February 1st, 2010 – San Lorenzo Juvenile Tryouts
Football had been the ragged heartbeat of my childhood, echoing off the cracked pavement of Bajo Flores since I was eight. Every stray kick under the sodium glow of streetlights, every bloody scrape on my knees, felt less like an accident and more like a hard-earned medal. My father, Raúl, a man whose calloused hands told the story of countless bricks hauled under the relentless Argentine sun, and my mother, Carla, whose nimble fingers stitched not just seams but also the fragile hopes of our family into each carefully folded empanada, worked tirelessly. Money was a ghost that rarely lingered, but the dreams we harbored within the cramped walls of our home often felt as boundless as the night sky above our corrugated iron roof.
Countless evenings bled into nights as I chased the worn leather of a football, the rhythmic thud a secret language spoken between my calloused feet and the unforgiving street. My mother's worried sighs were a constant soundtrack to these nocturnal escapades, until one particularly late night, her patience finally frayed. Exasperated but with a familiar tenderness in her eyes, she marched me to the local youth academy, a place for boys aged eight to fourteen, hoping to channel my boundless energy away from the dangers lurking in the shadows.
My introduction to organized football was less a dream and more a clumsy stumble into the unfamiliar territory of the goalmouth. They shoved oversized gloves onto my small hands and positioned me between the posts. I still vividly recall the sting of the first shot that rocketed towards me – a venomous left-footer that screamed off a teammate's boot, rattled the crossbar with a violent tremor, and sneaked beneath my outstretched fingers. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the distant drone of traffic and the frantic thumping of my own terrified heart. For a year, I endured the monotonous drills, the shouted corrections that felt like reprimands, and the bitter taste of each conceded goal, a dull ache in the chest of a boy who yearned to score, not to prevent scoring.
By the time I turned twelve, the confines of the goal felt like a cage. I pleaded with the coaches, my voice thick with desperation, to let me play anywhere else. They finally relented, their decision delivered with a shrug: "Defense, then." My once-awkward legs slowly began to find their rhythm, learning the precise timing of a sliding tackle, the satisfying crack of a clean clearance, and the rare, exhilarating surge of a headed goal. I was never a revelation, never the player who drew gasps of admiration, just… solid. Reliable. Enough to survive. But the itch to attack, to feel the ball at my feet in the final third, never truly faded. When I turned fourteen, the academy's age limit slammed shut like a final, unforgiving tackle, and I walked away clutching nothing but my worn-out gloves and a quiet sense of unfulfillment.
The following twelve months became a blur of fruitless trials. Boca Juniors, their training grounds bordering the muddy banks of the river; Independiente, on a dusty concrete pitch that baked under the summer sun; Atlético Rafaela, their suburban fields stretching endlessly under a pale sky; countless lower-league sides offering vague promises that evaporated like morning mist. I sprinted until my lungs burned, juggled with a desperate flair I didn't feel, and executed every technical drill with a knot of hope tightening in my stomach – only to be met with a polite handshake, a cursory nod, and the crushing silence of no second glance. My name, my fleeting potential, vanished into the dusty pages of forgotten notebooks. Hope, once a vibrant flame, dwindled to a fragile ember.
Then, one sweltering afternoon, while walking home with the familiar weight of rejection pressing down on me, I nearly tripped over a faded poster clinging precariously to a chain-link fence. The edges were frayed, the colors bleached by the relentless sun, but the words jumped out at me like a lifeline:
"SAN LORENZO DE ALMAGRO – JUVENILE TRYOUTS – 1 FEBRUARY 2010 – ONLY FORWARDS."
My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence in my ears. San Lorenzo – the club whose blue and crimson stripes were woven into the very fabric of my being, whose victories and defeats echoed through the streets of Bajo Flores like family news – wanted me back. Even if it meant daring to step out of the familiar shadows of defense and into the blinding light of attack. My fingers trembled as I smoothed the crumpled flyer in my pocket, a thin sheen of sweat prickling my skin. This was it. One last shot. A chance to finally play where my heart had always belonged.
