The cracked streets of Bajo Flores were my first pitch, where football pulsed like a heartbeat. Every scuffed ball, every dive under flickering streetlights, carved my hunger into muscle. Mamá, Carla, stitched empanadas late into the night, her nimble fingers weaving our family's fragile dreams. Papá, Raúl, hauled bricks under the relentless sun, his calloused hands a map of sacrifice. Money was scarce in our cramped home under a rusty roof, but they saw the streets—alive with trouble, drugs lurking in alleys—and sent me to a local academy. "Stay off the campo, Luca," Mamá pleaded. "Make us proud." Football wasn't just a game; it was my way out, their hope for a better life.
I was tall, gangly, a tower among kids my age. At ten, the academy coaches stuck me in goal, thinking height meant saves. But the net was a cage—each goal conceded stung like failure, my hands raw, pride bruised. At twelve, I begged to play defense, finding rhythm in sliding tackles, the crack of a clearance, the rare thrill of a headed goal. I got better, reading wingers' moves, cutting off attacks. But my heart yearned to strike, to feel the ball rocket into the net. At fourteen, the academy cut me, my name lost in a coach's notebook.
The next year was a blur of tryouts, each a fresh wound. Boca Juniors' riverside pitch chewed me up, their scouts barely glancing my way. River Plate's polished fields felt like another planet. Independiente, Racing, Vélez—First Primera División giants—saw nothing in me. I trudged to smaller clubs, Second Segunda and Third Tercera División sides like Chacarita and Defensores de Belgrano, but their doors stayed shut. Hope, once a fire, flickered to an ember. I was a defender, not a dreamer, my boots heavy with rejection.
Then, one sweltering February afternoon, a faded poster on a Bajo Flores fence stopped me: SAN LORENZO DE ALMAGRO – JUVENILE TRYOUTS – 1 FEBRUARY 2010 – FORWARDS ONLY. My pulse roared. San Lorenzo, its azulgrana stripes woven into our barrio's soul, was my last shot. I smoothed the crumpled flyer, sweat prickling my skin. A striker? Me? Doubt gnawed, but Bajo Flores' grit whispered: Try.
Before dawn, I stood at San Lorenzo's training complex, floodlights casting a jade glow over pristine pitches. Hundreds of boys buzzed—some in flashy kits, others in patched jerseys like mine. My knuckles whitened around the flyer. Coach Herrera, clipboard gleaming, barked, "Forwards only. If you're here to score, prove it."
Doubt clawed my chest. My boots knew tackles, not goals. But Alexis Cuello, my brother from street games, jogged over, grinning. "Three lungs, Flaco!" he said, punching my shoulder. His presence steadied me, a tether in the storm of nerves.
The warm-up was brutal. Sprints seared my thighs, lunges stretched my hamstrings, high knees tested my grit. I matched Alexis stride for stride, my height making each step awkward but powerful. "Keep up, Cuello!" I panted, earning his laugh. Herrera's whistle split the air, her eyes scanning us like a hawk.
The first drill was cone-weaving, testing control. My touch was heavy, the ball skittering, cones toppling. Snickers rippled through the crowd. "Focus, Altamirano!" Herrera snapped. My face burned, but I reset, shortening my stride. My second run was cleaner, the ball hugging my boot, weaving through cones. Alexis darted beside me, fluid, but I held my ground, each touch a vow to fight.
The crossing drill came next—wingers whipped balls into the box, one touch to hit a cone-goal. My turn. I sprinted, eyes on the arcing ball, and swung with every failed tryout. The ball soared high, vanishing into the dawn with a mocking whoosh. A stocky kid—Pérez—smirked. "Nice airball, Flaco," he muttered. My fists clenched, but I jogged back, swallowing the shame. My defender's instincts screamed to retreat, but I pushed forward.
The header challenge was my chance. Coaches launched high balls into a penalty-box square. My height, once a curse, became my voice. I timed my jump, muscles coiling, meeting the ball with a thud. Each header crashed past the cones, shaking my doubts. Alexis's jaw dropped. Herrera's gaze flickered, her pen scratching her clipboard. Two coaches whispered: "González… Pérez…"
"Add Altamirano," the senior coach said, his eyes piercing.
Adrenaline surged. My height was my edge, but that wayward cross reminded me of the climb ahead.
The final scrimmage packed us onto a tight pitch. My defender's eye—honed reading attacks—gave me a spark. I drifted off a defender's shoulder, spotting a gap. Alexis split the line with a sharp pass. My first touch was clumsy, but I shielded the ball, muscling past a tackle, and tapped it into the cone-goal. A cheer erupted, Alexis whooping. For a moment, every rejection lifted.
Herrera gathered us at dawn, her voice cutting through our exhaustion. The assistant coach read from a crimson notebook. "Cuello!" Alexis pumped his fist, grinning. My pulse thundered, throat tight.
"Altamirano!"
Time froze. My name echoed, a heartbeat of disbelief. I jogged forward, Alexis's clap nearly toppling me. We'd made it.
At home, I burst through the peeling door. "Mamá, Papá—I made it! Juvenile squad!" Carla's needle froze, tears shimmering. Raúl's face cracked into a smile. "Our Cuervo!" he roared, voice thick. Alexis, trailing me, stood in the doorway, his battered ball tucked under his arm, grinning.
"Promise me, Flaco?" he said, raising his fist.
"Anything," I replied, voice catching.
"We train harder than anyone. Together."
"Deal," I said, bumping his fist, sealing a pact born in Bajo Flores' dust. As I climbed the creaking stairs, exhaustion mixed with fire. I pinned the flyer to my wall, its colors glowing. Tomorrow, I'd step onto San Lorenzo's pitch as a forward, a defender turned dreamer. But Coach Herrera's final words lingered: "You're in, Altamirano, but this academy's a war. Prove you're a striker, or you're out." The road ahead was brutal—others had years as forwards, their instincts sharp. With Alexis, Bajo Flores' grit, and my knack for reading the game, I'd fight to carve my place.
[End for Chapter 1]