“Rom-ugh-nee-ah! Ch-ch-che-ch-ch! Rom-ugh-nee-ah! Ch-ch-che-ch-ch!” The battle cry fills the air from early spring to late autumn. Names of their famed heroes, like the world renowned Hagi, are sung out in one accord. Throughout the triumphant marches, the red-blue-and-yellow is waved, bringing the seldom-experienced pride of being Romanian. The soccer season is on, and in Romania soccer is not a sport, it's a religion.
Delivering the next generation of soccer stars, boys like Ţuţu (Tsutsu) play from sunrise to sunset. They sew, patch and blow up the remnants of rubber that they call a ball; find a narrow, open alley; lay out two stones for goal posts; and the game is on.
Ţuţu has been playing soccer since about the same time he learned to walk. When he was seven, Ţuţu's parents enrolled him in a soccer club. The coaches noticed his physical strength and excelling talent and moved him into a more competitive division. But Ţuţu's bright future was suddenly dulled by the unexpected death of his father.
Without his father, Ţuţu, his mother, and his three younger sisters became dependent on the meager support of the state for their existence. Ţuţu welcomed his mother's new boyfriend into their home, hoping their economic status would change. But “this man,” as Ţuţu calls him, drank what little they had and began beating Ţuţu. He told him, “I don't have to raise you. You aren't my boy. But that is just what you are: a boy. And boys work, so go to work!” Instead of realized hopes, Ţuţu's shadowed life seemed all but extinguished.
When the beatings didn't stop, Ţuţu left home. He thought about “the man's” advice on getting a job, but in a city where unemployment is officially over 50%, it is impossible for a 10-year-old to work. Ţuţu found himself with other street children, begging and scraping to survive. To forget the death of his father, to forget his abandoned mother and sisters, and to forget the intrusion of an abuser into his home, Ţuţu began inhaling glue. His once athletic body dwindled with his dreams into the deadly glue bag...
Daily we meet with the street children, bringing some food and a soccer ball. We find some open land, select teams, and try to forget about life on the streets. But these are street children, in their filthy, ragged garb. They are not our children in their clean, pressed uniforms. If the kids have shoes at all, they are used, torn up and the wrong size. That means when they kick, their shoes often fly further than the ball…but not with Ţuţu. The talent foreseen in the soccer club is just as evident today. Ţuţu proves that bad fortune cannot strip away God-given talent – and all the street children have some kind of talent. If you are on Ţuţu's team, you win. If you aren't on Ţuţu's team, you unsuccessfully spend yourself trying to take the ball away from his acrobatic maneuvers or getting yourself out of the way when his powerful leg unleashes the ball toward the goal.
When he's on the field, you hear “Ţu-ţu! Ţu-ţu!” There is no jealousy amongst the street boys, for they all love him for his abilities. Ţuţu is a constant reminder to the street children that no matter how fierce the hurricanes of life blow, they cannot quench the, at times, dim flame that flickers within each one. That's why all the street children hail Ţuţu just as all Romania hails her soccer greats. In cheering Ţuţu, they cheer all the greatness hidden in them.
