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Chapter 1 – The Beginning
The ball rolled unevenly across the muddy community pitch, bouncing off clumps of dirt and stones, but he chased after it anyway. His chest burned with every breath, his throat dry as if he had swallowed fire. Sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes.
Still, he didn't stop. He never stopped.
"Again," he whispered hoarsely, dragging the ball under his foot, forcing his legs to move.
The other players had left hours ago. The floodlights above had already flickered twice, warning the night was almost done. But Chinedu Okafor stayed. He always stayed.
He wasn't playing for fun anymore. Not for glory either. He was playing for survival—because football was the only thing he had left to believe in.
His teammates mocked him for it. Coaches overlooked him. Scouts barely gave him a second glance. At twenty-three years old, with no professional contract, no agent, and no connections, he was a ghost chasing a dream that didn't even know his name.
But he couldn't let go.
Every time his foot touched the ball, his heart beat faster, louder. Every time he dribbled past an invisible defender, he remembered why he kept going.
Neymar.
The boy from Brazil who danced with the ball as if it was part of his body.
The idol who made football look like art, who lit up stadiums with flicks, rainbows, nutmegs—joy itself wrapped in human form.
Chinedu had grown up watching Neymar's clips on YouTube, pausing, rewinding, copying. When kids in his neighborhood laughed at him for dreaming, he kept quiet. When his family begged him to give up, to find a job, he ignored them. Because somewhere in his heart, he believed—if Neymar could do it, maybe he could too.
But life was cruel.
No matter how much he trained, no matter how many stepovers he mastered, his name was never called.
And Neymar? Neymar had the world at his feet.
Chinedu dropped to his knees on the muddy pitch, clutching the ball to his chest. His shoulders trembled. Tears mixed with sweat as he buried his face in the ball's worn leather.
"Why… why wasn't I born like him?"
The floodlights cut off with a sharp click, plunging the field into darkness. The only sound was his ragged breathing.
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He dragged himself home that night, boots slapping against cracked asphalt, the ball tucked under his arm like a lifeline. The streets were quiet, only broken by the occasional barking dog. His shadow stretched long under the weak streetlamps.
He thought of his father's voice: "Football won't feed you. Stop chasing shadows."
He thought of his mother's sighs, the way she hid disappointment behind silence.
He thought of his little brother, asking for money for school books, while he, the "big brother," came back with nothing but mud-stained clothes.
The weight in his chest felt heavier than the ball.
And then—
A horn blared.
Tires screamed against the road.
He turned his head too late.
Impact. Pain. Darkness.
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When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't lying on the street.
He was on a bed. A small, messy bed in a cramped room. The ceiling fan creaked as it turned slowly. The salty scent of the ocean drifted through an open window.
He blinked, disoriented. His chest rose and fell easily. Too easily. The pain was gone. His body felt… smaller, lighter.
Confused, he stumbled toward a cracked mirror nailed to the wall.
And froze.
The face staring back at him wasn't Chinedu Okafor.
It was a boy. Messy black hair, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes too bright for such a fragile frame.
A face he knew better than his own.
"No…" His voice trembled. His hands shook violently as he touched the reflection.
"This… this isn't…"
But it was.
Neymar.
The boy in the mirror was Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior.
Chinedu staggered back, his knees giving way. He clutched his chest, gasping as the weight of realization crushed him. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face.
He remembered it all—his own life, his failures, his struggles. But also Neymar's future.
The dazzling skills. The breathtaking goals. The joy he gave to millions.
And the cruel truth.
No Ballon d'Or.
No golden crown to mark him as the best. Always in the shadows of Messi and Ronaldo.
Always the genius who "fell short."
Chinedu screamed, his voice raw, echoing in the small room. He punched the floor until his knuckles bled, tears mixing with blood and sweat.
The pain was unbearable. To live twice—once as a failure, once as a legend destined to be incomplete.
"No!" he roared, forcing himself to his feet. His reflection glared back at him with red eyes full of fire.
"No… not this time."
His fists clenched. His voice was low, hoarse, but steady.
"I won't let Neymar's story end the same way. I won't accept it."
The name Chinedu Okafor… it was nothing but a ghost now. That man had died on a cold street.
From this moment on, there was only one identity.
One destiny.
"I am Neymar."
Not the Neymar who fell short.
Not the Neymar who was forgotten behind giants.
He would become the Neymar who stood on the stage of the Ballon d'Or, golden trophy in hand, the world bowing to his name.
Even if he had to rip destiny apart with his own two feet.
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