December 28, 2011.
Ciudad Real Madrid, Valdebebas training ground.
The Iberian Peninsula seemed to bask in eternal sunshine.
Warm rays illuminated the pitch where the Real Madrid U19 youth team was playing.
Yet, the stands were filled with a chorus of boos.
A screen beside the small youth stadium, which only held a few hundred spectators, clearly displayed the score and the stakes.
Copa del Rey Juvenil, Round of 16.
Matchup: Real Madrid U19 vs. Atlético Madrid U19.
Score: 0 to 2.
The booing at this moment was not directed at the scoreboard.
The crowd was jeering the Real Madrid U19 defensive midfielder who had just committed a heavy tactical foul.
Shane Carter picked himself up from the turf. He threw a deeply irritated glare at his teammates, who were still lingering in the opponent's half with their hands on their hips, watching the show.
His pristine white jersey was stained with patches of green and brown. Grass clippings clung to his dark hair. Sweat and mud streaked across his handsome face, leaving him looking completely battered.
He had just been forced to take a yellow card to stop a lethal counterattack. There was no joy in it.
He knew perfectly well that if he was the only player protecting the defensive line, conceding another goal was only a matter of time.
"Damn it," Shane cursed in his native English. "These idiots think they are first team superstars. Zero talent, full of superstar disease."
He spat on the grass. He then switched to Spanish, waving furiously at the players up the pitch.
"Press them after we lose the ball! Press! Do not let them counter so fast!"
This was his debut for the Real Madrid U19 youth team.
He had no intention of losing this match.
Shane Carter was American. He had moved to Madrid with his parents at the age of nine when they expanded their transatlantic export business.
At age ten, he was scouted by the local youth academy of DAV Santa Ana, entering their system.
Santa Ana was not a professional powerhouse. They were a semi-pro club struggling in the Spanish lower leagues. Their academy was completely unknown globally and barely recognized locally in Madrid.
Madrid was dominated by the two giants, Real Madrid and Atlético Madrid. It also hosted top tier professional teams like Getafe and Rayo Vallecano, who regularly featured in La Liga.
A semi-pro academy was about as grassroots as it got in this city.
But even a modest club like Santa Ana possessed a complete youth pipeline, stretching from the U7s all the way to the U21 reserves.
When people looked at the glory of Spanish football, they usually only saw the finished products polished at Real Madrid's academy or Barcelona's La Masia.
But the foundation supporting those shining peaks was built on hundreds of local institutions just like Santa Ana.
Forged in that gritty environment, Shane developed a powerful physique, endless stamina, and a ruthless tackling ability. He gradually made a name for himself in the Spanish youth leagues, drawing the attention of bigger clubs.
Just days ago, he was poached by the biggest club in the region. In fact, there was arguably no bigger club in the world than Real Madrid.
The eighteen year old Shane Carter joined their youth setup. He quickly earned a starting spot thanks to his elite defensive presence in the midfield.
In this era of football, an outstanding defensive stopper was a rare commodity. Managers loved them.
Very few young players were willing to do the dirty work, especially within the glamorous ranks of the Real Madrid academy.
Doing the dirty work rarely got you into the spotlight.
It also rarely earned you any love from the Real Madrid supporters.
Right now, the entire stadium was booing him.
In the eyes of these elite fans, Shane's style of play lacked elegance.
Shane glanced up at the stands.
"A bunch of idiots."
He felt a surge of annoyance. If he had not been running himself into the ground covering the backline, Real Madrid would have conceded far more than two goals by now.
Yet these fans were venting all their frustration over the deficit entirely onto him. On the surface, it did look like he was directly involved in both goals allowed.
Thanks to his overwhelming sense of responsibility, Shane had unluckily ended up as the absolute last line of defense both times. He was forced into impossible one versus many situations.
His teammates had casually jogged back, leaving Shane to be toyed with by several Atlético Madrid attackers passing around him.
Facing those odds, not even Claude Makelele in his prime could have stopped the ball from going in.
But all the aristocratic Real Madrid fans saw was his desperate, scrambling posture. They did not see his dedication. They just felt his ugly defending embarrassed the royal crest.
