Manchester, England – 2006
The sky above Old Trafford was gray that winter, heavy with cold and expectation. Cristiano had been here three years, and still, not everyone believed.
The English press had mocked his stepovers. Called him flashy. A showman. They said he was too soft for the Premier League. That he was all tricks and no end product.
And in truth, for a time, he had struggled. The defenders were stronger. The tackles harsher. The spotlight colder. But Cristiano had something they couldn't see in highlight reels or post-match interviews.
He had fire.
Sir Alex saw it. Where others saw arrogance, the old Scot saw obsession. After every match, win or lose, Cristiano stayed late. Working. Lifting. Studying. His body changed—lean muscle wrapping itself around bone like armor. His mind sharpened. The boy was becoming a weapon.
Then came the World Cup in 2006. Portugal vs. England. The infamous quarterfinal. A red card. A wink. A storm of headlines. The English fans turned on him, booed him in every stadium, tried to drown him in their hatred.
He didn't flinch.
He trained harder. Played better. Turned every whistle into motivation. Every insult into fuel.
By the 2007–08 season, he was unstoppable.
He didn't just score goals—he broke records. Forty-two goals in all competitions. League titles. The Champions League. He didn't just silence his critics; he left them speechless.
In December 2008, he stood in Paris, suited in black, holding the Ballon d'Or.
His mother cried.
Cristiano didn't cry. He smiled—but only for a moment. Because even then, in the midst of the applause, his eyes were already looking forward.
To Spain.To Real Madrid.To the next mountain.
He had chased the sky his whole life. And now, for the first time, it felt like he was flying.
But in his heart, he was still the boy from Madeira—the one who cried alone in Lisbon, who trained when no one watched, who believed when no one else did.
The world now knew his name.
But he had known it all along.