My name is Ronaldo – a common enough name in the land of football. If the British invented the beautiful game, it was the southern hemisphere that taught the world how to play it! Despite the label, and unlike most Brazilian boys, I have two left feet; footballing prowess passed me by!
My life would differ from other boys my age in additional ways, as I was born into a dysfunctional family. Of seven siblings (born to more than one mother), I was the second oldest, and the only one living with my father.
Our father was an alcoholic. A construction worker, he was tall and heavily built. His name, Zezinho (‘Little Joseph’), didn’t fit his masculine frame. And it didn’t fit his nature. A deeply frustrated man, he may have been good at his job, but he was bad at fatherhood. I learned to dread his return from work.
One of my first childhood memories was of my father coming home, pulling me out of bed and throwing me headfirst onto the cement floor. I lost count of the number of times I was beaten so hard that I couldn’t walk. My father would dip my plate in the toilet. ‘You’re a dog; eat this,’ he would command. ‘You’re nothing and will always be a nobody in life.’ I was five years old.
