The week following the defeat against Belenenses had been tense. The mood in the Sporting CP camp was subdued, the sting of the 3-1 loss still fresh. Every player felt the pressure mounting, and Eric, as Ricardo Quaresma, was no exception. With the next match approaching, the whispers of doubt started creeping in. Two games into the season, and the promising start had turned into questions about whether the team could bounce back.
The coach gave the usual pre-match talk, but the words seemed to carry extra weight. "We have to win today," the coach urged. "No excuses. We're playing at home. We have to show these fans what we're capable of."
Round 3 of the Primeira Liga was a crucial one. Sporting CP was back at home, facing a less formidable opponent, Alverca. On paper, this should have been a straightforward win—Alverca wasn't one of the big names of the league—but Eric knew better than to underestimate any team. Matches like this had a tendency to become traps, especially with the kind of momentum Sporting was struggling to find.
Eric stood on the field during warm-ups, feeling the cold buzz of anticipation from the home crowd. The chants weren't as enthusiastic as they had been during his debut. The excitement of a young prospect like Quaresma was quickly giving way to the impatience of fans who wanted wins. Eric knew how crucial this game was for the team, and he felt the weight of expectations pressing down on his shoulders.
As the match kicked off, it became clear that Alverca had come with a game plan: defend deep, frustrate Sporting's attacking rhythm, and hit on the counter. Every time Eric received the ball, he was closed down by two defenders, cutting off his space to make his trademark runs. He could sense the frustration building among his teammates as pass after pass went sideways, with no breakthrough in sight.
Eric tried to stay patient, reminding himself that this wasn't just about individual brilliance—it was about the team finding its flow. João Pinto and Marius Niculae did their best to create chances, but Alverca's defense was stubborn, closing down every opportunity with dogged determination. The longer the game went on without a goal, the more nervous the fans grew, their impatience filling the stadium like a suffocating fog.
Then, just before halftime, disaster struck. Alverca, who had been absorbing pressure for most of the first half, launched a counterattack after a misplaced pass from the Sporting midfield. Their winger sprinted down the flank, sending a low cross into the box. Eric could only watch as the Sporting defense scrambled to clear the ball, but it wasn't enough. The Alverca striker found a gap, slotting the ball into the bottom corner of the net.
0-1.
The home crowd groaned in disbelief, the tension thickening in the air. Eric clenched his fists, frustrated but determined not to let the game slip away. As the whistle blew for halftime, the players trudged off the field, heads down. Eric couldn't shake the feeling that everything was unraveling faster than anyone had expected.
In the locker room, the coach's voice was sharp, his words cutting through the silence. "We're better than this. Play with more heart! More intensity!" He looked around the room, his eyes lingering on Eric for a moment. "Ricardo, you need to take more control on the wings. Be more aggressive in the final third!"
Eric nodded, feeling the weight of those words. More control. More aggression. He wanted to deliver, to show that he could handle the pressure. But as the second half began, nothing seemed to go right. Alverca continued to sit back, defending in numbers, frustrating every attempt Sporting made to break them down.
Eric found himself isolated on the wing, repeatedly forced to pass back or attempt a cross into a crowded box. The fluidity and flair he had felt in his debut seemed distant, as though the pressure had shackled his movements. The clock ticked on, and with each passing minute, desperation set in.
As the 70th minute approached, Eric looked toward the sideline and saw the substitution board go up. His number flashed, signaling that his time on the pitch was over. He jogged off the field, replaced by another attacking option in a last-ditch effort to find an equalizer. The fans gave him polite applause, but it lacked the fervor from his earlier performances. Eric sat on the bench, biting his lip in frustration as he watched the final minutes unfold.
Sporting threw everything forward, but Alverca's defense held firm. The referee's whistle blew to signal the end of the match. 1-0 to Alverca. Another defeat. Another crushing disappointment.
The home crowd let their displeasure be known, the boos ringing out across the stadium as the players slowly made their way toward the tunnel. Eric felt the weight of every step, his mind racing with thoughts of how everything had gone wrong so quickly. This wasn't how he had envisioned his career unfolding after such a promising start. The brilliance of his debut, the excitement of scoring a penalty—it all felt so far away now.
Back in the locker room, the silence was deafening. No one spoke. The team knew what this loss meant. Another defeat meant more questions, more criticism, and more pressure.
As Eric changed out of his kit, he couldn't shake the feeling of frustration gnawing at him. Was this what Quaresma's career would be like? Moments of brilliance overshadowed by inconsistency and disappointment? He had been so determined to rewrite the story, to make Quaresma's career shine brighter than the one he remembered. But now, doubts began to creep in.
It's just one match, he told himself. But deep down, he knew the road ahead was going to be far tougher than he had imagined. The highs of victory could be so quickly replaced by the lows of defeat.