Cristiano Ronaldo kicks his scuffed leather ball against the chain-link fence. Whoosh, clang! It bounces back and bonks him right on the nose.
He rubs his nose and grins anyway. "That one hurt," he thinks, lining up for another kick.
He practices his first dribble around the old lamppost — but the ball rolls past the flower bed and keeps going.
He chases it across the grass and trips over his own shoelaces. Oof! He lands in a soft pile of autumn leaves. Some kids nearby giggle and point.
He tries again, kicking toward the goalposts. The ball soars high — whistling — and sails right over the crossbar.
He drops to his knees and stares up at the empty sky. His fingers dig into the grass.
He stands up, fists clenched, and kicks the ball straight up into the air. It bounces off the crossbar and drops right to his feet! "Yes!" he shouts, arms flying up.
Now he kicks the ball gently, rolling it back and forth across the field as the sun paints everything golden. He jogs after it, smiling. Ready to try again tomorrow.