Before the first hint of dawn painted the sky, I stood before the towering gates of the San Lorenzo training complex. Floodlights cast an eerie jade glow over the manicured pitches, stark against the deep navy of the pre-dawn sky. Hundreds of boys had gathered, a restless sea of youthful ambition – some in pristine, branded kits, others in patched-up shorts and faded jerseys that mirrored my own. My knuckles were white as I clutched the tryout flyer, its flimsy paper feeling suddenly weighty with possibility. A sharp whistle sliced through the hushed morning air, and a woman with a clipboard that gleamed under the artificial light, Coach Herrera, beckoned us closer.
"These tryouts are for forwards only," her voice rang out, clear and decisive. "If your instinct isn't to attack, to find the back of the net, then you're in the wrong place."
A fresh wave of doubt washed over me, cold and sharp. My chest tightened. But then, a stubborn ember within me refused to be extinguished. I will learn to attack, I vowed silently, the words echoing in the hollow space of my fear. I have to.
We launched into the dynamic warm-ups, a flurry of youthful energy: explosive sprints that burned in my thighs, lunges that stretched tight hamstrings, high knees that tested our endurance. By the third lap around the perimeter of the pitch, I found myself a good length ahead of most of the other hopefuls. Alexis Cuello, my oldest friend from the countless street-lamp scrimmages that had shaped my early football education, matched my stride, his breath coming in ragged gasps but a wide grin splitting his face. "Three lungs, Flaco!" he panted, playfully punching my shoulder. His familiar presence, his unwavering support, was a small anchor in the churning sea of my nerves.
Next came the cone-weaving drill, a test of close control and agility. Keep the ball glued to your boot, the coaches barked. My first attempt was a clumsy affair, my touch too heavy, the ball skittering away as I clipped three cones in quick succession. A flush of embarrassment crept up my neck. On the second run, I shortened my stride, quickened my touch, focusing on the feel of the worn leather against my worn-out boots. I slipped through the tight formation of cones unscathed, the ball a faithful extension of my foot. Alexis darted confidently beside me, his movements fluid and practiced, but I held my ground, each perfect touch a silent promise of my burgeoning control.
Then came the crossing and finishing segment, the true test for any aspiring forward. Wingers whipped crosses into the box, the worn leather arcing through the air, and we had a single touch to guide it into a makeshift net formed by plastic cones. My turn arrived, my heart hammering against my ribs. I sprinted down the flank, my eyes locked on the trajectory of the ball as it spun towards me. I swung my leg with every ounce of pent-up desire, every frustrated dream, and watched in dismay as the ball soared high and wide, disappearing into the clear morning sky with a mocking whoosh. A hush fell over our small group. My cheeks burned with shame. Alexis offered me a sympathetic thumbs-up, but a cold tendril of doubt snaked its way into my heart. Maybe Herrera was right. Maybe I am out of my depth here.
Just when the weight of potential failure threatened to crush me, the coaches moved us to the header challenge. Cones outlined a narrow box near the penalty spot; coaches launched balls high and fierce, testing our timing and aerial ability. This, I knew. This was a language my height, once a source of awkwardness, understood fluently. I timed my jump with precision, muscles coiling and releasing, meeting the descending ball with the solid thud of my forehead again and again. Each header thundered back past the cones, rattling not just the makeshift goal but also the fragile walls of my self-doubt, replacing them with a burgeoning exhilaration. Alexis's jaw dropped in genuine surprise. Even the coaches, their faces impassive moments before, shifted, exchanging impressed nods.
I caught two staff coaches whispering intently, their heads close together. Their assistant, a young man with a perpetually harried expression, ticked off names in a crimson notebook: "González… Pérez…" until the senior coach, a man with a weathered face and eyes that seemed to see right through us, raised a hand.
