World football system-Chapter 39: The Burnout Game

It started with a bad night’s sleep.

Tobi tossed and turned for hours, his sheets tangled around his legs like restraints. A dream kept replaying — he was standing alone on the pitch, eyes fixed on the ball, with 50,000 people watching, waiting. But when he took the shot, his foot went through the ball like it was air. The crowd erupted — in laughter.

He woke up drenched in sweat, pulse thudding against his ribs.

The match against Rayo Vallecano was that afternoon. On paper, it shouldn’t have been hard. They were bottom half of the table, and Valencia were at home. Coach Ramos had hinted at giving Tobi more minutes — maybe even a full start.

But something felt wrong.

At breakfast, his eggs were dry. The juice was sour. Leonor chatted about her training match that evening, but her voice barely registered.

His mother noticed.

"Headache?" she asked, watching him stir cereal he wasn’t eating.

Tobi shook his head. "No. Just... heavy."

"Then today, play light," she said. "Don’t carry the whole world out there."

He nodded. But that was easier said than done.

The locker room was buzzing when he arrived at the stadium. The usual chatter, music blasting from someone’s speaker, laughter over a joke Tobi had missed.

He dressed quietly, tying his boots with robotic focus. Coach Ramos pulled him aside before they left the tunnel.

"Oliveira," he said, clapping his shoulder. "Start sharp. Keep your movement clean. You’re pulling the strings today."

Tobi blinked. "I’m starting?"

The coach nodded. "Earned it."

And just like that, the pressure multiplied.

The whistle blew.

And from the very first touch, he felt it — off. Like his body was a split second behind his thoughts. Like the ball was too heavy or his legs too slow. The Rayo midfield wasn’t particularly physical, but they pressed hard and fast, snapping into tackles like pitbulls.

By the tenth minute, he’d already misplaced three passes.

By the twentieth, he’d been dispossessed twice and caught offside once.

He clenched his jaw, tried to reset. But his lungs felt too tight. The crowd’s noise blurred into a roar that filled his ears like rushing water.

In the thirty-third minute, he attempted a risky through ball to the striker, but it was intercepted and led to a counterattack that ended in a corner for Rayo.

Ramos didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The look was enough.

Tobi’s cheeks burned.

At halftime, the locker room was quiet — but not in a good way. The team led 1–0, but Tobi hadn’t contributed. The others noticed. He could feel their eyes.

Paco sat beside him and murmured, "Shake it off, kid. Not every day’s a stage."

Tobi forced a nod, but shame curled in his chest like smoke.

The second half wasn’t better. He was slower to react, missed an easy one-two, and fouled a Rayo player trying to recover. The yellow card felt deserved.

Coach Ramos subbed him off in the 65th minute.

The walk to the bench felt longer than the pitch.

He sat, head down, fingers laced tightly in his lap.

[System Alert]

Match Performance Rating: 5.3

Negative Shift Detected

Passing Accuracy: 74%

Turnovers: 5

Morale: Dropping

Trait "Big Game Blood" inactive – low mental confidence detected.

Tobi turned it off.

He didn’t need the system to tell him he’d played poorly. He’d felt every awful second of it. But it wasn’t just the game — it was his own mind, cracking under pressure. One bad game, and the doubts came flooding back.

He thought of the fans watching. The pundits. The headlines tomorrow.

Wonderkid fails to deliver.

Oliveira overwhelmed under pressure.

Too much, too soon?

After the match, which ended 2–0 thanks to a late goal by the left winger, Tobi walked off the pitch with his hood up, ignoring cameras, ignoring the fans. He didn’t even look at the coaching staff.

In the locker room, he didn’t speak. Just changed silently and left before most of the team had even showered.

Outside, the air was cold.

His mother’s car pulled up moments later. She didn’t speak as he got in. Leonor was in the back seat, watching him.

"You okay?" she asked.

He gave the smallest shrug.

"I played like shit."

"Language," their mother said softly.

They drove in silence the rest of the way.

At home, Tobi went straight to his room.

He collapsed into bed fully dressed, staring at the ceiling. The weight of failure pressed down on him like a blanket soaked in water.

He closed his eyes, but the crowd’s laughter from his dream returned.

And this time, it sounded real.

Tobi didn’t eat dinner.

His mother left a plate outside his door, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The thought of food turned his stomach. He just lay there, headphones in, no music playing — just silence, like it might muffle the pounding inside his chest.

Sometime past midnight, there was a soft knock.

"Can I come in?" Leonor’s voice was gentle.

He didn’t answer, but the door opened anyway. She stepped inside in her oversized Valencia training hoodie, barefoot, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She had her tablet tucked under one arm.

"I brought something," she said, climbing onto the bed beside him without waiting.

Tobi didn’t move.

Leonor opened a video on the tablet. "Watch."

He glanced at the screen.

It was him — but not recent. A match from Sporting’s youth team, almost two years ago. He was only sixteen. The clip showed him weaving through defenders, passing with flair, creating space out of nothing. The joy on his face was obvious. Back then, he’d played like he was flying.

"Remember this?" Leonor asked.

He nodded slowly.

"You looked like you loved it."

"I did," he said quietly.

She paused the video. "You still do. I see it."

Tobi turned to her. "It doesn’t feel like it anymore. Feels like... it’s crushing me."

She leaned against him. "Then maybe you need to remember why you started. Not for the crowd. Not the coach. Not even the system. Just the ball. Just you and the ball."

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Leonor slid off the bed. "Come downstairs when you’re ready. Mãe said no football talk tonight. Just dinner. Maybe a movie."

He managed a ghost of a smile. "Thanks, Leo."

She nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Tobi finally came down thirty minutes later.

His mother didn’t say anything when he walked in — just warmed up the plate, set it on the table, and slid the remote across to him.

"Pick something with a happy ending," she said.

He did. A dumb comedy. The kind they all used to watch when money was tight and smiles were cheap.

They laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real.

And real was enough.

[System Notification – Emotional Recovery Triggered]

Mental State: Stabilizing

Morale: +2

Focus: Partial Reset Achieved

Sometimes survival looks like dinner and a smile.

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