Chapter 16: Roots and Bonds

The alley was quiet at 6:30 a.m., the streetlamps still flickering out as I stepped off the colectivo. Boots clicking against cracked pavement, I looked up at the corrugated-iron roofs of our neighborhood. The air smelled of empanadas cooling on windowsills and the faint diesel of passing minibuses. I tightened my jacket, pulled out my phone, and saw Sosa's message:

Sosa: "Skinny, potrero at 7? Don't be late."

I grinned. My first real greeting of the day. I typed back:

Me: "On my way."

By seven o'clock, Sosa was already juggling a half-deflated ball under the glow of a single bare bulb. He flashed me a grin when I arrived, arms wide.

"Late again?" he teased.

"Traffic," I replied, though I'd sprinted half the way. He laughed and tossed me the patched ball. The makeshift cones—two soda bottles—were twenty yards apart. Our kicks sent dust into the air, and I felt the old rhythm return: one-touch flicks, low drives, quick turns in the dirt.

When he challenged me to 1v1, I feinted left, pushed right, and raced past him. He stumbled, then caught up, breathless.

"Skinny, you've still got it," he panted, using my old nickname with no irony—only warmth.

Heading back toward the club, we climbed into the rattling colectivo. The driver tuned the radio to a football show, where a commentator's voice rumbled through the speakers.

"Tonight, under the lights at Nuevo Gasómetro, San Lorenzo meets Huracán in the clásico. But first, the reserves prepare for their own test…"

My chest tightened. The clásico against Huracán: everyone talked about it. Ríos had said the Reserve friendly was a stepping stone toward that match. If the reserves played smart, they'd be a backup plan for the senior squad.

Sosa elbowed me. "One day we'll be the ones under those lights."

I nodded, staring out at the blur of streetlamps and low houses. Dreams and reality felt fragile together.

At the training ground, the turf gleamed under morning sun. We lined up alongside the Reserve squad—older, taller, more confident. Their passes snapped like rifles. As we warmed up, Ríos walked the sideline and clapped once.

"This isn't just a drill," he said, voice carrying. "This is your audition. Think of it as prep for Huracán. They're going to test everything—discipline, hunger, intelligence. Show me you can handle both."

A hush fell. We all understood. The clásico wasn't just another game; it was a statement. And we, the next generation, were part of the statement.

Rondos started: six against two in a shrinking circle. Pressure came fast. Every time I lost the ball, I chased back, breath burning, chest heaving. Touch one was safe; touch two was anticipation; touch three found my teammate. Sosa, on the edge of the circle, called out encouragement: "Keep it tight, Skinny!"

I heard it clearly. Sosa's faith felt like armor.

Then we moved into small-sided games. The older guys marked tighter than any youth match. A midfielder shoved me hard off the ball, drawing a grunt from me. I shook it off, turned, and found a quick give-and-go with Vargas to spring past two defenders. The bench applauded in passing, but Coach Ríos only nodded.

During a pause, Sosa caught up to me.

"They're watching," he said quietly. "Every move."

I exhaled. "No pressure."

He bumped my shoulder. "Pressure-made diamonds, brother."

We smiled. That felt real.

On the sideline, a Reserve player with a crooked grin strode over. "Nice vision," he said. "But let's see how you handle physical play."

He delivered a solid shoulder to my ribs as the whistle blew. I staggered, mouth dry.

"You okay?" Sosa asked.

"Fine," I lied, rubbing my side.

The scrimmage resumed. I tracked runs, predicted passes, and slipped the ball through a seam for the winger to sprint onto. He beat the defender, but his shot was weak. Still, I felt the play in my bones: the rhythm, the spaces, the hunger.

Afterward, Ríos called us in. No lectures—just a quick rundown.

"You adapted today," he told me. "You moved from potrero instincts to professional response. But remember: Huracán won't be forgiving. Keep that in mind."

I nodded, chest tight with anticipation.

Walking toward the locker room, Sosa clapped me on the back. "You've earned their attention, Skinny."

I met his eyes. "Thanks."

He grinned. "Tomorrow, we do it again."

That night, back in the narrow kitchen of our home, my mom served lentils and rice. She watched me spoon it onto my plate, smiling.

"How was Reserve training?"

"Tough," I admitted. "But they left me space to play."

Her eyes glistened. "You belong there."

My dad, reading the paper, looked up. No words—just a nod.

At my bedroom door, I set my boots in the corner and unzipped my bag, pulling out the tattered notebook:

"Carry your roots into every game."

I closed it, switched off the light, and let sleep arrive with the promise of the clásico test ahead.

[End of Chapter 16]