"Memoir of Ronaldo’s Big Toe"

I am Cristiano Ronaldo’s big toe. Yes, that Portuguese soccer legend Ronaldo. The abs. The goals. The G.O.A.T.You know the one.But I’m not here to talk about the legend. I’m here to tell the truth. My truth.For two decades, I’ve been smashed against balls, boots, and occasionally Lionel Messi’ shin. I’ve been bent, cracked, iced, taped, and once during a League final referred to as “a bit inflamed.” A bit. You try being drop-kicked at Mach 3 and then called “a bit inflamed.”I have developed vertigo. You think it's easy being vaulted two metres into the air while attached to a ballistic missile in human form? Every time Ronaldo jumps, I scream in terror. That hang time he brags about? Pure hell. I’m up there spinning, trying to remember my last will and testament. And just when I think, “Okay, maybe this time we’ll land softly,” boom the turf hits like the Hindenburg crash landing and everyone applauds. “Amazing header!” they say. No one hears the tiny crack of another ankle ligament giving up on life.And the speed. Oh God, the speed.When Ronaldo runs, I black out. Honestly. I can’t deal with it anymore. There’s a point where acceleration becomes existential, and I passed that around 2007. From a full sprint to a stop in a nanosecond do you know what that does to a toe? Formula One Pirelli Tyres have it easy!And kicking. Always with the kicking.Hundreds of times a day, I’m sacrificed like some medieval battering ram. Ball after ball, corner after corner. Free kick? Great. Time to rupture another nerve ending. Penalty? Even worse. He winds up. That split second before impact feels like I'm staring down the barrel of a cannon.I have PTSD. That’s a diagnosis. I twitch at the sight of anything round. Grapefruits terrify me.And don’t ask about my so-called colleagues. The other four toes? Freeloaders. Parasites. Not one of them has ever taken a proper hit. The second toe just lounges there, acting like the assistant coach. The middle one spends his time manspreading and filing complaints with the arch. The fourth toe thinks he's in charge of balance, and the pinky? Don’t talk to me about the pinky. The last time he tried to help, we both nearly ended up in the stands.I’ve had enough. This isn’t a career it’s a life sentence.And I’m tired of being the unsung hero in Ronaldo’s highlight reel. It’s always “he’s a machine,” “he’s ageless,” “he’s still got it.” Yeah? Well I don’t. I’ve got bunions, blisters and resentment.It’s time for me to retire. Let the other toe take a few kicks. Let the middle toe learn what real trauma feels like. Maybe attach a GoPro and let fans see the horror show I endure every match.I’m done.Let them build statues for the man. But somewhere just somewhere I want a plaque that reads:Here lies the big toe of greatness. He bore it all.And then maybe, I’ll find peace in a pair of orthopaedic slippers and a quiet corner, far away from balls, boots, and breakneck sprints.