The memory faded, leaving him standing on the cold Dortmund asphalt, the sun now a low, orange smear on the horizon. The Dortmund children, the scuffed ball, the chaotic joy it was the same feeling. The same blood, the same joy he had for the beautiful game he first loved when he watched AC Milan against Juventus in 2003 at the Casa De Los Niños.
The same game. He realized that the street football in Dortmund was not a transgression; it was a necessity. It was the silent, vital connection to the core of his identity, the part of him that the professional world could never fully claim, the part of him that was not a robot chasing stats and fame.
Mateo and Lukas sat on a nearby bench, tired, muddy, and happy. And the best of all there was surprisingly no paparazzi following him.
The children, star-struck but respectful, slowly drifted away, their faces alight with the memory of playing with the silent giant.
