The ball veered wildly as I tried Ronaldinho's elastico, my boot catching it awkwardly, sending it skittering across the empty Juveniles pitch. The crisp Buenos Aires morning, the Nuevo Gasómetro's shadow looming nearby, felt like a stage for my clumsy dreams. San Lorenzo's training ground was sacred, a place where kids from Bajo Flores like me fought to climb the club's ranks—juveniles, reserves, maybe even the Primera División. But my lanky frame, built for blocking shots, not weaving magic, betrayed me. Still, Ronaldinho's artistry from those old Barcelona tapes burned in my mind, his feet a blur of genius. I had to try.
I reset, mimicking his step-over, but my long limbs tangled, the ball bouncing away like a mocking laugh. The joy of chasing that brilliance—imagining myself dancing past defenders—kept me going, even as frustration gnawed. My first touch was better, my passes bolder, thanks to Alexis's drills and hours studying Zlatan and Lewandowski. But Ronaldinho's flair? That was a dream too far.
"Altamirano? What in God's name are you doing?"
Coach Herrera's voice sliced through the quiet, sharp with amusement. I froze mid-shuffle, face burning, the ball rolling guiltily at my feet. She stood yards away, arms crossed, a bemused arch to her brow. Teammates trickling onto the pitch stifled laughs. Alexis, grinning wide, shot me a thumbs-up, his eyes dancing with mischief.
"Coach… just practicing," I mumbled, nudging the ball. "Ronaldinho… the way he moves with the ball…" My voice faded, embarrassment swallowing my enthusiasm. At six-foot-three, built like a center-back, I was no five-foot-nine magician. The mismatch was laughable.
Herrera stepped closer, her amusement softening into something maternal. "Luca," she said, watching my next step-over flop, "your passion's admirable. Studying those players—Ronaldinho's vision, his audacity—it's good. But you've got to know your tools." She gestured to my broad shoulders, my height. "You're a different weapon. Ronaldinho slipped through tight spaces, low and agile. You dominate aerial duels, hold up play, use your presence to carve chances. Trying to be his twin is like squeezing into boots too small. It won't fit."
Her tone shifted, the coach taking over. "Watch the 'number nines,' Luca. Study how they own the penalty area, create space for headers, shield the ball. Think Ibrahimović—how he uses his frame to bully defenders. You can add flair, but build it on your strengths, not someone else's gifts."
Her words hit like a truth I'd dodged. Ronaldinho's magic was a siren's call, but my path lay elsewhere. I wasn't here to mimic; I was here to forge my own fire as a forward in San Lorenzo's academy, where only the best climbed to the reserves, then the first team.
In that morning's drill, we worked on attacking crosses. I focused on Herrera's advice, not just leaping but positioning—using my body to nudge my marker, mirroring Zlatan's subtle shifts. I met a cross with a clean header, the ball thudding into the net's corner. Herrera's curt nod from the sidelines was gold, a sign I was on track.
After practice, Alexis and I stayed late, our extra sessions now a ritual. We drilled quick turns, my feet lighter each week. "You're moving better, Flaco," Alexis said, tossing me the ball. "Less like a defender, more like… you." I grinned, his words fuel. But the gap remained—years of defensive instincts still tugged, urging me to play safe.
Pérez, ever the thorn, jogged past. "Still chasing tricks, Altamirano?" he taunted. "The reserves won't care about your fancy moves tomorrow." His smirk stung, but I swallowed it, focusing on Alexis's next drill—a one-on-one duel. I faked left, cut right, my step-over cleaner, slipping past him. My shot grazed the post, drawing a whoop from Alexis. "That's it, Flaco!"
We set up a small-sided scrimmage, cones for goals, just us and a few stragglers. Alexis fed me a pass, and I trapped it, sharp and sure. Pérez barged in, stealing the ball with a hard shoulder. "This is San Lorenzo, not a playground," he snapped. I chased back, sliding clean to win it, then fired a pass to Alexis, who curled it home. "Nice, Flaco!" Alexis shouted, fist pumping.
Coach Herrera, lingering nearby, blew her whistle. "Good fight, Altamirano," she called. "But stay forward. You're not defending anymore." Her approval mixed with a challenge, a reminder of the stakes in San Lorenzo's youth system, where every session was a step toward the reserves—or a ticket out.
As dusk fell, the floodlights flickered off, Bajo Flores' pulse echoing beyond the pitch. I reflected on Herrera's words. The academy was a crucible, forging players for the Primera División or casting them aside. I was raw, my flair a work in progress, but I was learning to wield my height, my strength, my fire.
Alexis nudged me as we packed up. "Big day tomorrow, Flaco. The reserves are coming, and they're no joke—older, tougher, hungry for contracts." His grin was steady, but his eyes held a warning. "You ready?"
Pérez overheard, smirking. "He'd better be. Those guys'll eat him alive if he's still playing like a defender." His words cut, but they lit a spark.
Herrera approached, her clipboard tucked under her arm. "Altamirano," she said, her gaze piercing. "Tomorrow's scrimmage is your chance to show this club you're more than potential. The reserves won't hold back. Neither should you." Her voice carried the weight of San Lorenzo's legacy, a club that turned dreams into reality—or crushed them.
I gripped my bag, the azulgrana crest under my fingers, and felt my pulse race. The reserves were a step from the first team, their game a brutal test. I was a rookie, still shedding my defender's skin, but with Alexis's drills, Herrera's wisdom, and Bajo Flores' fire in my veins, I'd face them head-on. Tomorrow, I'd show San Lorenzo what Luca Altamirano could become.
[End for Chapter 6]