Here in Havana at night, while I’m learning how to smoke Havana cigars, I
                   start thinking back. It’s a nice thing to do when you’re feeling good and, in
                   spite of all the mistakes, you haven’t got any regrets.

                   It’s great to look back when you come from the bottom of the scrapheap and
                   you know that everything you ever were, are or will be, is nothing but one long
                   struggle.

                   I always wanted to play football but I didn’t know what position I wanted to
                   play. Just didn’t know... Didn’t have a clue. I started life out as a defender. I’ve
                   always liked playing sweeper and still would, though nowadays they hardly let
                   me come near a ball ’cause they’re afraid my heart might explode. Playing
                   football gave me... it gave me a unique peace of mind. And I’ve always had
                   that feeling (the exact same feeling) to this very day. Give me a ball and I
                   have fun and protest and want to win and play well. Give me a ball and let me
                   do what I know best, anywhere.

                   My old lady, La Tota, who looked after me and always doted on me, used to
                   say to me, “Pelu, if you’re going to play football, play after five when the sun’s
                   lower.” (Fluff she called me!) And I’d answer, “Yes mum, all right mum, don’t
                   worry.” And we’d leave the house at two with my friend, El Negro, my cousin
                   Beto or whoever, and by quarter past two we were giving it all we’ve got under
                   the midday sun! We just didn’t care and we’d run ourselves into the ground.

                   I used to put up with going to school because I had to. I didn’t want to let my
                   folks down ’cause they bought me my school uniform and walked me there. But
                   also because I had a feeling that if I went, I’d get to go to a club or be allowed
                   to play footie. Everything I did, every step I took revolved around the ball. If
                   La Tota sent me to fetch something, I’d take anything with me that looked like
                   a ball (oranges, balls of paper, old rags) so I could play on the way. I’d hop up
                   the steps of the bridge over the railway tracks on my right leg juggling
                   whatever I had with me on my left, tap, tap, tap... That’s how I’d walk to school
                   or run errands for La Tota.

                   I’ve got happy memories of my childhood, though if I had to describe the
                   barrio I was born and grew up in, Villa Fiorito, in one word it would be struggle.
                   In Fiorito if you had money to eat you ate and if didn’t, you didn’t. I remember
                   the winters were very cold and the summers boiling hot. We lived in a
                   three-room house, hey... and it was made of something resembling bricks and
                   mortar. Luxury. You went through the wire-mesh door and there was this dirt
                   yard then the house itself. A dining room, for cooking, eating, doing your
                   homework, you name it, and two bedrooms. My folks used the one on the right
                   and us kids the one on the left, two metres by two metres at the outside... All
                   eight of us.

                   The real truth was we didn’t own much to have much fun with but me and me
                   mate El Negro used to make kites and sell them. Still, you always had a ball.
                   The first ball I got was the most beautiful present I’ve ever been given. My
                   cousin Beto gave it me, Beto Zarota, my Aunt Dorita’s son. It was a number
                   one leather casey. I was three and I slept with it in may arms all night

~Chapter 1

Chapters Index~

Chapter 3~