Peter Kareem

It is said that in Nigeria, 15-20 million people play football.

A million here, a million there. After all, we belong to the most populated countries in the world, and record-keeping isn't exactly stellar in some parts of the country. But just try to imagine it: that's more people than live in the entire Czech Republic, where I am now. Actually, almost twice as many.

If one thought rationally, one would see that making it in such competition equals a miracle. Even though hundreds of Nigerian footballers play in Europe, getting among them, drawing attention to yourself, and distinguishing yourself from that flood of other guys is basically unrealistic.

That's exactly what my family claimed back then.

Especially my three older sisters, who kept our household running together with dad and my older brother when my mother left us when I was two years old. They said it on the day I told dad I wanted to talk to him. I was finishing o-level school and it was time to figure out where I should go next. He called everyone together and the debate began.

Or rather, a fight. Because I announced that I wouldn't go to any university and intended to dedicate myself fully to football.

Everyone talked and talked, trying to discourage me from my plan. The usual arguments—that it's uncertain whether you can get anywhere in football and that I should realize how many people in our country play football. That I had nothing guaranteed.

"But you're not God to determine my destiny," I replied. "What good is some piece of paper from school? That won't get me to the world. Football will."

I was fifteen. Looking back, I think how brave I was. It was emotional, but I didn't let myself be worn down. I simply kept insisting. "And if it means I have to leave this house, then I'll do it. I'll find a team that will provide me with housing. I'll figure it out. You can tell me whatever you want, but I've already decided."

"You're so stubborn," they lamented.

"Yes, I am. And that's exactly why I can make it."

Truth be told, I was like that since childhood. Especially when it came to football. I didn't listen; I had my own head. Even if it meant getting a beating from my dad because I was supposed to be doing something at home, it never even crossed my mind not to go play. As I grew up, I added inner motivation and discipline to this passion. At fifteen, I didn't even know if any team would ever actually take me, but I knew that no matter what it cost, no matter what I had to do, I would make it. Any obstacles. Any discomfort. Nothing could wear me down; there was no other path for me.

Just as it said in a Cristiano Ronaldo quote: "If you really want something, don't let anyone talk you out of it. Just go for it. If something doesn't work out, you have to fix it yourself. But you have to be clear about what your goal is and make it obvious. Then you can handle anything."

I held onto that.

I told my sisters that I would convince them one day how wrong they were about me. That maybe they didn't believe I could succeed, but I believed in myself.

And you know what? Dad believed in me too.

It was he who supported me in football all those years. He played it himself at school, had talent, but never got the chance to get somwhere. However, he knew well what it takes and saw that there was something in me.

On the day we were arguing with my sisters, he finally ended the debate with these words: "Alright. If this is what you've chosen, be sure within yourself that it's a good decision. I would do it differently, but you are you—it's your life, and it's different from mine. Go chase your dream."

I promised him I would try every possibility to achieve my goal. That I could do it and the whole family would be able to be proud of me.

And then I literally packed my belongings into a bag and left. I just walked away.

I had all of this what happened that day in mind when, about six years later, I was walking through the tunnel of Eden, the biggest Czech stadium, in front of nineteen thousand fans in the stands, and it felt surreal.

Like when I was a small boy watching my idols on television playing in front of full stands.

Sure, I'm still just at the beginning, but I already know for certain now that I made the right decision back then as a fifteen-year-old.

Even though there turned out to be no shortage of obstacles.

And even though the one who believed in me most is no longer here.

To make you understand: playing football as a child in Nigeria doesn't mean going to a club for training. It means running out onto the street with the others and joining them. On a concrete path where cars practically don't drive. Big kids, little kids, it doesn't matter. Of course, everyone barefoot.

We knew nothing else. Whenever we weren't in school or had a break, we just took a ball and played. We played constantly, obsessively, over and over again.

The place I come from is in the south of the country on the outskirts of our largest city, Lagos. It's the part that most resembles a European lifestyle. I grew up in a neighborhood of small houses. We had electricity and water, a room in the apartment with two beds. It's not a slum, but you could call it a ghetto. People struggle there, and there aren't many prospects for a better life from there. In general, it's hard to make a living in our country, and my family is nothing special. We're just normal people trying to get by.

Football is the only way to break out of this cycle.

If there's one place where where you were born and grew up doesn't matter, it's on a football pitch. Only one thing matters there—whether you're better with the ball at your feet than the person you're facing. Even a child from ordinary African circumstances like I was can succeed on a world scale.

And then, there is football everywhere in Nigeria. Everyone is interested in it. Everyone knows when the national team plays.

During my childhood around 2010 Super Eagles were successfull, but in my case, it wasn't the victory in the African Cup of Nations or participation in the World Cup that inspired and excited me the most.

The flame of my passion truly ignited when I discovered Manchester United.

Historically, Nigeria has ties to England, so we follow the Premier League a lot. And United were unstoppable during my childhood. I've been a fan since then.

We have places like bars where matches are always on television. You pay and can enter. Obviously, as a child, I couldn't afford that, so I always either managed to sneak in somehow or someone had to pay my way in. But I didn't miss any opportunity to see my idols play. Owen, Tévez, Rooney, Giggs, Wes Brown, and most of all the one who excited me the most: Cristiano. And when he left, Van Persie took his place on the pedestal.

