February 2010 (continuing)
The week that followed the tryouts felt like walking through a dream. The weight of the flyer in my pocket had shifted from a fragile hope to a tangible reality. The calloused tips of my fingers, still faintly smelling of the unfamiliar gloves from my goalkeeping days, would trace the embossed crest of San Lorenzo on the thin paper, a silent reminder of the improbable turn my football journey had taken.
The first training session with the San Lorenzo Juveniles was a sensory overload. The air buzzed with a focused energy I hadn't fully experienced in the more casual atmosphere of my previous academy. The rhythmic thud of perfectly struck balls, the sharp commands of Coach Herrera echoing across the immaculate green of the training pitch, the coordinated movements of players who had honed their skills within these hallowed grounds for years – it was a different world from the cracked asphalt of Bajo Flores.
We were assigned our kits, the iconic blue and crimson stripes feeling both foreign and strangely familiar against my skin. It was the same shield I had worn with pride on countless worn-out jerseys as a kid, the same colors that had been the backdrop to my wildest dreams. To wear it now, officially, felt like stepping onto sacred ground.
Coach Herrera's initial instructions were clear and concise, her voice carrying a quiet authority that commanded respect. She outlined the training schedule, the expectations for discipline and commitment, and the importance of teamwork. She addressed us all, but when her gaze briefly met mine, there was a flicker of something akin to understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the unconventional path that had led me here.
The first drills were a stark reminder of the technical gap I needed to bridge. The other forwards moved with a fluidity and precision that came from years of dedicated practice in that specific role. Their first touch was impeccable, their passes crisp and accurate, their movements off the ball intelligent and purposeful. I felt a familiar pang of insecurity, the old doubts resurfacing like unwelcome ghosts. My defensive instincts still flared at inopportune moments, leading to clumsy tackles in attacking plays or a hesitation in front of goal where a more seasoned striker would have already pulled the trigger.
Alexis, thankfully, was a constant source of support and familiar comfort. He moved with a natural flair on the wing, his quick feet and sharp changes of direction a constant menace to the makeshift defense we faced in the early drills. He would often offer a reassuring nod or a quick word of encouragement. "Keep at it, Flaco," he'd say, his grin infectious. "You've got the engine, now it's just about tuning the instrument."
The intensity of the training was unlike anything I had experienced before. Every pass, every run, every drill was executed at a higher tempo, demanding a level of concentration and physical exertion that left my lungs burning and my muscles aching. I pushed myself, fueled by a stubborn refusal to be left behind. I might not have had their years of specialized training, but I had a resilience forged in the harsh realities of Bajo Flores and a burning desire to prove that my unconventional gamble had been worth it.
During one finishing drill, where we had to control a lofted pass and shoot on goal in one fluid motion, I struggled. My first touch was heavy, the ball bouncing away from my control, and my subsequent shot was rushed and wide. Frustration simmered beneath my skin. I could feel the eyes of some of the other boys, the ones who had been honing their attacking skills since they were small, perhaps questioning my presence.
But then, during a later drill focused on aerial duels in the box, something clicked. The years spent leaping to clear crosses as a defender suddenly became an unexpected advantage. I timed my jumps perfectly, my height allowing me to tower over the smaller defenders, and my headers were powerful and directed, finding the back of the net with a satisfying thud. I saw Coach Herrera nod in approval from the sidelines, a small, almost imperceptible gesture that fueled my determination.
The training sessions became a cycle of small victories and frustrating setbacks. I would excel in the physical aspects, my stamina and strength surprising even myself. But the intricate footwork, the delicate touch required to navigate tight spaces in the attacking third, still felt foreign. I spent extra time after practice, juggling the ball, working on my first touch against the worn brick wall near the training grounds, trying to bridge the gap between my defensive foundation and the demands of being a forward.
The weight of expectation, both my own and the unspoken curiosity of my new teammates and coaches, was a constant companion. I knew I was an anomaly, a defender who had somehow found his way into the forward ranks. Every touch, every pass, every shot felt like a statement, a silent plea to be judged not by my past, but by my potential.
As the first week of training drew to a close, I was exhausted but a strange sense of belonging had begun to take root. The blue and crimson stripes no longer felt like a borrowed skin, but like a second identity. The sacred ground of the San Lorenzo training pitch, initially intimidating, was slowly starting to feel like home. The journey was just beginning, the climb steep, but for the first time in a long time, I was running towards my dream, not away from it.
[End for chapter 2]