Mid-July 2010
The immediate aftermath of the fiercely contested youth clásico against Huracán was a disorienting and unsettling blend of hard-earned elation at the derby victory and a lingering, almost visceral unease that clung to the edges of my consciousness. The sweet taste of triumph against our bitter city rivals was undeniably satisfying, a tangible testament to our collective hard work on the training grounds and the steadily growing cohesion and intuitive understanding within our dynamic attacking trio. However, the venomous and hate-filled shouts of those particularly aggressive Huracán parents, their faces contorted with a raw and seemingly disproportionate rage that felt jarringly out of sync with the relatively innocent context of a youth league football match, had left behind a disquieting and almost palpable residue of discomfort and apprehension that I couldn't easily shake.
In the immediate post-game atmosphere of the cramped and slightly chaotic locker room, Coach Herrera's analysis of the match was characteristically focused, pragmatic, and devoid of unnecessary emotionality. She offered measured praise for our collective resilience in the face of a determined opponent, meticulously highlighted key tactical successes that had ultimately led to our victory, and even offered a brief, almost dismissive and somewhat weary comment regarding the unfortunate and unsportsmanlike behavior of a few particularly unruly spectators, urging us, as young professionals in the making, to rise above such negativity and not allow it to detract from our accomplishment. But for me, the lingering sting of their crude and personal insults, coupled with the unsettling and almost frightening intensity that had burned in their eyes as they directed their vitriol towards me, proved to be a far more persistent and difficult sensation to simply shrug off and forget.
As I offered hurried goodbyes to a jubilant Alexis and the rest of my equally relieved teammates, a strange and unsettling premonition, an almost instinctual sense of foreboding, began to subtly settle over me, casting a faint shadow over the otherwise celebratory mood. The usual boisterous camaraderie and lighthearted banter that typically characterized our post-match departures felt strangely muted, almost subdued, overshadowed by the vivid and disturbing memory of those contorted and hate-filled faces, their angry voices still echoing unpleasantly in the recesses of my mind. The familiar and usually comforting bus ride home, filled with the usual cacophony of youthful chatter and triumphant laughter, felt oddly dissonant, my own thoughts stubbornly drifting back to the raw and unfiltered venom that had been so inexplicably directed at me from the stands, the chilling and almost palpable hatred that had seemed to emanate from those particularly aggressive Huracán supporters.
Stepping off the familiar bus at my usual neighborhood stop, the once comforting and familiar surroundings of my working-class barrio inexplicably felt different, somehow less safe and secure than they ever had before. The sodium streetlights cast long, distorted, and almost menacing shadows that danced and writhed with the gentle evening breeze, and the usual comforting sounds of the neighborhood – the distant barking of dogs, the faint strains of music from open windows, the murmur of conversations – seemed strangely amplified, imbued with a subtle and almost imperceptible sense of underlying menace that prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. Almost instinctively, I pulled out my worn and trusted journal, its familiar weight a small comfort in the growing unease, wanting to immediately transcribe the chaotic and conflicting emotions that had defined the day, the soaring thrill of scoring two crucial goals for my team starkly juxtaposed against the unsettling and deeply disturbing anger that had emanated from that small but intensely hostile group in the stands.
Lost in the focused act of transcribing my jumbled thoughts and raw emotions onto the familiar lined pages, I barely registered the sudden and ominous approach of two motorcycles until their powerful engines roared loudly and they screeched to an abrupt and jarring halt directly beside me on the dimly lit sidewalk. Before I could fully process the sudden intrusion into my private thoughts and react in any meaningful way, several shadowy figures dismounted quickly and with a predatory swiftness that sent a jolt of pure fear coursing through my veins. A primal and instinctual terror gripped me, a chilling wave of vulnerability washing over me. Despite living in a neighborhood that certainly had its acknowledged share of inherent dangers and unspoken rules, there was also an unspoken understanding, a fragile and perhaps naive shield of protection that was generally provided by the imposing presence and territorial dominance of San Lorenzo's notorious barrabrava. It was a widely accepted, albeit unofficial, truth that no one dared to openly and brazenly rob anyone within their established territory.
A rough and impatient hand suddenly snatched my relatively new mobile phone from my unsuspecting grasp. I surrendered it instantly and without resistance, my mind racing frantically, trying to process the unexpected violation of this unspoken neighborhood code. But then, before I could fully register the initial loss, another, even more aggressive hand lunged menacingly for my worn and tightly clutched journal, the familiar weight of the notebook a tangible anchor in the swirling chaos of my fear. Instinctively and perhaps foolishly, I resisted with a sudden surge of desperate protectiveness, stubbornly pulling back with all my strength, clinging to the precious notebook as if it were a lifeline. This wasn't just a replaceable phone; it was a tangible and irreplaceable repository of my innermost dreams, my raw frustrations, my ongoing journey as a young footballer – a piece of myself made tangible.
