Back in Vargem Grande, Flamengo’s legendary youth trainer, 62-year-old Liminha, is yelling at the under-20 players. With a crew cut that has turned grey, he looks like an old captain in the US Army.

“Lads!” he yells. “I don’t want to see you running around outside the dressing room in sandals with your shirt outside your shorts. You’re not boys any more. You are Flamengos! You’re here to work. Understood?”

Flamengo’s training ground is built on land bought by the club’s president in 1981. Apart from a sentry box, the ground was unused for over 20 years until the president decided to build his player factory.

The plans feature a restaurant, a hotel, a swimming pool, a small stadium and five pitches – one for each youth category. So far, only the U20 and U17 pitches are covered in grass. Two others await their turf while the first-team pitch is just a big hole. When it’s finished it will be next to the swimming pool, which has not been started.

“Flamengo is short of money,” says Tito Araujo. “At the moment, we are 213 million reais [$125.5m] in debt. We cannot make it if we don’t get a foreign investor.”

Somehow the club has contrived to lose all of the US$40m [$48.5m] that Swiss-based investor ISL provided four years ago. That the money did not reach Flamengo is obvious when you look at their facilities and recent league positions.

“We must pull off this project if we are to get back on track,” says Araujo, pointing to the pitches. “The U11 pitch will be here and the other pitches will come right after that. We want the players to have goals. They start here, and go further up as they develop. Furthest up, the first team will train here. It’s good for motivation. The younger guys will see that it is possible to reach their target, while the professionals will see that younger guys are ready to take their place if they don’t perform.”

The sun is boiling. We are standing under some trees by the U17 pitch where Anthony Santoro is busy with his 50 trialists. So far, no one has been rejected. “I want to give them an honest chance,” he says. “On Friday I will make up my mind. Time will tell.”

A traditional peneira consists of six teams, all playing against each other until the coach has an opinion. Then the selection begins. The coach switches players about with no explanation. Everyone knows he is trying to form the best team, but whether it is the team in the yellow vests, in the green, the blue, or in Flamengo’s red-and-black jersey, only the coach knows.

The selection of the U17 team is the toughest of all. Because they train as much as the U20s and the first team, Pele’s law forces the clubs to offer them real contracts. Thus Flamengo must pay wages, health care and holiday compensation – and they will only do this if they believe they can get something in return.

Santoro calls out the names of the players in the first two teams. The physio and the assistant coach hand out some vests. Elton, the 16-year-old from Natal, does not get one. “It’s my turn next,” he says.

Rafael, from Alem Paraiba in the Minas Gerias province 200km north of Rio, wants a spot as a right-sided midfielder. “It didn’t really work yesterday,” he says. “I hope I get the chance to show what I can do today.”

In his hand he holds a white card, just like the one Elton has. On the front is his name, height, weight, position and latest club. On the back are seven lines, one for each day of the peneira. Each day, Santoro must sign the card. If he doesn’t, the player gets a barca passou, a boat that takes him away.

Elton, a striker, has seen the boat pass several times. “This time I’ll make it,” he insists. “I’m tired of my club in Natal. Never any money, bad training. To play with Flamengo is like playing in Europe.”

The next two teams are called out. Neither Elton nor Rafael’s name comes. They look nervously at their white cards. The first group guzzle cold water and pour it in their shoes. Their feet are burning, blistered by the bone-hard surface.

“I’m sure we’ll get to play next time,” says Elton, adjusting his shinpads. “There are so many players. I just have to prove that I’m better than they are.”

Fifteen minutes later, it’s finally their turn. They put on the green jerseys and gently tuck their white cards in their socks behind the shinpads. Jorge, the masseur, is standing next to the water tank. “Poor bastards, playing in this heat,” he mutters.

