The worn pages of my football notebooks, filled with hastily scribbled tactical diagrams and observations on the movement of world-class strikers, were a universe away from the pristine, often untouched, pages of my school textbooks. The elegant logic of mathematics felt like an alien language, the grand sweep of history a distant and irrelevant narrative. My mind, a restless engine on the training pitch, became sluggish and unfocused within the four walls of the classroom, perpetually drifting back to the familiar scent of grass and the satisfying thud of a well-struck ball.
School had become a daily exercise in endurance, a seemingly endless series of bells marking the passage of time until I could finally escape to the sanctuary of the football pitch. While my classmates animatedly discussed weekend asados or the latest chart-topping songs, my thoughts were meticulously dissecting formations, analyzing defensive weaknesses, and replaying successful dribbles from training. Making friends felt like an unnecessary distraction; their concerns about upcoming exams or the intricacies of teenage relationships held no resonance with my singular obsession. My report cards were a stark testament to this profound disengagement – a disheartening tapestry of failing grades, underlined in angry red ink, accompanied by terse, disappointed comments from teachers urging improvement.
One late afternoon, the satisfying ache in my muscles a familiar reminder of the intense training session, Alexis and I walked out of the Juveniles center, the setting sun casting long shadows across the empty fields. Just as we reached the familiar sight of the exit gates, a wave of unease washed over me. My parents' old Renault was parked haphazardly near the curb, its familiar silhouette an unusual and unwelcome sight. They rarely picked me up; their days were a relentless grind of hard work to keep our small family afloat. And the rigid posture of their bodies, the tight lines around their mouths, spoke volumes of their displeasure.
Alexis, his usual buoyant energy immediately sensing the shift in the atmosphere, placed a hand briefly on my shoulder. "Everything okay, Flaco?" he asked softly, his cheerful tone muted with concern.
I shook my head almost imperceptibly, my gaze fixed on my parents. "I… I don't think so, Mono."
He offered a quick, understanding nod. "Well, I'll see you bright and early tomorrow. Whatever it is… hang in there." He offered a strained smile and hurried off, leaving me to face the brewing storm alone.
A heavy sense of resignation settled over me as I approached them. "Hola, Má, Pa," I mumbled, the usual warmth in my greeting absent. "What are you doing here?"
My father's voice, usually rough but kind, was clipped and stern. "We need to talk, Lucas. Now. At home."
The car ride was a suffocating silence, the air thick with unspoken disappointment. My mother's usual gentle humming, a comforting soundtrack to our journeys, was replaced by a taut stillness that amplified the pounding of my own anxious heart. I knew, with a sinking certainty that mirrored a missed penalty kick in a crucial match, that this was about school.
The moment we stepped inside our small, familiar living room, the dam of their carefully contained frustration finally broke. The call from the school, the principal's grave tone relaying the litany of my academic failures, hung heavy in the air between us. They laid out the stark reality: failing grades in almost every subject, a mountain of missed assignments, and teachers' increasingly desperate pleas for engagement. The humiliating prospect of repeating the entire school year loomed like a formidable, insurmountable defender blocking my path to the future.
Then came the blow, the ultimatum that struck at the very core of my being, the one thing they knew held me captive. "Lucas," my father began, his voice low and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of their sacrifice, "we work ourselves into the ground, day in and day out, to give you opportunities we never had. Not just for this football dream of yours, but for your life. Education is not a luxury, it's a necessity. And right now, you are throwing it all away."
My mother's eyes, usually pools of unwavering support and understanding, held a firm, unyielding resolve. "There will be no more excuses, Lucas. No more blaming bad teachers or boring subjects. If your grades don't improve, and they improve significantly and immediately, we will take away football. The training, the matches… all of it. It's the only language you seem to understand, the only thing that seems to motivate you."
My attempts to protest, to explain my focus, my dedication to football, were met with a wall of weary disappointment. "There is no room for discussion, Lucas," my father stated, his voice final. "We are doing this because we love you, because we care about your future, the whole of it. Football is your passion, we see that, and we support it with everything we have. But it cannot be the only thing. You need to finish school. You need to have options."
The weight of their disappointment, the stark reality of their threat, pressed down on me, a crushing burden far heavier than any defender I had faced on the pitch. The vibrant, hopeful dream of becoming a professional footballer suddenly felt fragile, precariously balanced against the dull, frustrating reality of textbooks and exams. The weight of expectations, both on the hallowed turf and within the cramped confines of our living room, settled upon my young shoulders, a heavy, suffocating cloak of responsibility. The unseen battle, the one fought with ink and paper instead of sweat and leather, suddenly felt like the most crucial game of all.
[End for chapter 9]