Mid-April 2010
The initial allure of trying to replicate the dazzling brilliance of Ronaldinho had faded, replaced by a more grounded and focused determination to forge my own identity as a forward. Coach Herrera's words, a pragmatic blend of encouragement and reality, echoed in my mind during my continued study of match footage. I still marveled at the artistry of the greats, but now my focus was sharper, dissecting Ibrahimović's intelligent movement in the box, Lewandowski's predatory runs in behind the defense, and even the subtle ways powerful strikers used their physicality to create space. The extra sessions with Alexis remained a demanding but rewarding grind, slowly chiseling away at my inherent clumsiness and refining my agility.
The synthesis of these lessons – the tactical insights gleaned from the screen and the physical improvements forged on the training pitch – began to manifest in more tangible ways during our practice sessions. In the small-sided games, I found myself holding the ball up with a newfound confidence, my frame no longer feeling like an awkward liability but a genuine asset in shielding possession and bringing teammates into play. The tentative passes of my early days as a forward were gradually being replaced by more incisive forward balls, a nascent understanding of attacking angles and the timing of runs beginning to take root. And while my dribbling still lacked the effortless grace of Alexis, I was becoming increasingly comfortable taking on defenders in one-on-one situations, utilizing a quick change of pace or a well-timed shoulder barge to create a yard of space.
One particular afternoon, during a full-pitch scrimmage that pitted our regular Juveniles squad against some of the older, more experienced players from the higher divisions, I experienced a moment that felt like a significant step forward. Alexis, a constant threat on the left wing, drew the attention of two defenders with his mesmerizing footwork before threading a perfectly weighted through ball into the space they had vacated. My old defensive instincts would have had me admiring the pass from a safe distance. But the new programming, the countless mental repetitions of Lewandowski's incisive runs, took over. I surged forward, timing my run to perfection, and found myself with only the imposing figure of the Sub-17 goalkeeper standing between me and the goal.
The keeper, a lanky teenager with a reputation for his quick reflexes, charged off his line, rapidly narrowing the angle. The Luca of just a few weeks prior would have likely succumbed to panic, lashing out at the ball in a desperate attempt that would have invariably sailed harmlessly over the crossbar. But I recalled the icy composure of Ibrahimović in similar situations, the almost nonchalant way he seemed to assess the situation before dispatching the ball with clinical precision. I took a touch to settle the bouncing ball, feigned a powerful shot to the near post, drawing a commitment from the keeper, and then calmly slotted it into the unguarded opposite corner. The surprised look on his face, the approving nods from Alexis and a few of the other forwards who had witnessed the play, filled me with a quiet, profound sense of satisfaction. It wasn't a moment of breathtaking brilliance, but it was my moment, a goal born from a conscious application of learned principles and a steadily growing belief in my own capabilities.
Even Coach Benítez, a man whose praise was as rare as a perfectly sunny day in Buenos Aires in late autumn, offered a grudging acknowledgment. "Altamirano," he barked from the sidelines, his voice carrying across the pitch, "better. You're finally starting to anticipate the play like a proper striker." The terse words felt like a shot of pure adrenaline, a tangible reward for the countless hours of focused effort I had poured into this improbable transition.
However, the path to becoming the player I envisioned was still fraught with challenges. There were moments of sharp frustration, stark reminders of the years I had dedicated to honing a completely different skillset. In the congested midfield battles of the scrimmages, my footwork still felt cumbersome compared to the more agile and technically gifted midfielders. My first touch, particularly under pressure, occasionally deserted me, the ball skittering away and disrupting promising attacking sequences. And the deeply ingrained habit of tracking back too deep in defensive transitions, a reflex honed over years of protecting our own goal, was a persistent shadow I had to consciously fight against.
One afternoon, during an intense counter-attacking drill, I found myself instinctively dropping deep to help the defense, inadvertently leaving Alexis isolated as the lone attacker. Coach Herrera's sharp whistle pierced the air. "Altamirano! What are you doing? You're a forward now! Your first instinct should be to find space, to make yourself an option going forward, not to retreat!" Her words, though firm, were a necessary correction, a gentle nudge back onto the path of striker thinking.
Despite these occasional stumbles, a quiet confidence was beginning to take root within me. The extra work with Alexis was paying dividends, and Herrera's guidance was helping me channel my efforts more effectively. The silent lessons from the screen were no longer just abstract concepts but were slowly becoming integrated into my muscle memory and my tactical understanding. The journey was far from over, the climb still steep, but with each small victory, each encouraging word from a coach or teammate, I felt myself forging my own path, finding my own footing in this new and exhilarating world of attack. The ghosts of brilliance on the screen were still there, inspiring me, but now I was also beginning to see the faint outline of my own potential, a unique blend of my physical attributes and the evolving skills of a forward.
[End for chapter 7]