By 11am it’s too hot to play any more, so the players return to the concrete dressing rooms and form a line at the tiny shower area. As he waits, Wellington, a friend of Paulo Sergio, tells his story. He comes from Novo Friburgo in the mountains north of Rio de Janeiro and began playing for Flamengo when he was 10. He initially lived in Rio during the week and went back to his mother for weekends. Now he plays matches at the weekend so he’s moved into the club’s accommodation.

“It’s not too bad,” he says. “A woman cooks for us and helps with our laundry. At the most, we sleep 10 boys in one room.”

Whenever there is a peneira, the building gets crowded. “It can be very lively, but we have to behave. The management wants us to attend school in the afternoons, but we normally get back from training at 1pm and school begins at two. So we have to choose: shower or lunch? There’s no time for both.

“At the start of every season, I decide to do my best in school. I say to myself that I must attend all the classes. The first day’s not a problem. Neither is the second. On the third day it begins to get harder. My mother is always telling me how important school is. She calls every day to ask how things were. I always tell her the same: ‘good’.”

At 4pm, Wellington’s friends in the U20 team face Fluminense. Everyone wants to watch their elders kicking the crap out of their biggest rivals. The undoubted star is 19-year-old Zelio Junior, who already makes more than 3,000 reais [£740] a month. He’s well on his way to changing his family’s life. Not that it stops his mother yelling from the stands. “I never miss a match,” she says. “They need me here. Life as a player in Flamengo is tough. They cannot afford to lose.”

Beside her sits Margarethe, mother of Marlon, central defender and captain. Marlon is busy but managing well. Then he makes a mistake and the ball finds its way into the goal. His mother looks like she wants to vanish. “My son, my son,” she sighs and hides her face in her hands.

Adriana Lacerda is a beautiful 28-year-old with short black hair, warm brown eyes and big earrings. She is employed as the chief psychologist of Flamengo’s youth department. Every team has its own full-time psychologist – yet another detail that distinguishes Brazilian youth football from the rest of the world.

“At least 80 percent of our players come from poor conditions,” she says. “They don’t have health insurance. Many have never visited a dentist.”

Her tiny consulting room is next door to Tito Araujo’s recruitment room. At a round table that takes up almost the whole room, she holds individual talks with the boys during the season. “The first thing I do with a player that has been accepted is to have a thorough conversation,” she explains. “I have to know everything about the player and his family in order to help him. There are often problems within the family. The mother and father are arguing. The father wants the son to perform better and bring in more money while the mother wants the son to study more. The pressure is huge.

“Parents believe all their problems are solved just because Flamengo has accepted their child,” she continues, “but the selection process is cruel. Time after time, I try to explain that only a few go all the way. They have to make sure that their child continues with his studies.”

Last season, Lacerda collected phrases the boys had said during individual sessions. “Without mentioning any names, I gave the parents a presentation. ‘When I get home my father is always asking me how it went on the training. When I tell him it went OK, he gets upset and turns his back on me. It is very hard.’ Many could see what they were doing.”

The door to Lacerda’s office opens. Erick Conde, psychologist for the Juvenil set-up, is concerned about one of the players currently going through the peneira. “Do you think it’s possible to talk about him later? Just the two of us?”

FourFourTwo asks what Lacerda says to a 16-year-old who has played with Flamengo since he was eight and is suddenly forced to leave the club. “He takes care of that,” she says, pointing towards Araujo’s office. “Normally he calls a meeting with the parents and the player. He tells them that the player has not developed as much as they were hoping, that he is free to try another club.”

Free?

“What else can we say? It’s hard. Many tears. The good thing is that the player can easily get a spot in one of the smaller clubs, but naturally, the boys who are leaving are very sad.”

That most of the players come from extreme conditions is something Lacerda has been forced to get used to. Of 150 players in Flamengo’s developing teams, only 10 percent are from the middle class or above it.

“Football is a game for the poor, not the rich. For middle-class kids, it is more like a hobby. A bunch of friends might get together and play, but their parents want them to become lawyers, doctors or engineers. Not footballers.”

Sure enough, Socrates and Kaka are the only middle-class kids ever to have represented Brazil.