In a favela north of Rio de Janeiro, escorted by dealers and watched from all sides to ensure protection, we pass the graveyards of stolen cars, harvested for parts before being burned; their metal skeletons are offset by the concerned glances of residents over the presence of outsiders. An un-uniformed police officer had crept into this slum yesterday in an attempt to kill a leading drug lord. The community is made up of two, three story buildings with cinder block frames and sheets for doors. Tin and trash bag roofs stretch out for miles as a group of shoeless children leads us through their unpaved alleys, in one door and out another. There are few boundaries between homes with the exception of one huge wall that I cannot see over. It seems to divide the slum from the rest of the world. A young girl took my hand and pulled me closer to its parameters, around the corner, and then through a 3 foot round hole where the kids had broken through the concrete. “Tia” she whispered, “come see our stadium.” On the other side of the wall was a training facility, an overgrown track, and the empty remains of a massive pool, worn down cement and children running circles around the expanse, which was a harsh contradiction to their narrow streets. “This is my Olympic stadium,” she said proudly. “Let me show you.”