1 February 2010 · Juvenile Tryouts, San Lorenzo de Almagro
From age ten, I'd chased every stray ball in Bajo Flores until my mother, Carla, dragged me home at midnight, hands on her hips. Born into a family of hard workers—my father Raúl on construction sites, my mother sewing empanadas to sell—we could barely afford the lights on our tiny patio, let alone proper boots. But every dusk, I slipped out with my patched ball and dreamed of a real stadium. At ten, coaches plucked me from street "picados" to stand in goal—my height made them think I'd fit between the posts. I hated goalkeeping, so at twelve I begged to play defense, and the coaches finally gave me the chance. For two seasons I learned to read the game, clear crosses, and head stray passes away. By fourteen, I'd trained exactly to the academy's age limit and had to leave once I turned fourteen. Undeterred, I spent a year trialing at various clubs—sparkling through practice drills but never earning more than a polite handshake. No one showed the faintest interest… until today.
The sun hammered the concrete courtyard as I pressed a sweaty palm against the flapping poster:"San Lorenzo Juvenile Tryouts – ONLY FORWARDS."I'd trained as a defender, not a striker—yet my heart jumped. I grabbed the flyer, smoothed its wrinkles, and tucked it into my pocket. Behind me, boys in bright cleats laughed and jostled for space. I swallowed, hand still on the fence, and murmured under my breath, "One shot at fifteen… don't waste it."
I stepped onto the hard surface. My friend Martín, fifteen and already a slick winger in another academy, fell into stride beside me. He'd tagged along for company—and maybe a bit of fun.
"Hey, Flaco," he grinned, nudging me with his hip. "Think they'll let you defend in a forward trial?"
I shook my head, trying to sound casual. "No idea. But I'm here—might as well try."
He raised an eyebrow. "You know it says 'for forwards,' right?"
"I saw," I said, forcing a smile. "Guess I'm switching positions."
Martín laughed, but not unkindly. "Good luck reading attacks when you can't read defenses, hermano."
I bumped his shoulder. "Just watch."
A whistle sliced the air. The coaches formed two lines; one coach began herded us toward midfield. There was no grass—only cracked concrete and stray stones. My oversized boots skidded on the hard surface as I hustled into position.
The first drill was simple: 5-a-side, touch-limited, goals at each end marked by traffic cones. Within seconds, the ball pinged off the fence and ricocheted between players. My first touch was heavy. I tried a body feint, but the defender stole in from behind. My heart pounded as I sprinted back, digging my studs into the cement to win the ball. Martín shouted encouragement as I flicked the ball back toward a teammate.
After ten minutes of drills, we gathered around Coach Herrera—a tall woman with a no-nonsense ponytail. She scanned us, lips pressed into a thin line. "I want to see attitude," she said. "Movement off the ball. Finish your chances."
The next exercise: rapid-fire crosses from the wing, finish with one touch. Boys lined up for shot after shot. When my turn came, I jogged in from the corner, chest tight. The wingman's cross curved over my head. I leapt, arms pinwheeling, and met the ball with my forehead. It cannoned off the concrete netting behind us. I landed hard, breath knocked out of me, but grinned as the fence rattled. Martín whistled.
Coach Herrera inclined her head. "Good poacher's instinct," she called—loud enough for half the courtyard to hear. My chest filled with warmth. For a moment, I forgot my past rejections.
The final drill was a small-sided match: eight forwards against eight defenders (we rotated in). I lined up alongside Martín. He winked. "Let's show them something."
The whistle blew. Instantly, I was moving—cutting inside, checking over my shoulder for a through ball, feeling the rush of tired muscles. I received a pass at the top of the cone-marked box, feinted left, then drove right, shoving the ball past a defender's toe. He reacted late, hooking my ankle. Pain flared. I went down on one knee, but I blinked back tears and popped up. The coach blew the whistle for play to continue. I limped, cursing under my breath.
Martín passed me a water bottle as we huddled behind the fence. "You okay?" he asked.
"Fine," I lied, throat raw. But I set my jaw and jogged back. I would not quit.
In the final minutes, I found space between two defenders. Martín sent me a perfect through-ball. My first touch was neat; the second sent the ball curling toward the makeshift goal. It clipped the top cone and fell inside. I sprinted toward the fence, arms raised, as the boys cheered. Coach Herrera let out a rare, approving smile.
I sank to my heels, heart racing. My boots bore scuffs and blood from the earlier tackle—but I didn't care. Martín slapped my back. "You nailed it, Flaco."
As the sun dipped behind the Boedo skyline, the coaches gathered us. Herrera crossed her arms. "Altamirano?"
I straightened. Every breath felt loud.
"You're in," she said, voice flat. "No idea why you signed up as a striker—but you've got the killer instinct."
Joy flooded me. I nodded, words failing. Martín punched the air.
That night, back in Bajo Flores, I pressed the tryout flyer against my desk lamp and stared. The words "ONLY FORWARDS" glowed in red and blue. My position had changed, but my dream stayed the same: San Lorenzo's colors on my back.
Author's thought: It's not the jersey you wear that defines you, but the courage to claim the role you believe you're meant to play.
[End for chapter 1]