The Boy Who Ran With the Wind

Before the name Cristiano Ronaldo would echo in stadiums, it was only a whisper shouted across valleys by goats and wind. In the village of Santo António, nestled on the edge of Lisbon's forgotten fields, Cristiano's world was small—but to him, it was everything.Each morning began with the same ritual: Cristiano, shirt half-buttoned, shoes nowhere to be found, would run down the gravel road chasing his breath and the rising sun. His schoolbag swung wildly on his back, bouncing with the rhythm of his feet. But he was never late—not because he cared for school, but because he loved the sprint, the challenge, the imaginary crowd cheering him on.School was a single-room building that smelled of chalk and damp paper. Cristiano sat in the second row, near the window. His notebooks were filled more with football formations than numbers or letters. He was not a bad student just an impatient one. His mind wandered to open fields while the teacher spoke of arithmetic. When asked a question, he often blinked twice before answering, as if returning from a different world—a world made of stadium lights and roaring crowds.At recess, he was king.There was no real football field at school, only a patch of dry earth surrounded by rocks and stubborn weeds. The ball was old, patched with duct tape and prayers. But when Cristiano played, the field disappeared. The cracked earth became grass, the tin cans they used for goals turned into white-painted posts, and his classmates into fierce defenders from faraway teams.He dribbled with a joy that couldn't be taught, and when he scored, he always pointed to the sky. Some said it was for celebration. But Cristiano knew better. It was a thank you.Back home, his life was marked by simplicity. Water had to be heated in pots over the stove. The family prayed before every meal, and Scripture verses hung on the walls beside old black-and-white photos. Their faith wasn't loud or grand, but constant. It lived in the way Maria Dolores hugged each of her children as if it was the last time. In the way José Dinis sang hymns softly while trimming the hedges at work. In the way Cristiano whispered prayers before every match—even when it was just a match against Hugo in the backyard.There was little money, but always enough. Enough for food. Enough for laughter. Enough for dreams.And dreams were the one thing Cristiano had in abundance.Every evening, after homework and chores, he'd go to the field just outside town. Alone sometimes, other times with Hugo. There, with the pink sky above and the smell of eucalyptus around him, he practiced. Not because someone told him to. Not because of fame or fortune. But because something inside him burned brighter every time his foot met the ball.He was only seven, but in his heart, he knew: he was meant for more.He just didn't know how far "more" would take him.Or what it might cost.That night, the smell of garlic and chouriço filled the kitchen as Maria Dolores stirred the pot with her usual precision. The wood stove crackled gently, casting a soft orange glow over the stone walls. Cristiano sat on the floor beside his sister Liliana, building a goalpost out of firewood and string."Careful, Cris," she warned, laughing. "If that falls again, Mãe will make you rebuild it twice."He grinned, showing the gap where his front tooth had just fallen out. "Then I'll make it stronger."At the table, Hugo was helping their father, José Dinis, polish an old pair of boots. They weren't his, but Cristiano's. Hand-me-downs from a neighbor's boy, a bit too big, scuffed on one side, but still full of hope. José worked silently, the brush gliding over leather with care usually reserved for holy things."You'll run faster in these," José said, without looking up."I already do," Cristiano answered, eyes still on his firewood goal. "Today I beat João and Luís.""And tomorrow?" his father asked."I'll beat the wind."Everyone laughed, and even Hugo reached over to ruffle his hair. It was a moment wrapped in warmth—of love, of faith, of the kind of poverty that wasn't measured by emptiness, but by the strength of what held them together.After dinner, Maria Dolores gathered them all in the living room. She opened the old black Bible they kept on the shelf. It had pages thin as onion skin, and a cracked leather cover held together with tape and memory. She read softly, from Psalm 121:"I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from?My help comes from the Lord,the Maker of heaven and earth."Cristiano listened, curled up between his sisters, his fingers tracing the words as she read. He didn't always understand everything. But he believed it. Every word. More than anything.When the reading ended, they prayed.It was simple. Just thanks. For the food. For the roof. For each other. For another day.That night, as he lay in bed staring at the wooden ceiling, Cristiano whispered a prayer of his own."God... if I can't make it as a footballer, please make me something useful. But if You put this dream in my heart... help me not let go."He closed his eyes, unaware that far away, in a city he could barely pronounce, a name—his name—was being spoken by strangers. Strangers who were already on their way.