Lucas Altamirano had just turned fifteen, but the weight of his dreams felt heavier than his years. In the gritty streets of Bajo Flores, where hope was as fleeting as the evening breeze, he stood out—taller than most, his lanky frame earning him the nickname "Flaco" among the kids who chased a worn ball through the barrio's dusty lots. Football wasn't just a game here; it was a lifeline, a rebellion against a future of scraping by. For Lucas, it was the spark that made him believe he could escape the shadows of his neighborhood and become something more.
His parents, Carla and Raúl, were the pillars of his world. Carla, a waitress at a bustling restaurant in Buenos Aires, poured her heart into every shift, her warm smile hiding the exhaustion of long hours. She was the soul of their home, always ready with a hug or a whispered encouragement, even when the bills piled up. Raúl, a construction worker, was a man of few words, his calloused hands and quiet demeanor masking a past Lucas could only guess at—a shadow of something lost, something he never spoke of. They weren't wealthy, not by a long shot, but they'd do anything to keep Lucas safe. In Bajo Flores, safety meant keeping him off the streets, away from the gangs and temptations that lurked in the alleys.
When Lucas was twelve, his parents made a decision that shaped his path. The streets of Bajo Flores were no place for a boy to wander. To keep him occupied and out of trouble, they enrolled him in a local football academy—a scrappy program run by volunteers who believed a ball could change a life. The field was patchy, the nets torn, but for Lucas, it was a sanctuary. It was where he learned to dream, where the roar of a distant crowd became his heartbeat.
At the academy, his height made him an obvious choice for goalkeeper. At twelve, he towered over the other kids, his long arms seemingly perfect for diving saves. But Lucas was no keeper. The ball slipped through his fingers too often, his reflexes too slow for the role. He hated the solitude of the goal, the way it kept him apart from the game's pulse. After a string of missed shots and frustrated sighs, he pleaded with the coach. "Let me play outfield," he said, his voice steady despite his nerves. "I can do more." The coach, short on players and patience, moved him to defense. There, Lucas found his place. He wasn't a star, but his height and grit made him decent—good enough to block attacks, to read the game, to earn a nod from the older boys.
It was at the academy that he met Alexis Cuello, a wiry thirteen-year-old with a grin that lit up the field. Alexis was a midfielder, a playmaker who made the ball dance, and the two became inseparable. They'd linger after practice, kicking a deflated ball under flickering streetlights, dreaming of playing for San Lorenzo, the pride of Bajo Flores. But the academy had an age limit, and when Lucas turned fourteen, he had to leave. Alexis, with his dazzling talent, had already earned a scholarship to San Lorenzo's youth academy. Lucas, though, was left behind, his dreams hanging by a thread.
For a year, Lucas chased his future across Buenos Aires. He tried out for every major club—Boca Juniors, River Plate, Independiente, Racing—carrying his patched boots and a heart full of hope. But the rejections came like punches. "Not skilled enough," the coaches said. "Too slow for a defender." Even second- and third-division clubs—Vélez, Lanús, smaller teams with less shine—turned him away, their glances dismissive. Each failure eroded his confidence, until the fire inside him flickered, nearly extinguished. He was ready to give up, to accept a life like his father's, hauling bricks under the relentless sun.
Then, on a humid evening in late March 2010, everything changed. Lucas was trudging home from another failed tryout, his backpack heavy with disappointment. The streets of Bajo Flores buzzed with life—kids shouting, vendors calling out, the thump of cumbia spilling from a radio. He barely noticed the lamppost at the corner, its chipped paint blending into the chaos. But a flash of color caught his eye—a tattered flyer, pinned to the post, fluttering in the breeze. The red and blue crest of San Lorenzo de Almagro stared back at him, the words Forward Tryouts bold and unyielding. Lucas's heart skipped. San Lorenzo—the club of his dreams, the team Alexis had joined. The flyer called for forwards, not defenders, but something stirred inside him. A spark, a whisper, a feeling he couldn't ignore.
He tore the flyer from the post, his fingers trembling. This was his last chance, his final shot at keeping his dream alive. He'd never trained as a forward, never imagined himself as one, but the idea lit a fire in his chest. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was destiny, but Lucas knew he had to try. He stuffed the flyer into his pocket and ran home, his father's words ringing in his ears: "If you don't try, you'll regret it forever." That night, he lay awake, the flyer on his bedside table, picturing himself in the red and blue of San Lorenzo. For the first time in months, he felt alive.
The next morning, Lucas woke before dawn, his nerves electric. He pulled on his patched sneakers and borrowed shin guards, the flyer tucked safely in his backpack. The walk to the San Lorenzo training ground felt like a pilgrimage, each step heavier with anticipation. Bajo Flores faded behind him as he approached the club's gates, their iron frame towering over the street. The crest of San Lorenzo gleamed in the late March sun, its red and blue stripes painted with a pride that made his chest ache. This was more than a club—it was a symbol of everything Bajo Flores could be, a beacon for kids like him who dared to dream.
Lucas stopped, his breath catching. The gates were massive, flanked by banners of past victories, the air thick with the scent of fresh grass and ambition. Beyond them, he could see the training pitches, impossibly green, and the modern facilities that seemed to belong to another world. Boys in brand-name kits were gathering, their laughter loud, their cleats gleaming. Lucas's hand tightened around the strap of his backpack, his worn shoes a stark contrast to their polished gear. He felt small, out of place, a defender in a forward's tryout. But the fire inside him burned brighter, drowning out the doubts.
This was his shot. His dream. And no matter how impossible it seemed, Lucas Altamirano was ready to fight for it.
[End for chapter 1]