God, I wanted to be like him. Score as many goals in big stadiums in Europe too.

It was watching United that I realized that if I had any chance of getting anywhere in life, it would be through football. With that awareness, I would go out onto the street every day with the others and let myself get kicked by the older, stronger boys.

With that awareness, I tried every time to take the ball and dribble with it, shoot. Be the one who showed something.

I was also quickly getting the impression that I was good at it, that I had some talent. A moment really convinced me of my abilities—when one man started watching us from the edge of the road. A local manager, you could say. A successful man. Once he called me over—I must have been about ten—and said I was a good player and he wanted to help me.

He later picked a few more boys from our street group and started supporting us. I got my very first pair of boots from him, white Nikes. To this day, I can vividly remember putting them on for the first time and experiencing what it was like to touch the ball differently than with a bare foot.

What's more, this guy arranged for us to join a youth team. He gave us money to travel so we could get to training because it wasn't very close. He even accomodated us when we needed.

He never wanted anything in return. He was just a man with a good heart who had the opportunity to help. He used to play football himself but didn't get as far as he wanted, so he tried to help others at least. He played an enormous role in our lives.

At first, I went to training in secret because I was afraid to tell dad. I sensed he wouldn't like someone else nosing around his son. So I just went out to play football as usual, but instead of going to the street, I rushed to a real pitch.

I managed to keep it all hidden until dad once noticed those boots.

But he turned out to be happy. As always, he let my love for football flourish. He supported me—just not to neglect school, but otherwise to play as much as I could.

Our coach back then was a good man too. He was sometimes very strict with us, demanding hard discipline, but that was only right. Only through that you can achieve something. He gave us important fundamentals. At the same time, he also put us up at his place sometimes because everything was far away, especially for a couple of little kids.

My wild passion then got organized. If until now I was just an ordinary African child chasing a ball down the street and dreaming of a distant world, now I was definitively convinced that there was no other option for me than to try where football could take me. Over time, I realized that just getting into the Nigerian league would be something big that would help improve the life of me and my whole family. At that point, I didn't even hope that I might ever actually be able to look abroad. Travel, as we say back home.

Although of course I imagined what it would be like to meet my idols in England, that idea was unbelievably far from the reality in which I grew up.

A reality where I had to solve daily how to get to a field kilometers away and back again and still manage school, which I had promised dad.

When I left home, I was aware it wouldn't be easy to get money and basic comfort.

The reality was often even harder.

When you want to stand on your own feet and have nothing, it's not easy anywhere. And definitely not in Nigeria. You have to be prepared to fight. Fight every day. You have to count on hard times coming. And they really did come. Often.

I was hungry and had no vision of it getting better.

At first, I at least had somewhere to stay. A teammate from my team back then offered that I could stay with him for a while in the outskirts of Lagos. Together we would head to the pitch for hours by walk because we had no money for transport. Unless we wanted to beg.

And yes, we did that too.

Sometimes we would ask passersby for money, ask in shops for some food. When people scolded us for daring to ask, we explained that we were footballers and needed to eat. From small change, you couldn't really save up properly for equipment. For boots, clothes. So we tried to get as much as possible from older teammates. Sometimes, if we hadn't begged someone, we wouldn't have had anything to wear for the match. We had things borrowed, ripped. Our families simply couldn't afford any of that.

On top of that, I fell asleep with an empty stomach so many times I couldn't even count. In Europe, I guess you can't even imagine it, but we simply didn't eat because there was often nothing to eat. So many times on the way we hoped someone would give us something so we'd at least have a bit in our stomachs. And when we had a little money, we'd buy bread and beans. That's the best food for young footballers because it gives you the most strength. During our time, it was also one of the most accessible.

We'd eat a bit of bread and beans in the morning, a bit in the evening. Or cassava. It’s a flour you dissolve it in water, add sugar, and drink the porridge. We call it garri, it's the most common food in Nigeria. When we could have it before bedtime, that was great. We didn't have to worry about anything else.

The only thing that mattered then was that we got to football and had enough strength for it. Even though we often went to training hungry, we still had to get on the pitch and play. Play in a way that someone noticed us. That was our only chance to do something about our situation.

I won't forget our trips together where we constantly talked about how we would make it. How one day we would have real football careers. We encouraged each other to put in even more effort, to train well and be humble. To do everything necessary to become a good footballers and reach the top.

It was crazy. We were two hungry kids in the middle of an enormous crowd of millions of people. Either on a football pitch or shuffling through streets. Insane, when I remember that period now. But that's how it works in Africa. When you want to survive and get to a better place, you have to sacrifice a lot.

Families of other teammates also helped us. At one of them, who doesn't even play football anymore, we actually managed to set up a base. A place where we felt good and could rest and get fed.

A place where we could hope to make it.

Despite all the difficulties, whenever I stepped on the pitch, I could find enough of the necessary energy within myself. During the game, I felt that it made sense to keep believing in my dream. The coaches saw it in me too. People around me said this kid was so good he shouldn't stay in Nigeria. That they should find him a better team. I heard this often, which gave me more and more confidence to play and give my best, to prove that what was being said was true.

That I really had what it took, just as dad had been telling me for years.

This is how I lived, driven by faith, until our team was invited to a scouting tournament where officials from various clubs selected players.

A tournament that we won.