Did Dálcot’s Boss Quit? How a Streetball Kid Became Riyadh’s Sports Director — and Why It Makes No Sense

The Ball Didn’t Lie

I used to be the kid who got benched at 17—right after hitting a game-winning three-pointer with no scout in sight. Now? I run Riyadh’s sports department while my ex-bosses still think I sold my soul for a silk tie.

This ain’t ESPN. This is Chicago South Side meets Al-Nassir in reverse.

Data Doesn’t Wear Sneakers

They called it ‘promotion.’ I called it ‘survival.’

My first contract wasn’t signed with ink—it was signed with sweat, alley lights, and the echo of a backboard slam at 3 AM in Englewood.

You think this is about transfer? Nah. It’s about translation: from street-level hustle to boardroom chaos. I didn’t leave Portugal for more money—I left because the system was rigged.

The Real MVP Isn’t on TikTok

The league doesn’t care if you’re rich. It cares if you know how to read heat—and when to quit before you win. I coached high school teams that never made it past the zone—then became an exec without ever touching an executive chair.

CR7 and me? We met over late-night pizza in Riyadh—not because he needed an agent, because he needed someone who still remembers what it felt like to shoot alone under fluorescent lights.

We both won—not by signing deals—but by surviving them.