PREVIEW

... acked beneath Thiago’s toes as the ball kissed the earth. No shoes. No shin guards. Just a sun-scorched stretch of broken stone and rusted fence poles pretending to be a pitch.

The match wasn’t formal—nothing in the favela ever was. No coaches, no refs, no uniforms. Just twelve boys, barefoot or in worn-out sandals, split into two makeshift teams. They were surrounded by older men sipping beer or smoking by the chain-link fence, half-watching, half-gambling. Above them, colorful laundry ...

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