Cristiano sat alone in the locker room
The kit man walked in with a fresh jersey
White
Red
Clean
He held it out slowly
Number seven
Cristiano stared
Didn't reach for it
He knew the names
George Best
Eric Cantona
David Beckham
This number wasn't just cloth
It was a crown
And crowns crush weak shoulders
Sir Alex entered
Watched him for a moment
Take it or don't
But if you wear it
You carry history
Cristiano stood
Took the jersey
Ran his fingers over the stitched number
Then nodded once
Let them try to crush me
The debut came fast
A home game
Old Trafford packed like thunder trapped in a bowl
He didn't start
He watched from the bench
Boots laced so tight his feet went numb
When Sir Alex finally turned and called his name
His heart stopped
Then started again harder
Cristiano took off the jacket
The crowd saw the seven
Gasps rippled like lightning
He stepped onto the field
And the world tilted
First touch
Clean
Second touch
Defender lost
Third
Cross into the box so perfect the striker didn't even need to look
Fans stood up
Commentators scrambled
Who is this kid?
He didn't score
But he owned the moment
Eyes sharp
Feet alive
Every move screamed I belong
After the match
Reporters swarmed
Papers printed his photo like he was prophecy
But back in the locker room
Cristiano sat quiet
Held the jersey in his lap
It felt heavier now
Not because of history
But because now
It had his name on it