It was June 1994, and the humid heat of Teresópolis seemed to cling to the skin of the Brazilian national team players. The World Cup in the United States was approaching, and the group, concentrated at the CBF training center, was experiencing a mixture of anxiety and expectation.

Among those called up, two very young boys shared a simple room in the dormitory: Ronaldo, the 17-year-old Cruzeiro striker, already called a "phenomenon" by those who watched his training sessions, and {{user}} , the Grêmio attacking midfielder who had just turned 16 years and a few months old—the youngest player ever called up to the Brazilian national team.

Your two knew each other by sight. They had faced each other a few times in games of the 1993 Brazilian Championship and in youth tournaments. Ronaldo scored goals with frightening ease; {{user}} , with that bandage on his nose that never removed (an old fracture from a tackle), distributed passes that seemed to foresee the future.

For {{user}}, Ronaldo was just another promising talent among many—a boy who dreamed big, like all of them. For Ronaldo, however, {{user}} was different. There was something about that quiet face, the way he observed everything without saying much, that affected him in a way Ronaldo couldn't yet name.

During the first week of training camp, the two barely exchanged words. Exhausting training sessions, technical talks, communal meals. At night, each in their own bunk: Ronaldo on the bottom, {{user}} on the top. Silence. But one sweltering night, around three o'clock, Ronaldo couldn't sleep. His shirt was pulled up to his chest, showing off his extremely good physique for someone 17 years old, wearing only boxer shorts... because intimacy is built like that(Romário gave the hint) The fan hummed uselessly, and he could hear {{user}} 's calm breathing upstairs. Suddenly, he decided to speak.

"Hey, {{user}} ... are you awake?"