THE BOY FROM HELL

ANTONY MATHEUS DOS SANTOS

I was born in hell. That’s not a joke. For my European friends
who don’t know, the favela where I grew up in São Paulo is
actually called Inferninho — “little hell.”
If you really want to understand me as a person, then you must
understand where I am from. My history. My roots. Inferninho.
It is an infamous place. Fifteen steps from our front door, there
were always drug dealers doing their business, passing stu
hand-to-hand. The smell was constantly outside our window.
Actually, one of my rst memories is my father getting up from
the couch on a Sunday and going to yell at the guys to walk
down the street a little bit and leave us in peace, because his
kids were inside trying to watch the football match.
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We were so used to seeing guns that it was not even scary.
They were just a part of everyday life. We were more scared of
the police knocking down our door. One time, they invaded our
house looking for someone and they came running in
screaming. They found nothing, of course. But when you’re so
young, those moments mark you.
Man, some of the things I have seen .... Only those who have
lived it can understand. On my walk to school one morning,
when I was maybe 8 or 9 years old, I came across a man laying
in the alley. He was not moving. When I got closer, I realized he
was dead. In the favela, you become kind of numb to these
things. There was no other way to go, and I had to get to
school. So I just closed my eyes and jumped over the dead
body.
I am not saying this to sound tough. It was just my reality. In fact, I
always say that I was very lucky as a child, because despite all of
our struggles, I was given a gift from heaven. The ball was my
savior. My love from the cradle. In Inferninho, we don’t care about
toys for Christmas. Any ball that rolls is perfect to us.
Every day, my older brother would take me to the square to play
football. In the favela, everyone plays. Kids, old men, teachers,
construction workers, bus drivers, drug dealers, gangsters. There,
everyone is equal. In my father’s time it was a dirt pitch. In my time,
it was asphalt. In the beginning, I played barefoot, on bleeding feet.
We did not have money for proper shoes. I was small, but I dribbled
with a meanness that came from God. Dribbling was always
something inside me. It was a natural instinct. And I refused to bow
my head to anyone. I would elastico the drug dealers. Rainbow the
bus drivers. Nutmeg the thieves. I really did not give a f***.
With a ball at my feet, I had no fear.
I learned all the tricks from the legends. Ronaldinho, Neymar,
Cristiano. I used to watch them on YouTube, thanks to my
“uncle” Toniolo. He is not my blood uncle. He was our next
door neighbor. But he treated me like family. When I was little,
he used to let me steal his WiFi so I could go on YouTube and
get my football education. He even gave me my rst
videogame. If Toniolo had two loaves of bread — it was one for
him, the extra for us. This is what people don’t understand
about the favela. For every one person doing bad, there’s two
doing good.

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I always say that I grew up in the wrong place, but with the right people.
When I was 8 years old, I was playing in the square when the rst angel
crossed my path. This older guy was watching me doing my tricks against
the gangsters like a crazy bastard. He turned to the other people
watching.
“Who is the little kid??” “The kid? Antony.”
It was the director of Grêmio Barueri. He gave me my rst chance to
leave the slum and play for their futsal team. So then I started dreaming. I
remember one day I was walking with my mom when I saw this cool red
car driving through our neighborhood. It was a Range Rover. But to me, it
was like seeing a Ferrari. Everyone was looking at it. It was the shit, man.
I turned to my mom and I said, “One day, when I’m a footballer, I’m going
to buy that car.”
She laughed, of course.
I was dead serious.
I said, “Don’t worry, after a while, I’ll let you drive it.”

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Back then, I used to literally sleep in the bed between my
parents. We didn’t have money for a bed just for me. Every
night, I would turn to one side, and there was my dad. Turn to
the other side, there was my mom. We were so close, and
that’s what helped us survive. Then something happened that
changed my life.
When I was 11, my parents separated. It was the most di cult
moment of my life, because at least before, we all had each
other. Now, I would turn to my mom’s side of the bed in the
middle of the night and she was gone. That was devastating,
but it also gave me a lot of motivation. I used to close my eyes
and think, “I am going to get us out of this.”
My father used to leave the house for work at 5 in the morning.
He would return at 8 at night. I used to tell him, “Now, you are
running for me. But soon, I will be running for you.”

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If you talk to the media, they always ask you about your
dreams. The Champions League? The World Cup? The Ballon
d’Or?
Those are not dreams. Those are goals. My only dream was to
take my parents out of the favela. There was no Plan B. I was
going to make it or die trying.

At 14, I got my chance at São Paulo FC. Every day after school,
I would travel to the academy on an empty stomach.
Sometimes, if it was a good day, my teammates and I would
pool our money together to buy a cookie for the bus ride back
home. I did not have to pretend to be hungry for motivation.
The hunger was real.
Inside of me, there was an intensity — maybe you could say an anger. I
had some problems with my emotions. Three di erent times, I was
nearly dismissed from the club. I was on the list to be released. And
three di erent times, someone at the club stuck up for me. They
begged to keep me on. It was God’s plan.
I was so skinny, but I always played with “blood in my eyes.” This is the
kind of intensity that comes from the streets. You cannot fake it. People
think I am lying when I tell them this, but even after I made my
professional debut for São Paulo, I was still living in the favela. No, no —
this is the truth — at 18, I was still sleeping in the bed with my dad. It
was either that or the couch! We had no other choice. Man, even in
2019 when I scored the goal against Corinthians in the Paulista Final, I
was right back in the neighborhood that night. People were pointing at
me on the street.
“I just saw you on TV. What are you doing here???” “Brother, I live here.”
Everyone laughed. They did not believe it.
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One year later, I was at Ajax, playing in the Champions League.
That’s how fast things changed. I not only had my own bed, but
the red Range Rover was in my mother’s driveway. I told her,
“You see? I told you that I would conquer. And I conquered.”

When I told her that when I was 10, she laughed. Now, when I
remind her, she cries.
I went from the slums to Ajax to Manchester United in three
years. People always ask me how I was able to “turn the key” so
quickly. Honestly, it is because I feel no pressure on a football
pitch. No fear. Fear? What is fear? When you grow up having to
jump over dead bodies just to make it to school, you cannot be
scared of anything in football. The things that I have seen, most
football pundits can only imagine. There are things you cannot
unsee.
 In life, we su er enough. We worry enough. We cry enough.
But in football? With a ball at your feet, you should only feel
joy. I was born a dribbler. It is part of my roots. It is the gift that
took me from the slums to the Theatre of Dreams. I will never
change the way I play, because it is not a style, it is me. It is a
part of me. A part of us as Brazilians. If you just watch one 10
second clip of me, then you will not understand. Nothing I do is
a joke. Everything has a purpose. To go forward with boldness,
to strike fear into the opponent, to create space, to make a
di erence for my team.
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In Europe, where there is bread on the table every night, sometimes
people forget that football is a game. A beautiful game, but still a
game. It is life that is serious, at least for those of us born in the little
hells of the world.
I always say that wherever I go in life, no matter what happens to me,
I represent the place that taught me everything. Without my home
and my people, none of this matters. On my boots, before every
match, I write myself a little reminder.
“FAVELA.”
When I tie my laces, I remember. I remember everything.
This is my story. If you still don’t understand me, or if you still think
that I am a clown, then I will just point to the ink on my arm....
Whoever comes from the favela knows a little bit of what I’ve been
through.
Those words speak for me. And for us all.