So when Shane touched the ball, scattered boos began to ring out.
He was not a punching bag. He refused to quietly swallow unwarranted abuse. He immediately responded by making a silencing gesture toward the stands.
The Real Madrid fans erupted in fury.
How dare a youth team nobody act so arrogant?
So what if they booed him?
Even legendary Galácticos like Zinedine Zidane and Ronaldo had been booed at the Bernabéu. Getting booed by Madridistas was a rite of passage. How dare he show attitude?
And that was how the current situation had escalated.
Shane now had to battle the opponents on the pitch and his own fans in the stands.
His latest tactical foul had undeniably stopped a highly dangerous Atlético U19 counterattack. Taking a yellow card there was the tactically correct choice.
But the fans did not care about tactics. They just booed louder.
"Who does that kid think he is?"
"A new guy dares to yell at us?"
"He is just a brute who only knows how to destroy the game."
Up the pitch, the "geniuses" of the youth team were equally annoyed by Shane shouting at them to track back.
On the touchline, U19 head coach Gras watched with a deep frown.
He was the one who had poached Shane from Santa Ana. He had desperately wanted the physical edge and defensive cover the boy provided.
But Gras had not anticipated the fallout. By immediately inserting the newcomer into the starting lineup, Shane had been isolated by the U19 dressing room.
The Real Madrid first team locker room was notoriously complex. Unfortunately, that toxic political culture had trickled down to the academy.
The ringleader isolating Shane was a player named Alessandro Sanz. He was someone even Coach Gras could not afford to offend.
The boy's grandfather was Lorenzo Sanz, the former president of Real Madrid.
Gras could only sigh in frustration. He knew perfectly well that without Shane covering the gaps, they would be getting slaughtered right now.
The referee blew the whistle for halftime.
The players walked off the pitch, gathering by the touchline in their respective halves. This was merely a youth academy field. It lacked the proper dressing rooms found at the reserve team stadium.
Halftime team talks happened right on the grass.
As they walked off, Shane could still hear the chatter from the stands.
"It is all that American kid's fault."
"Both goals were on him."
"Why hasn't he been subbed off yet?"
"Can a Yank even play real football? I heard Gras brought him in personally."
"Gras is not fit to manage this academy."
The whispers made Shane knit his brows.
He had lived in Madrid for nine years. He knew perfectly well that anti-American bias and football snobbery ran deep in certain circles here.
The hostility from these fans was definitely not just about his performance on the pitch.
He took a deep breath and walked over to Coach Gras.
...
In a quiet corner of the stands, far removed from the fans berating Shane, sat an unexpected figure.
Wearing a baseball cap pulled low, the man stared intently at the young American midfielder walking off the pitch. A look of deep interest sparked in his eyes.
"Diego, you like the look of that kid?"
A middle aged white man with graying hair asked from beside him.
The man in the cap tilted his head up. If anyone had been paying attention to this quiet corner, they would have recognized him instantly. It was the newly appointed manager of Atlético Madrid, the Argentine Diego Simeone, who had just been officially announced yesterday.
"Absolutely. Absolutely, my old friend. He is the most impressive player on this pitch by a mile."
Simeone's eyes gleamed as he analyzed the game.
"First of all, his physicality is elite. Secondly, his defensive work rate is relentless. He has great positional awareness and his one on one tackling is superb. That is a natural born defensive midfielder."
During his playing days, Simeone himself had been a ruthless defensive enforcer.
He instantly recognized the raw potential radiating from Shane. With proper polish, that kid could easily establish himself in La Liga in a few years.
"But he belongs to Real Madrid," his assistant manager, Germán Burgos, pointed out with a frown.
"He belongs to their youth team," Simeone corrected sharply.
He had just taken the reins at Atlético Madrid yesterday. Today, he had come out to watch the Madrid youth derby to see if there were any hidden gems worth noting.
As expected, Atlético's U19 squad had no real prodigies left, since the true talents had already been promoted to the B team. However, he never expected to find a player that perfectly fit his philosophy wearing the pristine white of the enemy.
