The field of well-kept green grass was an invitation to play. The smell of damp earth and freshly cut grass mixed with the cool afternoon air. Carlos, now swapping his work clothes for a t-shirt and shorts, felt the pulsating energy of the place.

  "So, that's how it's going to be?" he asked, forming a team with the boys. Zézinho, now a taller, more agile boy, stood beside him like a trusted lieutenant. "Boys against girls, with special reinforcements?"

  On the other side, Quixotina was organizing the girls with the efficiency of a general. Dulcinéia, now twelve, stood beside her, a miniature version of her mother's determination but with a looser smile.

  "Exactly!" replied Quixotina, crossing her arms. "And prepare for a humiliating defeat. My warriors and I aren't here to play around."

  The roughly twenty children on both teams laughed, excited. Carlos felt that familiar chill down his spine seeing the flash of fierce competitiveness in Quixotina's eyes. It was more than a game for her.

  He approached, lowering his voice to a whisper only she could hear, as the children discussed positions.

  "Hey, remember the deal, huh?" he said, his warm breath near her ear. "It's fun. No activating the strength gem and sending the ball (or someone) into the stratosphere. Everyone leaves in one piece, deal?"

  The sudden proximity made Quixotina shiver, her ears turning slightly pink. She rolled her eyes, but a slight smile betrayed her seriousness.

  "For heaven's sake, Carlos, I know! I have a daughter on the team, remember?" she whispered back. "Besides, they don't need superhuman strength. They have technique."

  "Sorry, couldn't resist teasing you about that!" said Carlos, and then he stepped back, satisfied, and returned to his team. Without an official referee, they agreed on basic rules: a goal is a goal, a foul is a foul (no exaggeration), and the game ends around 4 PM.

  The imaginary whistle was blown by Dulcinéia, and the organized chaos began.

  Unlike the original match on dirt, the game now had flow. The children, many of whom played regularly, understood passes and positioning. The well-made leather ball (another improvement) bounced predictably on the soft grass.

  Carlos, trying to command his team, shouted instructions:

  "Zézinho, spread out to the right! Pass back! Hold the ball!"

  But their voices were lost in the cheerful hubbub. Quixotina, surprisingly, didn't stay just in defense. She guided the girls with short gestures and clear orders:

  "Dulcinéia, mark Zézinho! Maria, go up the left! I'll cover the middle!"

  The game was balanced, with plays from both sides. Dulcinéia, inheriting her mother's agility, easily dribbled past two boys before passing to a teammate. Zézinho, in turn, showed sharp game vision, stealing the ball with a clean tackle that drew shouts of protest (and admiration) from the girls.

  Fifteen minutes in, Carlos saw his chance. The ball spilled from a challenge and came to his feet. He advanced a few meters, feeling the grass under his shoes. He saw Quixotina positioning herself in front of him, a human block with a challenging look. Remembering the past, he tried the same simple dribble.

  This time, it didn't work.

  Quixotina read the move, stole the ball with the side of her foot with a naturalness that left Carlos stunned, and launched a counter-attack. She didn't run with superhuman speed, but with an impressive athletic efficiency. Before the boys recovered, she shot from outside the box. The ball described a perfect curve and grazed the post, going into the corner.

  Goal for the girls! 1-0.

  The celebration was thunderous. The girls crowded around Quixotina, jumping and shouting. Dulcinéia hugged her mother tightly, her face radiating pride. Carlos, defeated in the play, couldn't help but smile. The goal was beautiful.

  "See that, boys?" she shouted, now smiling openly. "Now that's soccer!"

  The goal, however, ignited the flame of competitiveness in the boys. Led by a determined Zézinho and a now-focused Carlos, they pressed. Twenty-five minutes in, after a sequence of quick passes between Carlos and Zézinho, the boy finished with a cross-shot, equalizing the game. 1-1.

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  The sun began to set, painting the sky orange, but the energy on the field only increased. The game turned into an exciting exchange of attacks. Carlos, now genuinely having fun, found himself constantly marked by Quixotina. She didn't let him breathe, using her physique and game intelligence to nullify his passes.

  "You're stalking me!" he complained, panting, after she intercepted another ball.

  "Strategy!" she replied with a mischievous smile before playing on.

  Thirty-eight minutes in, came the crown jewel. Dulcinéia, receiving a long pass, controlled the ball on her chest with a skill that made even her mother sigh in admiration. She dribbled past one boy, then another, entered the box, and, instead of shooting, gave a gentle chip over the goalkeeper, surprising him. The ball went in softly. 2-1 for the girls.

