When things were going well, I was reading newspapers articles and they were calling me Romelu Lukaku, the Belgian striker. When things weren't going well, they were calling me Romelu Lukaku, the Belgian striker of Congolese descent. If you don't like the way I play, that's fine. But I was born here. I grew up in Antwerp, and Liège and Brussels. I dreamed of playing for Anderlecht. I dreamed of being Vincent Kompany. I'll start a sentence in French and finish it in Dutch, and I'll throw in some Spanish or Portuguese or Lingala, depending on what neighborhood we're in. I'm Belgian. We're *all* Belgian. That's what makes this country cool, right? Show less «

I don't know why some people in my own country want to see me fail. I really don't. When I went to Chelsea and I wasn't playing, I heard them laughing at me. When I got loaned out to West Brom, I heard them laughing at me. But it's cool. Those people weren't with me when we were pouring water in our cereal. If you weren't with me when I had nothing, then you can't really understand me. Show less «

May 24, 2009. The playoff final. Anderlecht vs. Standard Liège. That was the craziest day of my life. But we have to back up for a minute. Because at the start of the season, I was barely playing for the Anderlecht U-19s. The coach had me coming off the bench. I'm like, "How the hell am I going to sign a pro contract on my 16th birthday if I'm still on the bench for the U-19s?" So I made a bet with our coach. I told him, "I'll guarantee you something. If you actually play me, I'm going to score 25 goals by December." He laughed. He literally laughed at me. I said, "Let's make a bet then." He said, "O.K., but if you don't score 25 by December, you're going to the bench." I said, "Fine, but if I win, you're going to clean all the minivans that take the players home from training." He said, "O.K., it's a deal." I said, "And one more thing. You have to make pancakes for us every day." He said, "O.K., fine." That was the dumbest bet that man ever made. I had 25 by November. We were eating pancakes before Christmas, bro. Let that be a lesson. You don't play around with a boy who's hungry! Show less «

I wanted to be the best footballer in Belgian history. That was my goal. Not good. Not great. The best. I played with so much anger, because of a lot of things ... because of the rats running around in our apartment ... because I couldn't watch the Champions League ... because of how the other parents used to look at me. Show less «

I just really, really wish my granddad was around to witness this. I'm not talking about the Premier League. Not Manchester United. Not the Champions League. Not the World Cups. That's not what I mean. I just wish he was around to see the life we have now. I wish I could have one more phone call with him, and I could let him know ... "See? I told you. Your daughter is OK. No more rats in the apartment. No more sleeping on the floor. No more stress. We're good now. We're good ... They don't have to check the I.D. any more. They know our name." Show less «

Now I'm about to play in another World Cup, and you know what? I'm going to remember to have fun this time. Life is too short for the stress and the drama. People can say whatever they want about our team, and about me. Show less «

I remember the exact moment I knew we were broke. I can still picture my mum at the refrigerator and the look on her face. I was six years old, and I came home for lunch during our break at school. My mum had the same thing on the menu every single day: Bread and milk. When you're a kid, you don't even think about it. But I guess that's what we could afford. Then this one day I came home, and I walked into the kitchen, and I saw my mum at the refrigerator with the box of milk, like normal. But this time she was mixing something in with it. She was shaking it all up, you know? I didn't understand what was going on. Then she brought my lunch over to me, and she was smiling like everything was cool. But I realized right away what was going on. She was mixing water in with the milk. We didn't have enough money to make it last the whole week. We were broke. Not just poor, but broke. My father had been a pro footballer, but he was at the end of his career and the money was all gone. The first thing to go was the cable TV. No more football. No more Match of the Day. No signal. Then I'd come home at night and the lights would be shut off. No electricity for two, three weeks at a time. Then I'd want to take a bath, and there would be no hot water. My mum would heat up a kettle on the stove, and I'd stand in the shower splashing the warm water on top of my head with a cup. There were even times when my mum had to "borrow" bread from the bakery down the street. The bakers knew me and my little brother, so they'd let her take a loaf of bread on Monday and pay them back on Friday. I knew we were struggling. But when she was mixing in water with the milk, I realized it was over, you know what I mean? This was our life. Show less «