Limitless Pitch-Chapter 116 Tempo

The training ground was still wrapped in the hazy blue light of dawn when Thiago arrived, his breath curling in faint clouds as he stepped out of his car. The air carried that crisp, almost metallic tang of early autumn mornings—cold enough to make his fingers tingle, but not yet bitter enough to numb them.

He was the first one there.

The pitch stretched before him, its surface glistening with dew, each blade of grass catching the pale morning light. Sprinklers ticked rhythmically in the distance, their arcs of water catching the dim glow like strands of silver thread. Groundskeepers moved with quiet efficiency, their boots leaving dark trails in the damp turf as they prepped the field for the day’s session. The scent of freshly cut grass hung thick in the air, sharp and earthy.

Thiago dumped his training bag on the bench, the zipper clinking softly against the metal frame. He tugged his laces tight, the leather of his boots still stiff from yesterday’s wear, and stepped onto the pitch. The turf yielded slightly under his weight, springy and cool beneath his cleats. A moment later, he dropped to the ground, the dampness seeping through his training pants as he began his stretches.

No music. No distractions. Just the quiet symphony of a football ground waking up—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional call of a groundsman, the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the sprinklers.

His routine was methodical. Ankles first, rolling them in slow circles, feeling the ligaments loosen. Then hamstrings, his palms flat against the turf as he reached for his toes, the familiar pull radiating up the backs of his legs. Hips next, rotating in deliberate arcs, then shoulders, rolling them forward and back until the stiffness bled away.

When he rose, it was time to run.

Short bursts first—ten yards out, plant, ten yards back. Then diagonals, cutting sharp angles, stopping on a dime, the rubber studs of his boots biting into the turf. His lungs burned in that familiar way, the ache spreading through his chest like liquid fire, but it was a good burn. The kind that reminded him he was pushing himself. The kind that meant progress.

By the time the rest of the squad began trickling out, Thiago was already mid-way through his solo rondos with the rebound wall. The ball thudded against the concrete, each return pass crisp and controlled, his touch light but precise.

"Early bird, huh?" Bender called as he jogged past, his breath fogging in the cool air.

Thiago didn’t break rhythm. "Bird’s gotta earn his worm," he replied, flicking a pass off the wall and catching it on his toe without breaking stride.

Kuba laughed as he approached, tossing his jacket onto the bench beside Thiago’s bag. "Don’t tell Klopp you’re out here grinding early. He’ll make the rest of us show up at 6 a.m. too."

Großkreutz brushed past them both, shaking his head. "I’ll just lock the gate next time."

The banter flowed easily, bouncing between them like the ball at Thiago’s feet. It didn’t always—some days, Thiago still felt like an outsider, especially around the veterans who had years of shared history. But mornings like this, with laughter ringing across the pitch and boots thudding against wet grass, the camaraderie felt real. Felt earned.

Klopp emerged last, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. He strode onto the pitch with his arms folded, his voice already booming across the field before he’d even reached the center circle.

"No one’s getting points for early arrival if they train like shit!" he barked, then grinned, the wild tufts of his hair barely contained beneath his cap. "But I’ll give bonus points for good passes!"

A few players groaned. A few others chuckled. The session was underway.

Warm-up laps came first, the squad falling into loose formation as they circled the pitch. High knees followed, then butt kicks, then dynamic stretches—lunges with rotations, inchworms, side shuffles. The routine was familiar, but Thiago didn’t coast through it. Every movement was deliberate, every stretch held just a second longer than necessary.

Then they broke into positional groups—defenders to one side, midfielders and attackers to the other.

Thiago was slotted into the central midfield group alongside Götze, Bender, Sahin, and Valdez. Klopp clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the morning air.

"Quick passing triangles. One-touch if you can. Think before the ball gets to you."

The pace picked up immediately. The ball zipped between players like a current, never lingering, never hesitating. Thiago kept it simple at first—receiving with his left, shifting his weight, releasing with his right. Clean touches. Head up. Keep the triangle alive.

Then Klopp added pressure: two defenders in the middle. Then three. Then the rule changed—you had to play forward after three passes.

Mistakes came. Heavy touches. Misreads. Players colliding as they misjudged angles. But not from Thiago. Not today.

He spun out of pressure with a quick pivot, fed a sharp pass into Valdez’s feet, then peeled off to offer the next option. Valdez didn’t hesitate—a backheel return, perfectly weighted. Thiago skipped it across to Götze, who clipped it first-time into the space ahead for Sahin.

The ball moved like breath. Quick. Invisible.

Klopp blew the whistle.

"Good. Good tempo." He pointed at Thiago, then at Götze. "That’s football."

As they moved on to shooting drills, Thiago drifted toward Barrios, who was stretching out his calves near the touchline.

"They say Udinese sit deep," Thiago said, tossing him a ball.

Barrios trapped it under his sole, his dark eyes sharp with focus. "They sit. Then they bite." He rolled the ball back and forth beneath his boot. "Italian teams love that. They wait for you to get lazy, then they pounce."

"What’s the key?"

Barrios tapped his temple. "Don’t force it. Make them chase shadows. Pull their midfielders out of position. Then hit the gaps." He paused, then added, "But you gotta think fast."

Thiago nodded. It wasn’t new advice—but hearing it from someone who lived and breathed striker instincts carried a different weight.

They rotated into a possession-vs-press game. One team kept the ball, the other hunted in tight quarters. Klopp was everywhere—stopping play, shouting corrections, pointing out errors.

"You’re waiting too long on the turn!"

"Where’s the voice? Communicate, dammit!"

"Don’t hide behind their midfield! Find the pocket!"

Thiago was sharp. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t hold either. He read the angles, played clean, always checking his shoulders. There was a moment where he took the ball under pressure with his back to goal, dropped his shoulder, and left two pressing midfielders chasing air. Klopp didn’t say anything—but his slight nod from the sideline was enough.

Thiago didn’t smile. He just kept playing.

Eventually, they rotated again. Small-sided matches now. 5v5 on a shortened pitch. Thiago was placed alongside Götze, Bender, Valdez, and Schmelzer. Against them: Kuba, Großkreutz, Sahin, Hummels, and a trialist fullback who barely spoke German.

First touch, Götze rolled it back to Thiago. A quick feint sent the trialist the wrong way, then Thiago popped it over a foot to Valdez, who took it on the volley—wide, but sharp.

The rhythm never slowed. Every pass needed timing. Every movement had consequence. You couldn’t switch off. Not for a second.

Thiago sprinted into space, received a grounded pass from Bender, shielded the ball, then reversed it toward the wing. He didn’t even wait to watch the pass. He was already on the move again.

He was beginning to disappear into the game now. Not trying to stand out. Just... connecting things.

When the whistle finally blew and Klopp called everyone in, Thiago’s shirt was soaked through, clinging to his back like a second skin. His heart thudded, not just from exertion—but from the quiet certainty that today, he had been seen.

Not just as the Brazilian kid who got a chance.

But as someone who belonged here