In the village of Willowbrook, where the rooftops glistened like caramel and gardens wore jackets of emerald grass, lived a boy named Lorenzo. He had a mop of curly hair, eyes like two bright coins, and a heart that thudded extra loud whenever he saw a soccer ball. Lorenzo was the dribbler of his dreams. He could flick and dash, spin and score, and every day after school, he’d race to the field at the end of Strawberry Lane. With every goal he scored against the weather-beaten fence, he imagined himself as the mighty hero of the Willowbrook Wolves, winning matches single-handedly. He didn’t notice the other children watching shyly from the edges of the field, clapping softly, thinking, “I wish I was as good as Lorenzo.” One warm Saturday, a bright poster fluttered in the breeze: “WILLOWBROOK WOLVES - TRYOUTS TODAY!” Parents bustled about, children filled with jittery excitement, and Lor...

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