Thiago was thirteen, and he played football like his life depended on it.
In the dusty streets of his small Brazilian town, he ran barefoot, kicking a torn-up ball between two bricks used as goalposts. The sun burned hot, the concrete hurt his soles, but Thiago didn't care. When he had the ball, he felt unstoppable.
He had no cleats, no coach, not even grass—but he had a dream.
Every Saturday, Thiago raced to the barbershop down the road. Senhor Paulo, the barber, always played football highlights on the small TV in the corner. That was where Thiago first saw him—Neymar.
Neymar danced on the screen, light on his feet, smiling like he was born to shine. Thiago sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide, heart racing. Every trick, every goal, every celebration—it all planted a fire deep inside him.
"He plays with magic," Thiago whispered.
"You have a little of that, too," Senhor Paulo said with a grin. "If you ever get shoes."
On the way home, Thiago juggled a crushed soda can, copying Neymar's moves. He leapt, twisted, and laughed to himself when he got one trick just right.
Someday, he thought. I'll wear number 10. I'll play for Brazil. I'll make Neymar proud.
At home, the smell of beans filled the air. His mother, Ana, stirred the pot over the tiny stove as Thiago walked in, sweaty and smiling.
"Again with the ball?" she asked without turning.
"Always," he said proudly. "I'm gonna be the next Neymar!"
She laughed softly. "Then bring me home a golden boot before you destroy your feet."
That night, Thiago lay on his thin mattress, staring at the Neymar poster he'd made from a faded photocopy. It was taped to the wall with corners curling up. He reached out and touched it.
"I'll make you proud," he whispered. "I promise."
The next morning, Thiago played with the older boys. They were faster, stronger, louder—but not better. He weaved through them like water through cracks, scored a goal, and smiled.
"Where'd you learn that, little man?" one of them asked.
Thiago shrugged. "From the king."
What he didn't know was that someone else was watching—a man with a clipboard and a whistle, standing at the corner of the street.
That evening, there was a knock at their door. Ana answered to find a serious-looking man in a tracksuit.
"I saw your son play today," he said. "He's got talent. I run a youth academy in Rio. We're offering him a spot."
Ana looked shocked. "Rio? That's far. We don't have the money for that."
"It's free," the man said. "Food, training, education. He just has to want it."
"I want it!" Thiago shouted from behind her. "Please, mãe. Let me go."
Ana looked at her son, saw the light in his eyes, the hope in his voice. She sighed, her voice soft.
"Then go. And don't look back."
Three days later, Thiago stood at the bus station with a small backpack. Inside it was a pair of socks, a notebook, and his Neymar poster. In his hand, he held his old football.
Ana hugged him tightly. "Make them remember your name."
On the ride to Rio, the city felt like another world. Tall buildings, busy streets, endless noise. Thiago pressed his face to the window, his heart pounding.
The academy was massive—green fields, tall fences, kids in clean uniforms. Thiago stepped off the bus and tightened his grip on the ball.
"Welcome," said a coach with a whistle around his neck. "Let's see what you've got."
Training was harder than anything Thiago had ever done. The drills were fast, the coaches strict, and the other kids didn't play nice.
"Who's the street kid?" one boy whispered.
Another laughed. "Thinks he's Neymar."
Thiago ignored them. Every night, he stayed on the field longer than anyone else, practicing in the dark. His feet blistered. His muscles ached. But he never stopped.
He looked up at the stars one night, sitting with his ball in his lap and Neymar's poster beside him.
"I'm not just playing for me," he whispered. "I'm playing for the boy I was... and the hero who made me believe."
The next morning, everything changed.
As the boys lined up for the morning match, the academy's best player—Lucas—walked up to Thiago with a smirk.
"So you're the Neymar fan," he said. "Let's see if a barefoot street rat can survive the real game."
Thiago didn't flinch. He tied his laces tighter, lifted his head, and looked him in the eye.
"Let's play."