  The entire field seemed to vibrate with the shouts. Quixotina lifted Dulcinéia in her arms, spinning with her, an image of pure joy that Carlos would store in his memory.

  But the boys didn't give up. With three minutes left in what Carlos decided was the end (his legs were already burning), he received the ball in midfield. He saw Quixotina advancing to mark him. Instead of dribbling, he gave a first-time touch to Zézinho, who was making an intelligent run down the wing. The boy took the ball at speed, entered the area, and shot with power. The goalkeeper got a touch but couldn't hold it. 2-2.

  This time, it was the boys who stormed the field to celebrate with Zézinho and Carlos.

  Exhausted, sweaty, with his heart pounding against his ribs, Carlos gasped to catch his breath. A victorious smile – not for the score, but for the pure joy of the game – was plastered on his face. He raised his eyes to the sky, where the sun was already beginning to tilt westward. It was a beautiful sight, but not very precise.

  Ugh, this city urgently needs a public clock! he thought, frustrated, trying to estimate the time by the sun's position. One in the central square, at least. How can I organize a modern society without knowing the exact time? Meetings, work shifts, meal times… Everything is 'more or less.'

  The practical necessity, however, had to yield to the moment. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm and turned to the panting, smiling crowd.

  "That's it, everyone!" he announced, projecting his voice into the cool late afternoon air. "Game over! A heroic draw, worthy of great champions! But now… it's time to go home and rest!"

  A chorus of disappointed "awwws" echoed, but most children, exhausted and satisfied, began to disperse. However, a younger boy, with curly hair and a stubborn expression, crossed his arms.

  "But I want to play more!" he complained, his chin trembling with fatigue mixed with desire.

  Before Carlos could formulate a gentle but firm response, Zézinho acted with the speed of a team captain who knows the secret plan. He and two other boys approached the kid in the blink of an eye. Zézinho put a friendly – but firm – arm over his shoulders, while one of the other boys, with a quick, discreet gesture, covered his mouth for a second, whispering something quickly in his ear.

  The boy's eyes widened, and stubbornness gave way to sudden, excited understanding. Zézinho then smiled at Carlos, stepping forward.

  "Alright, Uncle Carlos!" he said, with an abnormally restrained and obedient voice. "We're heading out! Thanks for the game!"

  Seeing the quick intervention and the change in attitude, Carlos felt immense relief. "Phew! Zézinho remembered. The kids have to get home first to help prepare the surprise for Dulcinéia." He nodded, a smile of complicity on his lips.

  "That's it, Zézinho. You guys were incredible today. Now, go lead the retreat, General."

  The word "General" hit Zézinho like a gleaming medal. His chest, still heaving from the match, swelled with a warm, deep pride. His eyes, tired before, shone with a new light. Carlos's praise was special, but that specific title echoed something within him. He had also heard – from the serious whispers of adults and the respectful accounts of older soldiers – about what his father, Pedro, had done in the war. About the difficult decisions, the courage under fire, how he had saved comrades.

  They said they called him a "hero." And now, Carlos was calling him "General."

  He straightened his back, trying to imitate the firm posture he imagined in his father. A contained but intense smile took over his face, dirty with dirt and sweat.

  "You got it, President!" he replied, in a voice trying to sound deeper. "The retreat is under control!"

  Zézinho pulled the complaining boy by the arm, and the group of boys began to move away, no longer dragging their feet but with renewed purpose and shared secrets in excited whispers. Carlos watched them go, grateful once again for the boy's loyalty and astuteness. The surprise birthday party was saved.

  Carlos walked to the center of the field, where Quixotina was, slowly collapsing to the ground, panting but smiling. Dulcinéia snuggled up beside her.

  "Mom, did you see my goal?" the girl asked, still euphoric.

  "I did, my dear. It was beautiful," replied Quixotina, stroking her sweaty hair. "Prettier than any knight's goal in a tournament."

  Carlos approached and extended a hand to help her up.

  "You… played amazingly. For real. No magic, just skill. I was impressed."

  She accepted his hand, her sweaty, warm palm in his.

  "You didn't do badly either…" she replied, short of breath.

  He laughed, pulling her to her feet. She staggered for a second, genuine fatigue hitting her. It was evident she had given her all, physically, and that pure effort, without the aid of gems, had left her exhausted, but with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.