Lisbon, Portugal – 1997
The city was louder than Madeira. Faster. Colder in ways the weather couldn't explain. The skies above Sporting CP's youth dormitories held no stars—just streetlights and smoke trails from passing cars. But Cristiano didn't care. He hadn't come for the skyline.
He came to become someone.
The academy was brutal in its own quiet way. Talent didn't guarantee kindness. Boys competed with teeth bared behind handshakes, all of them desperate to be the one who made it. For many, it was just football. For Cristiano, it was survival. He cried some nights, alone in his bunk, whispering words to the cracked ceiling in his Madeiran accent—an accent the other kids mocked.
They laughed when he talked. Called him names. Said he looked like a stick and cried like a girl.
But he didn't cry when he trained.
At thirteen, he was up before dawn. Sprint drills in the gravel behind the dorm. Ball control against the brick wall, again and again, until his legs burned. While others slept or joked or chased girls, he chased shadows of greatness only he could see.
Even the coaches started noticing. "He plays like the ball is part of him," one whispered after a scrimmage. Another said he was too skinny, too raw, but that there was something in his eyes—something dangerous, like a storm just waiting.
Cristiano still missed home. Missed his mother's voice. His father's crooked smile after a long shift at the club. But Madeira was far now. He couldn't afford to look back.
One night, after a match, a senior coach pulled him aside. "You're fast," the man said. "But speed won't be enough. You want to be world-class? Then train like no one else. Obsess like no one else."
Cristiano nodded. He didn't speak. He just trained harder.
He did more than anyone else. He ate differently. Slept less. Studied older players. Watched tapes of Figo, of Zidane, of legends. Not to imitate. To surpass.
At fifteen, he was moved up a level. At sixteen, the first-team players began to notice him. Not just his footwork, but his fire. The way he refused to lose the ball. The way he'd glare at the ground after a missed shot like it had betrayed him.
"Who's that kid?" they started to ask.
"Cristiano," someone would answer."Cristiano from Madeira."
But he wouldn't be just that for long.