"Add the tall kid," he said quietly, his gaze still fixed on the field.
The assistant hesitated, his pen hovering over the page. "Altamirano? We don't have his first name."
"He's shown enough with that header. That's a start."
A jolt of pure adrenaline surged through me. My height, the very thing that had made me a reluctant defender, was finally, unexpectedly, an asset. Yet, the embarrassing image of that wayward cross still stung my pride, a reminder of the steep learning curve ahead.
Without pause, they herded us into a final scrimmage, two teams of eight crammed onto a tight patch of slightly uneven grass. Instinct took over. Years of reading the game from the back, of anticipating passes and closing down space, translated into a surprising awareness in attack. I drifted off the shoulder of a phantom striker, probing for gaps in the makeshift defense. Alexis, his movements quick and incisive, split the line with a sharp pass. My first touch, surprisingly deft, took me past the last defender, and I tapped the ball into the cone-goal with a surge of triumph. My legs, suddenly light, pumped with the intoxicating taste of possibility.
When the first rays of the sun finally crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the training ground, Coach Herrera corralled us one last time. Boys slumped, their jerseys clinging to them like second skins, their faces etched with exhaustion and anticipation. The assistant coach cleared his throat, the crimson notebook held aloft, and began to read names without preamble. Alexis stepped forward at the first call, his fist pumping the air in a silent cheer. I swallowed hard, a nervous lump forming in my throat. The assistant paused, his eyes flicking towards the senior coach for confirmation.
"And – Luca Altamirano."
Time seemed to fracture. The syllables of my name echoed in the sudden stillness of my chest. I jogged forward, my breath catching in my throat, a strange hollowness in my limbs. Alexis whooped, clapping me on the back with such force that I nearly stumbled. Without words, we both understood: against all odds, we had made it.
Leaving the gates felt surreal, the morning air crisp and cool against my flushed face. My legs felt heavy, leaden with exhaustion, but my mind raced, a whirlwind of disbelief and burgeoning hope. The city around me seemed quieter, as if holding its breath in anticipation. By the time I reached the familiar, peeling paint of my front door in Bajo Flores, the morning light had painted the sky a soft, hopeful pink. The crumpled flyer in my pocket felt heavier now, no longer just a piece of paper, but a tangible promise.
I burst inside, the small space suddenly filled with my breathless excitement. Carla's sewing needle froze mid-stitch, her eyes widening in surprise. Raúl, his calloused hands resting on his worn leather belt, put down his tools, his brow furrowed with unspoken questions.
"Mamá, Papá – I made it. Juvenile squad," I blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in my eagerness.
Tears welled in Carla's eyes, shimmering with a mixture of relief and fierce pride. Raúl's chest swelled, a wide smile spreading across his weathered face. "Our boy… a real Cuervo!" he exclaimed, using the beloved nickname of San Lorenzo's passionate fans.
I swallowed hard, my voice catching on the lump in my throat. The ghosts of every past rejection, every silent disappointment, melted away in that precious moment of shared joy. In the corner of the small living room, Alexis's battered football, a veteran of countless street games, leaned against the wall – he had come straight from the tryouts to share the news. I turned to him, my heart still pounding with the residue of adrenaline and disbelief.
"Promise me something?" I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
He grinned, his fist raised in a familiar gesture of camaraderie. "Anything, Flaco."
"We'll train harder than anyone. Together."
He bumped his fist against mine, a silent pact forged in the shared dust and dreams of Bajo Flores. "To next week – when we start as forwards."
As I climbed the creaking stairs to my small room under the eaves, I carefully pressed the faded flyer against the warm glow of my desk lamp. The red and blue letters of San Lorenzo seemed to pulse softly in the dim light. Tomorrow, I would step onto a real football pitch as a forward. And for the first time in a long time, I wouldn't be walking that path alone.
[End for chapter 1]