Diego GarcĂa was born in the heart of Madrid, but the city had never truly been his home. Not the way a home should be, anyway. Sure, he had the cobbled streets, the scent of fresh churros in the air, and the familiar sight of football fans crowding the bars, but none of that had ever mattered to him.
Because Diego wasn't a footballer.
He was a basketball player.
And in Spain, that meant he was an outsider from the start.
Basketball came into Diego's life the way most great things doâby accident. He was six years old when he stumbled into an empty gym, following the echo of bouncing rubber against polished wood. His father had been a coach once, though not a particularly famous one, and Diego had grown up hearing about the legends: Pau Gasol, Juan Carlos Navarro, Ricky Rubio. But hearing wasn't the same as seeing, and seeing wasn't the same as playing.
The first time he touched a basketball, something clicked.
By the time he was ten, he was playing in the youth leagues. By twelve, he was breaking records. By fifteen, he was undeniable. He wasn't just goodâhe was terrifying. A guard with a sniper's aim, the footwork of a dancer, and the vision of a chess master. He played like he was orchestrating a symphony, each pass, each shot, each movement executed with surgical precision.
But talent meant nothing without opportunity.
Spain had talent, but the big leagues only had space for a few. And for some reasonâdespite his numbers, despite his impactâDiego never got the call.
Four years. Four years of dominating in every match, making defenders look foolish, outplaying players who got scouted while he was ignored.
Four years of people telling him, "Your time will come."
It never did.
The anger, the frustration, the suffocating feeling of being trapped in a system that refused to acknowledge himâit built up like a storm. But Diego never let it show. He played his games, took his wins, accepted his trophies, and went home, always wondering what was missing.
Then, one day, a man approached him after a game.
A man dressed in black, wearing no insignia, no sign of affiliation. Only a single card, handed to Diego with a cryptic smile.
"Project All-Time is watching. If you're serious about basketball, call this number."
Diego didn't call.
He tossed the card in his drawer and moved on.
Three days later, he realized nothing had changed.
And nothing ever would.
That night, Diego sat on his bed, staring at his trophies. They were worthless. Proof of victories that led to nowhere.
He pulled open the drawer, found the card, and dialed the number.
A voice answered.
"You're late, Diego GarcĂa."
No introductions. No explanations.
Just six words that sent a chill down his spine.
"Pack your things. You're flying to Japan."
And just like that, the boy who had been ignored for four years was about to step into a world where talent wasn't enoughâwhere only the absolute best would survive.
***
Diego GarcĂa grew up in the slums of Madrid, where the streets were narrow, the buildings leaned too close together, and the air carried the scent of old brick and frying oil. It was the kind of place where dreams didn't last long. Where boys either grew up too fast or got swallowed whole by the weight of their circumstances.
But Diego had something most kids didn't.
He had a ball.
The courts were cracked, the hoops barely had nets, and the backboards were riddled with graffiti, but none of that mattered. Because when Diego played, everything disappeared.
At seven, he was already better than kids twice his age. At ten, he was a local legend. The slums had their own way of honoring greatnessâword spread, names carried weight, and for years, Diego's name meant something.
"He's gonna make it to the big leagues."
People said it every day, as if speaking it into existence would make it true.
Diego believed them.
And so he played. Every single day.
Rain or shine. Sick or healthy. It didn't matter. He dribbled through the streets, practiced with broken shoes, played under streetlights until his legs gave out. The court was his second home, and the people in the neighborhood were his biggest supporters. He played for them. For their cheers, their belief. For the idea that he was different.
That he was destined for something more.
But the world doesn't work that way.
Diego waited for the call that never came.
Fourteen years old. Fifteen. Sixteen. He watched as players who couldn't touch him on the court moved up to bigger leagues. They got scholarships, contracts, agents. And him? He stayed exactly where he was. Stuck in the small leagues, drowning in empty words.
"He's gonna make it."
The words started to sound forced. Less like a prophecy, more like a plea.
By seventeen, the shift had already happened.
People still knew his name, but they didn't say it with admiration anymore. They said it with pity.
"Such a waste of talent."
"If only he had the right connections."
"He could've been something."
They stopped watching his games. Stopped hyping him up.
The slums don't have room for failed dreams, and Diego was slowly turning into one.
He tried everything. Training harder, reaching out to scouts, traveling to different cities for tournaments. But no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the invisible ceiling above his head.
And he wasn't the only one who noticed.
He saw it in the way people looked at him. That quiet, unspoken sadness.
He wasn't their future star anymore.
He was just another kid who never made it.
But there was one person who never wavered.
His sister, Rosalinda GarcĂa.
She was the only reason he had a roof over his head, food on the table, a chance to play at all.
Their parents left when they were young. No explanations, no goodbyesâjust gone. Rosalinda had been fifteen when she realized she was alone with a little brother to take care of. No money. No relatives to fall back on. Nothing.
And so she did the only thing she could.
She gave up school. Gave up her future.
She worked, doing whatever it took to keep Diego fed, clothed, alive. The neighbors helped when they could, but the truth was, she survived by selling herself.
Diego knew.
He wasn't supposed to, but he did.
He heard the whispers, saw the way people avoided meeting her eyes in the morning. He hated it. Hated that she had to suffer for him, hated that he couldn't do anything about it.
So he played.
Because if he made it big, if he became a professional, he could give her a life where she didn't have to survive like that anymore. He could fix everything.
But he never made it.
And the guilt ate at him every single day.
When the man from Project All-Time approached him, Diego didn't care.
He had been scouted before. Empty promises, false hopeâhe was tired of it.
But three days later, as he sat in his room, staring at his worthless trophies, he finally called.
And when he told Rosalinda, she cried.
She hugged him so tightly it hurt.
"You did it, Diego. You finally did it."
She was proud of him.
More than that, she was relieved.
Because for the first time in years, there was hope.
And that was the real reason he joined Project All-Time.
Not for the money. Not for the fame.
But for the one person who never stopped believing in him.