Chapter 14: The Tragedy of José Semedo
"Not everyone makes it. Some just fade."
Dawn at Edward VII Park
The sun hadn't quite broken through the Lisbon morning haze, and Edward VII Park was still wrapped in dew and silence—save for the repetitive thud of boots striking leather.
Su Dong was alone with the ball.
Shot after shot slammed into the training poles, each strike a study in precision. A half-turn and fire. A sudden stop and left-foot blast. Side angles, tight angles, power, placement—no two shots were the same, and yet the intent behind them was unchanging.
To a passerby, it looked like madness—mindless repetition.
To Su Dong? This was his sanctuary. His altar.
From the sidelines, Rony and José Semedo watched in silence.
"He's different now," Semedo muttered, arms crossed, eyes tracking Su Dong's every move. Sweat streamed down the young striker's temples, but his rhythm never broke.
"Like a man possessed."
Rony didn't need to respond. He could feel it too. That Clássico had changed everything.
"Quaresma lit a fire in him," he said, barely louder than a whisper.
Same as it did in me.
Quaresma's performance in the Lisbon derby had been nothing short of explosive—a teenage storm draped in green and white. His every touch had felt like a spotlight on everyone else's mediocrity.
For Rony, it was personal. Every trivela pass, every humiliating feint, every commentator breathlessly shouting Quaresma's name—it had carved fresh wounds into his pride.
Work harder. Close the gap. Or be left behind.
Semedo chuckled, but it rang hollow. "Maybe getting loaned out wouldn't be the worst thing. At least I'd get minutes somewhere."
"Bullshit."
Rony's voice was sharp, almost cruel. He rose to his feet, brushing dirt off his shorts.
"You're talking like someone who's already given up."
The words landed hard—like a crunching two-footed tackle in midfield.
The Ghost of Potential
Rony jogged over to join Su Dong's drills, sweat flying as the two clashed in one-on-one duels.
Semedo didn't move.
He just watched. Alone. A spectator to his own dreams.
His mind drifted—back to Setúbal, where barefoot kids sprinted across sunbaked pavement and he'd always been the fastest. The scouts had come one summer, eyes lighting up at his speed. He'd made it. Sporting CP. Twelve years old, carrying a golden ticket sewn into his shirt.
But that promise had turned to ash.
Rejection came two seasons later—technical deficiencies, they said.
But that wasn't the full story.
It was Lisbon's nightlife that devoured him.
The journalists buying drinks for gossip.
The girls who clung to the words "Sporting academy" like they were a royal seal.
Why train when life already tasted like victory?
And now here he stood, watching Su Dong—a kid from some village in China—outlast Rony in duels. Push harder. Train longer. Sweat more.
It was humiliating. Not because Su Dong was better.
But because he cared more.
There were only two kinds of people in football:
The weak.
And the strong.
Semedo knew which he was.
With a quiet sigh, he turned away.
No one noticed him leave. No one ever did.
The Crucible of Segunda Divisão
The TAPadinha Stadium buzzed with low-energy chaos—an electric crowd of about 3,000 souls. For most clubs in Portugal's third tier, that was a sellout.
The air smelled of grilled chouriço and half-dreamed futures.
Su Dong sat on the bench, tracksuit zipped up to his chin, his eyes glued to the opposition.
Loulétano's center-back pairing stood like twin towers:
#4 – 1.93 meters tall, shoulders like a steel door
#5 – Slightly shorter, but clumsy, like a drunken giraffe in cleats
Don't meet power with power, Su Dong scribbled in his mind. Stretch them wide. Drag them into footraces.
At the edge of the technical area, Coach Gorba looked only half-interested in the actual football. His plan wasn't a secret.
He didn't see Su Dong as a player.
He saw him as a lottery ticket.
Sell the Chinese kid to some Primeira Liga club with more money than sense, cash the check, and keep this ramshackle operation afloat for one more season.
"Oi! Superstar!"
Su Dong turned, startled.
Up in the stands were Rony and Semedo, grinning like idiots.
"Why's our future Ballon d'Or winner warming the bench?" Rony called out, cupping his hands. "That donkey starting up front couldn't trap a beach ball if it begged!"
Semedo barked a laugh. "Yeah, those defenders move like I do after six beers and a food truck!"
Su Dong smiled despite himself. The irony stung.
Semedo—the boy who once had it all—now cheering from the cheap seats.
But their words weren't meant to mock.
They were a challenge.
"Second half," Su Dong said under his breath, eyes never leaving those lumbering defenders.
"I'll skin them alive."