The way his first coach tells the story, the kid wasn’t even supposed to be on the pitch. It was his older brother’s game. They were a player short. Salvador Aparicio looked over at the stands and saw a small boy playing by himself, in private communion with the ball. When he asked his mother if he could borrow him, she said he didn’t know how to play football.

The first time the game came his way, sure enough, the kid stood stock still and watched the ball roll by. Moms make the best scouts. But the second time — Aparicio remembered this many years later — the ball hit his left leg and something happened.

Picture lightning shooting up a tiny spinal column, if you want. Unplumbed regions of the brain glittering like fireworks in the dark. Choirs of angels cranking a heavenly spotlight to shine on this one particular patch of dirt in a working-class neighbourhood in Rosario, Argentina. Whatever makes it make sense to you: the gift was just there.

“I was screaming, ‘Shoot! Shoot!’” Aparicio said. “But he couldn’t do it. He was too small.” The greatest player ever to kick a ball wasn’t ready to do the thing he was put on this Earth to do. The gift was there even before his left foot was.