And Mateo, the boy from the streets of Barcelona, the Maestro of Dortmund, was the boy who would play the part of the hero. He was the only one who had not transformed. He was still himself.
The cameras were rolling. The lights were on. The world was watching.
The ball was at Ronaldo's feet. He was dribbling, his feet a blur, his body a symphony of controlled, explosive power. He was about to shoot, to score, to win the game, just as he had done a thousand times before in stadiums around the world.
But then, out of nowhere, a small, slender figure appeared, a flash of blue and white in the sea of green. It was Mateo. He had read Ronaldo's mind, had anticipated his move, had seen the future before it had even happened. His positioning was perfect, his timing was flawless, his execution was sublime.
He stuck out his foot, a perfectly timed tackle that was as clean and as precise as a surgeon's scalpel. The ball was his. The game was his. The world was his.
