I have two versions in mind. I'll decide which one to write later.
Version One:
The day he defended his Champions League title, 32-year-old Ronaldo returned to the spring of 2009.
"You've gone and made the same mistakes again."
"But how do you know I wasn't happy?"
That was the road that made me who I am. I was born to walk it.
The glory of ancient times brings arrogance; the dreams of heroes bring ruthlessness.
When he was still young, the world was always at his feet. Roman cavalry would sing of a hero's achievements forever, preachers would spread their doctrines through the wilderness, and history would record the hero's name. Years later, only time would remember the young lad who tucked his jersey into his shorts and shouted, "Hala Madrid!"
His name was Ronaldo. He came from Madeira Island, his blood was red, but his soul was white.
Version Two:
On his twenty-fourth birthday, Cristiano had a dream.
He dreamed he had joined Real Madrid, that Mourinho, that annoying guy, had become his coach, and that he had missed a penalty in the Champions League semifinals.
How terrifying!
Ronaldo, who had fluffed a penalty in the Champions League the year before, was deeply troubled. He did want to go to Madrid, but he absolutely did not want to work with Mourinho. He blamed the nightmare on the punishment for enjoying himself too much on his twenty-fourth birthday: he'd invited a huge crowd to a party, only for the old man to haul him home by the head.
He decided to behave himself from then on.
But the next day, and the day after that... The dreams grew longer. He dreamed that he injured his knee from playing too many matches, and then... he dreamed that his ten-years-older self was lifting the Champions League trophy while holding the hand of a little boy who looked a bit like him.
Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
Cristiano, who was still a little boy himself, planned to prove just how ridiculous the dream was from first principles. But the next day, when he stood on the training pitch, he suddenly realized he seemed to have unlocked an incredible shooting skill.
Talent is yours. The world is yours.
The only difference between the two versions is whether he is reborn. Neither version involves raising a child.
This is a love letter to CR7, and the last thing I have to say about my Ronaldo. The start date will be pushed back indefinitely. I don't know if the King of the Bernabeu will ever return to Real Madrid. Maybe I'll write it someday in the future, haha. For now, I'll leave the blurb here.
Theme: Thank you for bringing me to my true homeland.
