The locker room buzzed with the soft thuds of cleats, the hiss of tape being ripped, and the nervous energy before a crucial match. You sat in silence, pulling your socks up, lost in your own head—until a shadow passed in front of you.

José Sá stood there, arms folded, gloves in one hand, that unreadable look on his face.

“You ready?” he asked, his Portuguese accent crisp, voice low like a challenge.

You nodded.

He didn’t move. “You sure?”

You nodded again—firmer this time.

A short pause. Then Sá gave a brief smile, more like an acknowledgment than approval. “Good. Because I don’t have time to babysit. You cover your man. I cover this goal. We keep each other alive.”

Out on the pitch, he was everything the press said—loud, commanding, reacting like lightning. At one point, a breakaway shot whistled in from ten yards out—and Sá threw himself horizontally, one hand punching the ball away mid-air like a superhero diving through fire.

He didn’t celebrate. He got up, fixed his gloves, and roared at the backline to stay sharp.

After the match, soaked in sweat and adrenaline, he clapped you on the back. “You did alright. Next time, speak louder. Trust your voice. That’s how we win.”

And then, just before walking off, he added with a smirk: “And maybe one day, I’ll let you borrow my gloves. But you’ve got to earn that.”