to the winger for the 10th pass securing the two goal threshold.
He then broke free of the defender instead of stopping to celebrate, immediately burst into the open lane, securing the return pass, and stroked a low shot into the bottom corner for an extra point.
The scrimmage ended 7–3.
When Matteo blew the final whistle, the young Milan players were panting heavily, sweat pouring down their foreheads. Raphael stood near the center circle, taking a light breath, his red and black kit barely rumpled.
His teammates who forty-five minutes earlier had viewed him as a trialist stranger, walked up to him one by one, bumping shoulders and offering timid high fives.
"Bravo," one of the midfielders grunted in Italian, giving Raphael an approving nod.
Raphael smiled back, nodding in return. "Grazie."
At the end of the session, Coach Matteo and Marco walked over to where Oscar was standing near the technical benches.
"He's a natural," Matteo said plainly, wiping a line of sweat from his brow. "His fundamentals are already well past the average for his age group. We want him signed immediately."
Oscar nodded quietly, keeping his composure. "What does the schedule look like?"
"During the regular season, training is four times a week," Matteo explained, pointing toward the field schedule on his clipboard. "Matches are on weekends. The session directly after a match day is strictly a recovery and cool down period, light jogging, stretching, pool work. The session right before a match focuses on tactical analysis, set pieces, and light ball work."
Matteo handed a folder over to Oscar. "Since Raphael is still learning Italian, most of the tactical theory will be translated through you initially. But don't worry, kids pick up the language fast once they're immersed in the changing room."
"And for now?" Oscar asked.
"For the next month, it's preseason," Marco chimed in. "Focus is entirely on physical conditioning, building squad cohesion, and a few friendly matches. It's the perfect window for Raphael to get settled into Milan."
Over the next four weeks, Raphael settled into the rhythm of his new life in Italy.
The mornings were spent at the academy ground, sweating through conditioning drills, learning basic Italian phrases from his teammates, and mastering the tactical spatial awareness Coach Matteo demanded.
His teammates quickly warmed to him, sports had a way of bypassing language barriers when you could pass a ball like Raphael did.
In the late afternoons, when training was done and the heat of the day softened, Raphael explored the city on foot.
He didn't venture too far from their apartment near the center, preferring the quiet charm of the surrounding cobblestone streets, local bakeries, and small piazzas.
On a particularly warm Tuesday afternoon, after a grueling three hour physical session, Raphael found himself walking down a shaded avenue near Corso Magenta, looking for something cold to eat. He spotted a cozy, artisanal gelato shop named Gelato Fatto Con Amore.
Stepping inside, the cool air conditioned breeze hit him instantly. He stepped up to the glass display, scanning the colorful metal tubs of gelato.
"Ciao, piccolo!" the elderly man behind the counter greeted with a warm smile. "What can I get for you?"
"Oreo, per favore," Raphael said in his carefully practiced Italian.
The shop owner smiled, taking a metal scoop and scraping the very last portion of the dark cookie and cream gelato into a paper cup. "You're in luck, kiddo. Last scoop of the tub!"
Before Raphael could reach for his wallet, a sharp, exasperated sigh sounded right behind him in clear, accented English.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me..."
Raphael turned around. Standing behind him was a young girl with sharp features, dark hair, and bright, expressive eyes. She looked to be about nine or ten years old, dressed in a neat summer dress, her arms crossed over her chest with an air of dramatic disappointment.
"I walked six blocks specifically for the Oreo flavor," she muttered, mostly to herself, shaking her head dramatically.
Raphael looked down at the cup in his hand, then looked back at her. Since his father had taught him fluent English from a young age, he answered effortlessly.
"You can have it if you want," Raphael offered, holding out the cup with an easygoing smile. "I haven't touched it yet. I can just pick something else."
The girl blinked, caught entirely off guard by his fluent English and the sudden generosity. Her theatrical annoyance melted away into genuine surprise.
"Wait... really?" She looked at him skeptically. "You're just giving it up?"
"Sure," Raphael said, turning back to the owner. "Biscoff, per favore."
The owner chuckled, scooping a fresh swirl of caramelized biscuit gelato into a new cup for Raphael. Raphael paid for both cups, stepping to the side and handing the Oreo cup to the girl.
She took it tentatively, a faint flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. "Thanks... I'm usually not that dramatic. My mom says I have a flair for the theatrical."
"I noticed," Raphael teased lightly, leaning back against the wooden ledge near the window. "Are you on vacation?"
"Yeah," she said, taking a small spoon of her gelato and savoring it. "My family's here from the States for a few weeks. What about you? You don't sound Italian, but your English is super clear."
"I'm from Brazil, but my dad and I just moved here from Spain," Raphael explained. "I live a few streets over now."
"A Brazilian kid who speaks English living in Italy?" She raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. "What are you doing here?"
"I play football," Raphael answered simply. "I just signed with AC Milan's youth academy."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Wait, like... real professional football? At eight years old?"
"Youth academy," Raphael corrected with a grin. "Set to become the greatest player in the world eventually, but yeah, youth academy for now."
The girl let out a musical, genuine laugh at his sheer confidence. "Okay, big dreamer. I respect it. I'm going to be a famous actor one day, so when you're playing in big stadiums, you can look out for my name on movie posters."
"Deal," Raphael smiled. "What's your name?"
"Elizabeth," she said, holding out a hand like a proper adult. "Elizabeth Gillies. But most people call me Liz."
Raphael shook her hand firmly. "Raphael dos Santos."
They ended up sitting on a stone bench outside the shop for nearly an hour, talking effortlessly. Elizabeth talked about her passion for theater, her auditions back home, and her dream of making it on television, speaking with an intense, dramatic energy that Raphael found entertaining.
In turn, Raphael spoke about his love for the ball, the street courts of Barcelona, and his relentless goal to dominate the sport.
When the sun began to dip behind the terracotta roofs, casting long orange shadows across the pavement, Elizabeth stood up with a dramatic gasp.
"Oh gosh, my mom is going to lose her mind if I'm late for dinner!" She turned back to Raphael, a bright smile on her face. "Hey... are you going to be around here again?"
"I have training tomorrow," Raphael said, "but I'm free the day after in the afternoon."
"Great!" Elizabeth said, stepping backward down the sidewalk. "Meet me right here at two o'clock! Don't forget, Raphael!"
"I won't!" Raphael called back, waving as she turned and jogged down the street.
Raphael looked down at his empty gelato cup, a small, confident smile resting on his face.
Milan was turning out to be much more interesting than he had expected.