Once, not so very long ago, there was a little boy named Cristiano. He lived in a tiny house with a rusty tin roof that looked out over the ocean from a small island. His family was very poor and they didn’t have much. But he had something that was specially his: a passion for football.
“Papa, can I go with you to the club? Please, pretty please? I promise I’ll be good!” he’d say every time his father got ready to go to his work as a kit man. He took care of the players jerseys and socks and shoes, along with making sure the equipment and the footballs were in good shape. And his father always smiled at him and nodded as he picked up the bag of footballs and gear.
Once they were at the club, Cris was left to his own devices. He was allowed to play with one of the spare balls the players weren’t using, and as they trained he watched them carefully. Then he’d try to do exactly what they’d done. He was terrible to begin with! The ball kept going in every sort of direction but the one he wanted! He knew he was only seven, but his dream was to be the best football player ever! So he practiced.
“Papa, can I have my own football?” he asked one day. His father shook his head and looked at his mother.
“Cristiano, we barely have enough money for food for all of us. We can’t afford it,” she said sadly.
But his father took him aside and showed him how to tear and roll some old scraps of clothes with knots into a make-shift ball. “This is good enough for you to practice with,” he said, showing…
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