My brief and desperate act of resistance was met with swift and brutal force. A hard fist slammed violently into my unsuspecting jaw, sending a searing jolt of agonizing pain through my head and momentarily blurring my vision. Another brutal blow landed squarely on my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs and leaving me gasping for breath. I crumpled to the unforgiving concrete sidewalk, the precious and now violated notebook ripped unceremoniously from my weakened grasp. As the shadowy figures hastily remounted their roaring bikes, their faces largely obscured by the darkness and the speed of their movements, I caught a fleeting and chilling glimpse of a crudely rendered tattoo emblazoned on the forearm of one of them – the unmistakable and deeply unsettling emblem of Huracán, a design that seared itself into my memory, a design I had distinctly seen earlier that day, etched into the skin of one of the most vitriolic and hate-filled fathers in the stands.
They roared away into the night, their powerful engines fading into the distance, leaving me bruised, shaken, and utterly violated on the cold sidewalk, the lingering echoes of their departing bikes a stark soundtrack to my fear and confusion. A disorienting wave of conflicting and overwhelming emotions washed over me: raw fear, burning anger, profound confusion at the unexpected attack, and a deep and unsettling sense of personal violation that went far beyond the mere loss of my material possessions.
Stumbling the short and agonizing distance to the relative safety of home, every painful step sent fresh jolts of searing agony through my battered body. The familiar and usually comforting embrace of our small, working-class apartment felt strangely distant and somehow tainted by the unexpected violence I had just experienced. The mundane sound of the key turning in the familiar lock seemed strangely amplified in the sudden quiet, a stark reminder of the fragile boundary between the perceived safety of home and the brutal reality of the streets outside.
My mother's reaction upon seeing my battered and disheveled state was immediate, visceral, and utterly heart-wrenching. Her eyes widened in absolute horror and disbelief as she took in my bruised and bloodied appearance. A fragile ceramic plate that she had been meticulously washing in the small kitchen slipped from her trembling grasp, shattering into a dozen sharp fragments on the cold tiled floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. "Luca! Dios mío, mi amor, ¿qué te pasó? ¿Estás bien?" Her voice was a frantic and almost incoherent torrent of raw worry and abject fear, her hands fluttering around me, desperately trying to assess the extent of my injuries.
Later that long and agonizing night, after I had haltingly recounted the bare and terrifying details of the unexpected attack, my father finally arrived home from his long and arduous day of work, his broad shoulders slumped with the familiar weight of exhaustion. The moment he stepped wearily inside the small apartment and saw the raw distress etched onto my mother's pale face, she rushed to explain the horrifying events, her voice still trembling with residual fear, "No te asustes, por favor, pero robaron a Luca… y lo golpearon. Míralo…"
He turned slowly to face me, his usually warm and comforting gaze now sharp, assessing, and strangely devoid of any immediate emotion. "¿Qué pasó exactamente, Luca?" His voice was low, almost a barely audible murmur, devoid of the usual comforting inflection. I repeated my story once more, the chilling image of the crudely drawn Huracán tattoo flashing vividly in my mind's eye, the dawning and deeply unsettling realization of who might have orchestrated this brutal assault.
My father listened intently in an unnerving silence, his facial expression remaining stubbornly unreadable, betraying none of the shock or anger I might have expected. Then, without uttering a single word, he simply picked up his worn and familiar jacket from the coat rack by the front door and walked back out into the night, ignoring my mother's frantic and increasingly desperate calls for him to stay.
I watched him disappear back into the darkness, a tight and painful knot of confusion and growing apprehension twisting in the pit of my stomach. Where was he going at this late hour? Why his strangely silent, almost cold and detached reaction to the brutal attack on his own son?
Hours later, long after my mother had gently and tearfully tucked me into my bed, his old and familiar car finally rumbled to a stop outside our small apartment building. He came back inside, his face still etched with a hard, unyielding resolve that offered no comfort or explanation. He didn't offer any verbal explanation for his mysterious absence, didn't respond to my mother's hushed and worried questions, didn't even look directly at me. He simply and silently went to bed, leaving behind a heavy and oppressive silence that hung in the air like a thick, suffocating blanket, a silence that somehow spoke volumes without uttering a single, comforting word.
The next morning, however, was different, charged with an unspoken tension that hung heavy in the air. Before silently preparing to leave for his demanding work, my father paused briefly in the doorway of my small bedroom, his gaze lingering on my still-bruised face for a fleeting moment. Then, turning to my mother, who watched him with a mixture of fear and anxious anticipation, he quietly stated, his voice low but firm, "Necesito ir a la Butteler. Francisquito tiene que saber exactamente lo que pasó anoche." His words, spoken with a quiet but unmistakable resolve, hung in the air like a fragile yet significant bridge connecting his carefully concealed past with the brutal reality of our present, a first, unsettling hint of the dangerous world he had desperately tried to leave behind him now reaching out to touch our lives once more.
[End of Chapter 20]