Mid-June 2010
The established rhythm on the San Lorenzo training grounds, dictated by the clear demarcation of Herrera's imposed division, continued its steady beat. Yet, within this structured separation, the small, almost hesitant gestures of interaction between the players of Team A and Team B had begun to evolve from sporadic occurrences into something resembling an unspoken, almost accepted part of the daily routine. On the pitch itself, Ángel and I maintained a carefully constructed professional distance, our exchanges limited to brief, purely technical observations during drills or the occasional, unavoidable crossing of paths as we moved between exercises. However, it was beyond the stark white lines that defined the playing field, in the mundane spaces of waiting and shared transit, where the nascent truce that had begun to tentatively blossom was starting to take on a more substantial and encouraging form.
One particularly draining Tuesday afternoon, following a grueling double training session that had left my muscles aching and my mind buzzing with tactical nuances, I found myself standing at the familiar bus stop just outside the club's gates, patiently awaiting the arrival of the colectivo that would ferry me back to the relative quiet of home. My attention was momentarily consumed by the well-worn pages of my training journal, my mind's eye replaying a specific off-the-ball movement drill that Herrera had meticulously demonstrated earlier in the day, when a familiar, slightly teasing voice cut through my focused concentration, pulling me back to the immediate reality of the dusty roadside.
"So engrossed in your scribbles that you've become oblivious to the world around you, Altamirano?"
I instinctively lifted my gaze from the detailed diagrams and handwritten notes, my eyes meeting the casually confident figure of Ángel, who leaned against the weathered bus stop pole with an air of nonchalant amusement. His usual mischievous grin, that playful curve of his lips that often hinted at an impending prank or a clever remark, was firmly in place. Standing beside him, a calming presence in the afternoon sun, was Alexis, his expression characteristically tranquil, a small, knowing smile playing on his own lips as he observed our interaction.
"Just running through some things from training," I replied, snapping the worn notebook shut, the familiar weight of it grounding me. "You guys waiting for the bus too?"
Ángel responded with a characteristic shrug, his movements imbued with a casual confidence. "Yeah, the 'maestro' here," he gestured towards Alexis with an exaggerated sweep of his hand, a playful jab at his friend's preference for public transport, "refuses to exert himself by walking the mere ten blocks to his humble abode." Alexis simply offered a good-natured roll of his eyes, a familiar and affectionate response to Ángel's teasing.
A brief, somewhat awkward silence descended upon our small group, the unspoken weight of our recent conflict still lingering in the air like a faint, almost imperceptible shadow. It was Alexis, with his innate ability to diffuse tension and his consistently calm demeanor, who eventually broke the uncomfortable stillness. "So, Ángel," he began, his tone light and conversational, "how did you fare with the volley practice today? Was Luca's insightful advice actually… helpful?"
The direct question seemed to catch Ángel slightly off guard. A flicker of his inherent pride, that ever-present awareness of his own considerable talent, briefly registered on his face before being quickly replaced by a more genuine and surprisingly amused smile. "Well," he conceded, a hint of playful reluctance in his voice, "I'm not about to declare myself a volleying prodigy all thanks to Altamirano's profound wisdom, but I will begrudgingly admit that the subsequent attempt… was marginally less atrocious. I suppose even former keepers stumble upon the occasional useful insight when it comes to striking a ball." His tone was light, devoid of the sharp, cutting mockery that had characterized their earlier exchanges, replaced by a grudging hint of respect.
I couldn't help but smile slightly at his reluctant admission. "Just basic physics," I replied simply, my tone matter-of-fact. "Hit it where you have the most control."
The conversation unexpectedly began to flow with a more natural and less guarded rhythm. We found ourselves discussing the rigors of training, the ever-increasing demands of the preparation for the upcoming youth league matches, and the often-unspoken expectations that the coaches placed upon us as promising young players within the San Lorenzo academy. For the first time since our heated confrontation, I experienced a genuine sense of camaraderie, a feeling that we were simply two teammates, bound by a shared ambition and a common passion for the beautiful game, momentarily setting aside the personal rivalry that had so recently defined our interactions.
At one point, Ángel, his usual bravado momentarily softened by a shared frustration, mentioned how utterly baffling and tedious he found one of his school subjects – literature – and how he simply couldn't fathom his teacher's seemingly obsessive fascination with dissecting the supposed hidden meanings within ancient poems. I surprisingly found myself in a slightly different boat, having discovered a somewhat unexpected aptitude for the subject.
"If you want," I offered, the words leaving my lips almost before I had fully considered them, "I could let you take a look at some of my notes. Maybe they'll help you make a little more sense of it all."
Ángel turned to face me, a look of genuine surprise etched across his features. His characteristic pride seemed to waver for a fleeting instant, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity. "Seriously, Altamirano? You wouldn't actually mind?"
"No," I replied, the sincerity in my voice surprising even myself. "In the end, we're all part of the same club, right?"
Alexis, who had been observing our exchange with a quiet knowingness, offered a small, almost imperceptible smile, as if this small act of unexpected generosity confirmed a quiet hope he had been harboring. Just then, the familiar rumble of the approaching colectivo broke the thread of our burgeoning conversation. Ángel pushed himself off the bus stop pole, offering a quick, almost hesitant nod in my direction as he prepared to board. "Thanks, Altamirano. I might just take you up on that offer for those notes."
I followed Alexis onto the crowded bus, a faint sense of relief washing over me, accompanied by a small, fragile pang of burgeoning hope. A bridge, however slender and tentative, had begun to be constructed in the unlikely space beyond the rigidly demarcated lines of the playing field. Perhaps, I mused as the bus lurched forward, beyond the fierce rivalry and the regrettable mistakes of the past, there truly existed the possibility of finding a shared...
[End of Chapter 16]