Chapter 1 – The Ragged Ball and a Shattered Past
The early morning mist hung low over the cracked streets of southern Berlin.
Beyond the rows of aging buildings and rusting rail fences stood a small, barely-kept orphanage—Haus der Kinder.
Inside, among faded walls and silent hallways, lived a boy with a fire in his heart and grief that clung to his soul like fog to the city.
Carlos Moretti, fourteen years old, stood alone in the backyard.
His shoes had long since given up on staying whole, and the ball in his hands was patched, torn, and barely round. Still, to him, it was more than a ball. It was the last thing his father had gifted him before… before the accident.
His fingers traced the rough stitching absently.
"Still rolling," he whispered to himself.
"Just like I promised."
Carlos was the son of Italian immigrants his father, a baker who woke before the sun; his mother, a nurse who never missed a bedtime story, even after twelve-hour shifts.
They had moved to Germany in hopes of giving their only son a better future.
But fate, merciless as it is, had other plans.
One icy December morning, a truck swerved on the Autobahn.
One moment changed everything.
He'd been told by the social worker in the hospital: "There was nothing they could've done, Carlos. It was quick."
But nothing had ever felt slower than the silence that followed.
---
At first, the orphanage felt like a cage.
He ate quietly, spoke even less, and flinched when someone asked how he was doing.
Yet even grief couldn't keep him from football.
He found solace in it.
His mother used to say his feet were born dancing on turf.
His father had painted a goalpost on the garage door back in Naples before they ever moved.
Now, in the orphanage yard, with no grass and no lines, he still danced.
Each morning, he'd sneak out early before the others woke to juggle the ball.
Thirty... fifty... one hundred touches.
Left foot, right foot.
Chest, knee.
He trained alone.
And though his shoes were falling apart, and the ball thudded like a stone, the rhythm never stopped.
He wasn't the biggest.
He wasn't the fastest.
But something about the way he moved made you watch. His eyes scanned like a veteran, his passes held thought, and his shots... when he took them, they were bold.
That afternoon, Carlos made his way to a makeshift pitch behind the local middle school.
The sun bore down, warming the torn asphalt and the dozens of shouting kids already out.
Most wore clean jerseys and polished boots. Carlos stood out immediately.
"Oi, it's the charity case!" one kid shouted, laughing.
They were from wealthier families—sons of bankers, doctors, businessmen.
They played here every weekend and allowed Carlos only because they needed even teams. Still, every game started the same—with mockery.
"Hey Carlos, you sure you're not gonna trip over your laces? Oh wait... you ain't got any!"
Laughter erupted.
Carlos didn't respond.
He tightened the knot on his battered sneaker and stepped onto the court.
He was placed on the underdog team—again.
A goalkeeper who had never saved a shot, a defender who always forgot to mark his man, and two forwards who preferred arguing over the ball to passing it.
The rich kids smirked.
Their star-Jannis, tall, blonde, with parents who paid for private coaching looked over at Carlos.
"Let's make it quick today," Jannis said.
"First to five?"
Carlos nodded. "Yeah. Quick's good."
The Match Begins
The whistle—a teacher's old silver one—blew once.
The game was on.
Pass.
Sprint.
Shove.
Carlos weaved between bodies, always two moves ahead.
He shouted for the ball once, was ignored, and stole it back seconds later.
He dodged one tackle, then two. Cleats came for his ankles—he jumped.
The ragged ball danced at his feet.
He lifted his head.
Two defenders ahead.
He faked left, darted right.
One down.
Then the final defender lunged.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Carlos slipped the ball behind his heel and spun.
Gasps echoed around the pitch.
He was free.
Just the keeper now.
He steadied the ball.
"TOR!"(Goaaaaal!!!) someone screamed before he'd even struck.
The ball slammed the net.
One-nil.
Cheers.
Some surprised.
Others annoyed.
Carlos turned away, expression blank, heart pounding.
But the bullying didn't stop.
"Don't get cocky, street boy," Jannis muttered.
Carlos didn't respond.
Next goal, he set up his teammate with a lofted pass—2-0.
Then stole the ball at midfield, ran the wing, curled in a shot. "TOR!" 3-0.
He was on fire. Even the other team's parents—some sitting on benches nearby—started murmuring.
"That kid... he's good."
"Where's he play?"
Jannis was fuming.
On the next play, he deliberately pushed Carlos from behind. Carlos stumbled.
Skinned his elbow.
Got up anyway.
He wanted to say something. Instead, he jogged back into position.
---
By the fourth goal, it was over. Carlos had nutmegged Jannis, chipped the keeper, and walked away.
The losing team stood frozen.
Carlos's teammates rushed him—but he simply picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm.
Jannis spat to the side.
"Freakin' lucky."
Carlos turned, finally speaking.
"Play again next week?"
Jannis narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe. But next time... you'll pay for that nutmeg."
Carlos half-smiled. "We'll see."
---
But the day didn't end there.
He started walking home alone, the ball still in hand.
As he passed an alley near the school, he heard footsteps behind him.
"Oi. Street kid."
Carlos stopped.
Jannis and two others stepped out.
Their jerseys were off.
Their smiles were gone.
"We don't like being embarrassed," Jannis said.
Carlos gripped the ball tighter.
"You lost. That's all."
"No," the taller boy sneered, "you made us look like clowns."
One pushed him against the wall.
Carlos shoved back.
Another tried grabbing the ball.
Carlos darted away—but he didn't make it far.
They cornered him near the dumpsters, three to one.
---
And from across the street, a man in a dark coat, holding a coffee, had been watching for quite some time.
He had watched the game.
The passes.
The posture.
The fire.
And now, he saw something else.
Courage.
The man didn't move yet.
But something shifted in his expression.
Quiet recognition.
"So you've got bite too, huh?"
He finished his coffee.
Tossed it.
And crossed the street.
---
[End of Chapter 1]