The sound of rain woke Azul long before dawn. It pattered softly against the tin roof, rhythmic and uneven, like the echo of a thousand tiny dribbles on the street outside.
He lay there in the half-dark, eyes wide open, the memory of Coach Domínguez's words still fresh. *A trial with Newell's Old Boys.* It didn't feel real yet.
He turned and stared at the small poster on his wall — Lionel Messi in Argentina's sky-blue stripes, lifting the Copa América trophy. Beneath it, scrawled in black marker, were three words:
**"Nunca dejes de ver."**
*Never stop seeing.*
He didn't know where he'd first heard the phrase — maybe from a coach, maybe from his own imagination — but it felt like a piece of him.
The floor creaked. His mother, Lucía, was up early again. The smell of coffee drifted through the narrow hallway.
Azul got up, pulling on a hoodie and stepping into the kitchen, where the light from the single bulb painted everything gold and grey.
Lucía smiled when she saw him. "You're up early, mi cielo."
"Couldn't sleep."
She handed him a steaming mug of *mate cocido*. "You've been thinking about what that man said, haven't you?"
He nodded. "He said Newell's wants to see me. But Papá—"
"Papá worries," she said softly. "That's all. He's not angry at you, Azul. He's afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"That you'll dream too high. That you'll get hurt when the world says no." She reached out, brushing his hair back. "But that's not a reason to stop dreaming."
Azul looked down at the mug in his hands. "If I go… will you come with me?"
Lucía hesitated. "If your father allows it."
He already knew the answer in her pause. Jorge wouldn't allow it.
---
When Jorge came home that evening, his mood was sour. The garage had been slow all week, and the bills on the kitchen counter seemed to grow taller by the day.
Lucía waited until after dinner. Azul sat silent, tracing circles on the table with his finger.
"Jorge," she began carefully, "the coach from Newell's came today. He wants to see Azul play."
Jorge didn't even look up. "And?"
"It's a big opportunity. They only invite the best from Rosario."
He snorted. "And you think they'll take him? Thousands of kids dream the same dream. Ninety-nine never make it."
Azul clenched his fists. "But what if I'm the one who does?"
Jorge finally looked up, eyes sharp. "And what if you're not? What then, Azulito? You'll come back here, too old for school, too young for a job, another broken dream."
Lucía reached for his arm. "Jorge, please—"
But Azul stood up. "You don't believe in me."
"I believe in *reality,*" Jorge said coldly. "And reality doesn't care how well you see the ball."
Silence. The rain outside had returned, louder now, hammering the roof like applause or judgment.
Azul turned and walked to his room, closing the door quietly behind him.
He sat on his bed for a long time, listening to the muffled voices in the kitchen. Then he took out a notebook — his *dream book*, where he drew diagrams of plays and scribbled ideas for training drills.
On the first page, he drew a pitch. Tiny arrows marked movement patterns, passing lanes, rotations. He stared at them, whispering, "I'll show him. I'll show all of them."
---
A week passed. Then two.
No one mentioned the trial again. Jorge refused to sign the consent form, and Coach Domínguez's visits stopped.
Azul tried to stay calm, but every night, the same restlessness returned — that burning inside his chest, the feeling that he was missing his moment.
Until one morning, something strange happened.
Lucía came home from the market holding a thin envelope. "It's for you," she said, handing it over.
Azul frowned. His name was written in looping cursive, but the postmark was foreign — *España.*
He tore it open. Inside was a short note, printed neatly in Spanish:
> *"To Azul Reyes — a little bird from Rosario tells me you see football differently. Keep playing with joy. Keep seeing. Maybe one day we'll share the same pitch."*
> — **L. Messi**
Azul froze. His hands trembled.
"Mamá… is this—?"
Lucía smiled knowingly. "A friend of mine at the café's cousin works near the Camp Nou. She told him about you. Maybe she told the right person."
He read the letter again, eyes wide, heart racing. It wasn't long. It wasn't even official — just a few lines on stationery stamped with FC Barcelona's crest.
But it was *him.*
Messi.
The man who had inspired every step, every dream, every sleepless night.
Azul pressed the paper to his chest. "He knows me."
"Now," Lucía said softly, "you have no excuse. You have to go to that trial."
"But Papá—"
"I'll handle your father," she said. "You just keep your eyes on the game."
---
The next day, Azul skipped his last class and took the bus across Rosario. The ride was long and bumpy, past murals of Maradona and Messi, past old cafés and empty lots turned into football pitches.
He carried his boots in a plastic bag, his ball under one arm. When he reached the Newell's training grounds, he hesitated.
The complex loomed large — real pitches, real coaches, boys his age in proper kits. It didn't feel like the dusty street he knew. It felt like a dream made real.
A whistle blew. A coach waved him over.
"You're Reyes?"
"Yes, sir."
"You're late."
"Sorry, sir."
"Let's see what you've got."
He joined the session, heart pounding. The grass felt strange beneath his bare feet — soft, perfect. He could smell the dew, the cut blades, the faint rubber scent from the training cones.
The drill started. Passing triangles, one-touch movement. Azul hesitated at first, nerves catching his breath. But then, slowly, the rhythm came.
His eyes began to adjust — scanning, reading, anticipating. He saw patterns before they formed: the winger's hesitation, the midfielder's unbalanced stance.
Without thinking, he slipped a no-look pass that split two defenders and landed perfectly at a teammate's feet.
Whistles. Shouts. The coach blinked in surprise.
"Do that again," he ordered.
Azul did. Once, twice. The same calm precision.
By the end of the session, the coach called him aside. "How old are you, Reyes?"
"Eleven."
"You see the field like someone twice your age. You'll come back next week. Bring your paperwork."
Azul nodded, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. "Yes, sir."
---
That evening, when he got home, Jorge was waiting at the door.
"Where were you?"
"At Newell's," Azul said honestly. "They want me to come back."
Jorge's eyes hardened. "Without my permission?"
Lucía stepped between them. "He had a letter, Jorge. From Messi himself."
Jorge stared at her. "Messi? You expect me to believe that?"
Azul handed him the letter. Jorge turned it over in his calloused hands, reading the words slowly.
His jaw tightened, but his voice, when it came, was quieter. "You really think this means something?"
"It means everything," Azul said. "He sees something in me."
Jorge looked at his son — small, stubborn, eyes burning with that same impossible fire he'd once had as a boy.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Jorge sighed and handed back the letter. "Fine. One trial. One chance. But if it doesn't work, that's the end."
Azul nodded, fighting back a grin. "It'll work."
---
The following Saturday, he returned to Newell's. This time, with permission. This time, with purpose.
The coaches watched closely. Azul didn't score, but his passing was electric — a quiet current running through the team. He moved like he could *feel* the play unfolding seconds before it did.
Afterward, the academy director shook his hand. "Welcome to the program, Reyes. You've got something special. Maybe even… vision."
Azul's chest filled with something bright and fierce.
He thought of his street — the bricks, the graffiti, the laughter. He thought of Messi's letter folded in his pocket, safe and warm against his heart.
That night, as the bus carried him home, the city lights of Rosario shimmered like stars reflected on water. He closed his eyes and imagined the pitch again — wide and endless, under foreign skies.
One day, he'd step onto the same grass as Messi. One day, the man in the poster would turn, see him beside him, and smile in recognition.
Until then, Azul would keep seeing.
Keep playing.
Keep believing.
---
## *End of Chapter 2 – "The Letter and the Dream"*##