The afternoon sky over Campinas was a bruised shade of gray by kickoff—clouds swollen, promising rain but withholding it for now, as if testing the players' patience. The Estádio Moisés Lucarelli buzzed with anticipation, half the stands clad in Ponte Preta's black and white, the other half bristling with Palmeiras green. The air smelled of wet concrete and grilled meat, the occasional flare from the ultras' section sending plumes of smoke curling toward the heavy sky.
Eneas had named Thiago in the starting eleven again. Left wing. No rotation. No uncertainty. Just faith rendered through minutes—the only currency that mattered in football.
In the locker room before the match, the atmosphere was tighter than usual. Ponte Preta was aggressive—fast on the counter, relentless in duels. They had clawed their way up the table on sheer disruption, not beauty. Their midfielders hunted in packs, their fullbacks played like enforcers.