Simeone looked back toward the pitch, his mind already churning with ideas on how to poach him.
...
"We need to press forward and attack! Attack! I do not understand the point of having certain people just standing around in the back. Defending? Do not forget who gave up those two goals."
Alessandro Sanz, the grandson of the former club president, spoke loudly to the group. His eyes were locked onto Shane. A cold sneer curled his lips.
Ever since this new kid arrived, he had carried himself with quiet confidence. He had completely failed to flatter or bow down to the royal grandson, unlike the rest of the academy players. That lack of subservience deeply irritated Sanz.
"Are you implying that us losing is my fault?"
Shane frowned, his gaze locking directly onto Sanz.
"All of you push up and refuse to track back," Shane stated firmly. "The backline is constantly outnumbered. Conceding goals is inevitable. If we are repeatedly caught defending in a minority, the problem does not lie with the defense."
"So you are blaming me then," Sanz sneered, shrugging his shoulders.
"Shouldn't I?" Shane replied. His tone was deadpan and chillingly calm. "In this half alone, you attempted to dribble at least ten times. You failed every single time. You lost possession eight times, sparking several counterattacks. A few of those turnovers happened in critical areas. Both of their goals originated directly from you being dispossessed. I think it is perfectly clear where our problem lies."
If others wanted to suck up to this spoiled aristocrat, that was their business. Shane refused to lick anyone's boots.
His core philosophy was simple. In competitive sports, your strength did the talking.
This guy named Sanz might have powerful backing, but he was destined to be a youth academy reject.
Sanz was nearly twenty years old. He was born in January of 1992, making him over two years older than Shane, who was born on February 14, 1994.
Being nearly twenty and still stuck in the U19s was a massive red flag. If he was not Lorenzo Sanz's grandson, he would have been booted from the academy long ago.
Normally, players his age were either promoted to Real Madrid Castilla to fight in the Segunda División B, or they were released to find their own path.
The fact that he was still lingering here proved his lack of ability. Yet the fool suffered from delusions of grandeur, treating himself like a prodigy. The physical advantage of being two years older than most opponents was the only thing keeping him afloat at this level.
The truth was a sharp blade.
Using the calmest tone possible, Shane ruthlessly shredded the fragile ego of the self proclaimed genius. The false superiority Sanz had built through the flattery of his peers was instantly smashed to pieces.
The surrounding Real Madrid youth players stared at Shane in utter shock.
The Sanz family's influence within the club was massive. Was this kid not terrified that offending Sanz would end his career before it even started?
Sanz's eyes ignited with pure fury.
"Damn you! What the hell are you talking about? How could I be the problem? Who do you think you are? Are you the manager? You are nothing! You are just worthless Yankee trash!"
Gasps echoed across the huddle.
The words "Yankee trash" stunned the players. While football snobbery was common, openly screaming such xenophobic insults at a teammate was crossing a massive line.
The expressions on several of the working-class players instantly darkened.
Yet Sanz refused to stop his tirade. "What do you know? What do you Americans know about real football? Go back to your garbage plastic sports, you Yankee garba..."
Amidst the shocked gasps, the arrogant fury on Sanz's face suddenly vanished, replaced by sheer terror.
Shane lunged forward, grabbing him by the collar and violently hoisting him upward.
"What... what are you doing?"
Suspended by his shirt, Sanz craned his neck, looking up at Shane in absolute panic.
Compared to Shane, who stood at one hundred and eighty three centimeters and weighed a solid eighty five kilograms, the one hundred and seventy two centimeter, sixty two kilogram Sanz looked incredibly frail.
Coach Gras had been paralyzed by Sanz's bigoted outburst. It was only when Shane lifted the boy off the ground that he finally snapped back to reality.
"Calm down! Calm down, Shane! Relax. Think about your future!" Gras shouted in panic.
"Ha! You dare to hit me? Hit me then! If you touch me, you are..."
Hearing the coach panic gave Sanz a false sense of security. He firmly believed no one at the Real Madrid academy had the guts to touch him.
He was the grandson of Lorenzo Sanz.
Smack!
