Arguineguín was a small coastal town on the southwest of Gran Canaria, about ten to fifteen kilometers from Maspalomas. It wasn't a place built for dreams of football stardom. It was built for fishing—for quiet routines, for families who measured life by tides, shifts, and the certainty of tomorrow's work rather than distant trophies.
David Silva's house sat on one of the narrow streets that climbed gently away from the harbor. It was modest and sun-worn, its white walls dulled by years of Atlantic wind and salt. A low fence bordered a small front garden where the soil was dry and uneven, a place better suited for pots and crates than flowers.
"Did you know? He was introduced to the beautiful game by his dad right in front of that garden—wearing a diaper as his kit and fresh produce as the ball," said Eva Silva, David Silva's mother, who surprised Richard by being of Japanese descent.
