Speaking of Benfica’s victory over Real Madrid, following a mediocre campaign by the team from Luz in the league, I found myself thinking about the misconception that has taken root in almost every “locker room” and, by symmetry of reasoning, in corporate HR departments: the idea that it is the manager’s job to convince professional players to play as best as they know how.
Playing, mind you, not in the romantic sense of the kid who skips out on chores to kick a ball around at recess, but in the strict, contractual, and loudly remunerated sense of the term: stepping onto the pitch, executing a plan, fighting for every ball as if personal dignity depended on it, and, in the end, reaping applause, awards, and millions.
The question no one asks, out of modesty or fear of sounding politically incorrect, is simple: if they don’t want to play, why are they here?
A team does not rely on a sum of talents, but on a decision prior to talent: the willingness to cooperate. The rest—tactics, routines, automatisms—is carpentry. Therefore, my friends, the raw material of great teams is moral: aligning egos with a common goal, voluntarily accepted.
Those who do not accept the strategy, who see a teammate as an obstacle rather than an extension, who prefer the choreography of the star over the invisible work of the collective, may well possess individual genius, but they certainly lack the right spirit to “be a team player.” And without a team, genius is just fireworks: it lights up a lot, lasts briefly, and leaves behind smoke.
Hence the absurdity of the “pedagogical manager,” that new curator of consciences, forced to turn professionalism into a calling, discipline into self-help, and commitment into “engagement.” As if the manager’s role, beyond designing the game, were to coddle adults who are paid to deliver.
Perhaps it is time to reverse the burden of proof: it is not the manager who has to carry players in their arms; it is the players who must demonstrate, in their own interest and on their own initiative, that they deserve to be admitted—and kept—on the team.
Because, comrades, belonging to the team is not a natural right; it is a daily choice, confirmed in training, in the simple pass, in covering for a teammate, in the silence of those who work without a camera ready for streaming.
This reasoning applies even more to companies, where a perverse inversion of basic obligations has taken root. Instead of the worker wanting to work—with ambition, seriousness, and respect for the project—the “boss” is expected to act as a kind of spiritual director for reluctant philosophers, people who view work as a degradation of their playful calling.
It is natural to demand salary, recognition, advancement, and purpose… but with daily evidence of an allergy to anything that resembles duty, no work team can beat the competition.
And a company is not an educational institution for sensitive talents, but a collective construct, with goals, deadlines, and accountability.
Thomas Edison is said to have remarked that “genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration,” an empirical truth that applies to individuals and teams, whether in soccer or in professional life. Inspiration without perspiration is called posturing. And posturing doesn’t win championships, doesn’t close projects, doesn’t save quarters, and doesn’t sustain culture.
Ultimately, the issue is less about performance and more about ethics: no one can be dragged into cooperation. You either step onto the field to play with others, or you stay in the stands of your own ego—applauding yourself alone.
Paulo Fidalgo
CEO of Marketividade
