May arrived, bringing with it the boiling pressure of the Champions League qualification race. We needed a victory against Chelsea at Old Trafford to officially secure Top 4, but if you walked into the Carrington dressing room two days before the match, you’d think we were preparing for a comedy special rather than a tactical war.
It all started over something incredibly sacred to Brazilian footballers: the dressing room playlist.
"What is this trash?" Bruno Fernandes groaned, slamming his locker door shut as a heavy, bass-boosted Funk Carioca track blasted through the speakers. He marched over to my phone, which was plugged into the main sound system, and yanked the cord out. "Antony! My ears are bleeding! We are two days away from Chelsea, and you're playing music that sounds like a lawnmower fighting a synthesizer!"
"Hey! Don't touch the phone, Captain!" I shouted back in English, snatching it back with a grin. "This is high-energy vibration! It builds explosive power! What do you want to listen to? Portuguese sad boy acoustic songs? We’d all fall asleep before warm-ups!"
"Hey, hey, respect the music!" Fred chimed in, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone while eating his post-training meal. Casemiro sat in the corner, calmly drinking his mate tea, completely unbothered by the chaos, acting like a tired dad watching his chaotic children.
"Look, if we play Bruno's playlist, we’ll be crying on the pitch," Marcus Rashford laughed, tossing a rolled-up pair of socks right at Bruno’s head.
"Shut up, Marcus! At least my music has words, not just BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!" Bruno yelled back, though he couldn't hide the smirk creeping onto his face. He turned to me, pointing a finger. "If you don't score or assist on Thursday after subjecting us to this noise, Antony, I am personally throwing your speaker into the ice bath."
"Deal," I laughed. "And if I score, you have to do the Brazilian dance with me at the corner flag."
"Never in a million years," Bruno snorted.
Thursday night arrived. Old Trafford was packed under the floodlights, crackling with nervous energy.
Chelsea came out flying, pressing high and playing dirty. Wesley Fofana and Marc Cucurella were doubling up on my side, trying to physically rattle me from the start. Cucurella, in particular, was pulling my shirt, pinching my ribs during corners, and talking endless trash in Spanish.
"You're only a left foot, chico!" Cucurella sneered after shoving me into the touchline board. "Show me something else!"
In my past life, I would have lost my temper, retaliated, and probably gotten a stupid yellow card. But tonight, I just looked at his wild hair, giggled, and said in Spanish, "Nice hair, bro. Do you use coconut oil?"
Cucurella blinked, completely caught off guard by the response. Before he could process the insult, the referee blew the whistle for a United free-kick.
28th minute. 0-0.
The break came fast. Casemiro intercepted a sloppy pass in our half and immediately pinged a crisp 40-yard ball into the right channel. I sprinted onto it, leaving Cucurella trailing behind. Fofana rushed out from the center to cover, flying into a reckless, sliding tackle.
CLACK!
His studs caught the side of my ankle. Pain shot up my leg as I flipped through the air and hit the grass hard.
"HEY! REF!" Bruno screamed, sprinting 50 yards across the pitch to tackle the referee with complaints.
The physio team ran onto the pitch. I gritted my teeth, rolling around while grabbing my ankle.
"Can you walk, Antony?" the doctor asked, checking the joint.
I looked over at the sideline. Ten Hag was already pacing nervously, looking like he was about to digest his own necktie. Then I looked at the Chelsea bench—Cucurella was smirking.
"Wrap it," I hissed through my teeth. "Just tape it tight. I'm not giving that curly-haired guy the satisfaction of seeing me leave on a stretcher."
With my ankle heavily taped, I limped back onto the pitch to a standing ovation from the Stretford End.
45th minute. 1-0 to us thanks to a Casemiro header earlier.
Just before the halftime whistle, Bruno won a duel in the final third. Seeing me holding the width on the right, he sliced a gorgeous, thread-the-needle no-look pass straight into the box.
Despite the sharp pain in my foot, I exploded into the space. Kepa Arrizabalaga rushed off his line, spreading his body to block a low shot.
Cucurella was sprinting back frantically to cover the goal line.
I didn't blast it. I didn't try to curl it. With a delicate, disrespectful touch of my left toe, I dinked the ball right over Kepa’s diving arms. The ball hovered in the air like a balloon, bouncing softly into the back of the net!
2-0!
Old Trafford erupted into absolute pandemonium.
I didn't care about the pain in my ankle anymore. I sprinted toward the corner flag, stopped right in front of the camera, and did a ridiculous, over-the-top samba dance.
Behind me, Bruno came charging in. I grabbed his arm, pulled him into the frame, and forced him to do a terrible, stiff Portuguese version of the dance.
"I hate you so much!" Bruno yelled over the roaring crowd, laughing hysterically as he slapped my head before wrapping me in a massive bear hug.
As we walked down the tunnel at halftime, I passed Cucurella, who was staring at the floor in defeat.
"Hey, Cucurella!" I called out, flashing a wide smile. "Left foot toe-poke! Works every time!"
I was substituted at halftime to protect my ankle, sitting on the bench with a massive bag of ice wrapped around my leg. We went on to crush Chelsea 4-1, officially locking in Champions League football for the next season.
In the post-match celebration inside the locker room, the music was blasting louder than ever. Bruno walked over to the sound system, plugged my phone back in himself, and cranked the volume up to maximum.
"Alright, fine!" Bruno shouted over the music, holding a bottle of water like a trophy. "The lawnmower music stays!"
We laughed, sprayed water all over the coaches, and celebrated late into the night. We were back in the big time—and we had done it together.
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