A sudden, resounding slap echoed through the air.
Sanz froze.
His head buzzed wildly. His arrogant threats died instantly in his throat. Half of his face immediately swelled with red heat. He stared at Shane with an expression of total incomprehension and shock.
This guy.
He actually dared to strike him.
Shane smiled faintly. He turned his head to look at Gras and the rest of the stunned youth squad.
"Look at that. That is the first time I have ever heard such a ridiculous request."
He turned back to Sanz, his smile remaining perfectly pleasant.
"Tsk. Your face is not quite symmetrical anymore. Let me help you out."
Smack!
"Hmm? Still a bit off."
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
A rapid sequence of brutal slaps followed.
Sanz finally processed reality. The burning agony radiating from his face made him wail in pain. Tears and snot streamed down his swollen cheeks.
The onlookers finally broke out of their collective daze. They rushed forward, scrambling to pull Shane away.
Sanz collapsed to the grass, clutching his face, weeping loudly.
Up in the stands, the Real Madrid fans were completely paralyzed. They were absolutely shocked by this public, violent internal implosion.
In the far corner, only Diego Simeone's eyes lit up with fierce approval.
"Good kid."
He turned to his assistant, Germán Burgos.
"Real Madrid is going to expel him for this, aren't they?"
As the words left his mouth, the stadium erupted. The boos and curses from the few hundred fans swallowed the pitch.
In the VIP section of the stands, former Real Madrid president Lorenzo Sanz stood up abruptly, his face pale with rage.
"Who scouted this barbarian? Get him out of here immediately! Throw him out!"
Lorenzo Sanz trembled with anger. He knew his grandson was not a generational talent. But so what?
He just needed to gild his resume in the youth academy. With that background, who knew? Maybe the Sanz family would produce another club president in the future.
But right now, his precious grandson was being publicly beaten by an American teenager.
Down on the pitch, the Atlético Madrid youth players stretched their necks, happily watching the chaos unfold.
The Real Madrid players stood frozen, at a complete loss for what to do.
Coach Gras wore a face of absolute despair.
The situation was beyond saving now. It was a total disaster.
Shane glared down at the crying Sanz. "You should be thankful we live in a civilized society, you little punk."
Hearing the threat, the weeping Sanz violently shuddered in fear, looking up at Shane like he was a monster.
Shane spat on the ground.
"Damn it. And here I thought you were actually tough."
He grabbed the hem of his dirty jersey and pulled it off, revealing a lean, muscular physique.
He turned around and started walking away.
He knew that offending the Sanz family meant his time at Real Madrid was over.
But he would never bow his head and swallow bigotry just to keep a spot on a roster. That was fundamentally against his nature.
The worst case scenario was simply returning to Santa Ana, or maybe quitting football altogether.
A living man wasn't going to let himself be suffocated to death by a coward.
Shane curled his lip in disdain.
"Hey! Shane! Wait! Shane!!" Coach Gras called out to him.
"Yes, Coach?"
"Are you just going to leave?"
"Is there any universe where I am allowed to stay?"
Gras opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Forget about Shane. After a scandal of this magnitude, Gras wasn't even sure if he would get to keep his job as the manager.
"I... I can testify for you!" Gras gritted his teeth. His conscience told him that Shane was absolutely not the villain here.
"Thank you."
"Shane! I can testify too!"
A Black player stood up from the turf.
Several other minority and working-class players exchanged glances, before standing up in unison, drawing a clear line between themselves and the weeping Sanz.
While some players in the squad were happy to be Sanz's lapdogs, the majority were just kids who had suffered under his arrogant elitism. Shane had only been here for a week, but he was outgoing, fiercely protective on the pitch, and did the defensive dirty work without complaint. Most players loved having a teammate like that.
Sanz's swollen face twisted in further outrage.
Shane laughed genuinely. "Thank you all."
He was just a nobody who had joined the team less than a week ago. Sanz was the grandson of a former club president with deep roots across the institution.
For these players to stand up and vouch for him in this situation required immense courage.
It seemed there were still decent people in the world.
Just then, a mechanical voice echoed in Shane's mind.
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