Chapter 33: On the Bench
Early October 2013 arrived damp and overcast, as though the city itself braced for the coming confrontation. Lucas stepped onto the Estadio Pedro Bidegain's service tunnel, heart thrumming beneath his ribs, and paused a moment in the cool concrete corridor. He tightened the straps on his shin guards, the red-and-blue of his kit catching the stadium lights in brief glints. Today was the day: his first inclusion in a competitive matchday squad under the floodlit sky of Primera División.
He followed Ríos through the narrow passageway, flanked by steel railings and the muffled echoes of staff preparing the pitch. From here, the roar of thousands would normally crash overhead, but sanctions still kept the stands empty. For Lucas, that absence only magnified the moment—their performance would have to carry its own thunder.
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The Dressing Room
They emerged into the dressing room where the first team gathered. Kits hung in strict numerical order: Buffarini's number 4, Cetto's 5, Mercier's 16, and Lucas's new place among them—number 32—pressed into the front of his shirt. He found his locker padlocked and circled with security stickers—a reminder that he had officially stepped into the professional sphere.
Torrico moved among the goalkeepers' area, testing gloves with a precision born of centuries of matches. Romagnoli adjusted his training bib and smiled at Lucas. "Ready for your debut, Skinny?" he teased in his low, gravelly voice. Lucas's cheeks warmed; the nickname carried both affection and the weight of expectation.
Ortigoza, the midfield anchor and champion of their recent Copa Argentina triumph, sat on the bench tying his boots. He looked up and gave Lucas a firm nod. "Stay calm. Trust your instincts." Those words, simple yet powerful, settled Lucas's mind more than any drill ever could.
Ríos called the squad to a semicircle. "Today, we face Argentinos Juniors at the Diego Maradona stadium. It's a tough fixture—fast, aggressive, fearless. You five from the reserves may not start, but your energy will be vital. One of you will be called off the bench. Be ready at every whistle."
His gaze settled on Lucas. "Altamirano, you'll warm up with me off the pitch. I want your eyes on every detail: pressing angles, defensive rotations, transition runs."
Lucas swallowed and nodded. He felt Sosa's hand on his shoulder: a brief squeeze that spoke volumes. They were in this together.
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Warm-Up Rituals
On the pitch, Lucas joined Ríos in the technical area as the rest of the squad jogged out for their pre-match drills. The stadium lights gleamed on the damp grass; an artificial twilight even at midday. Without fans in the stands, the echo of boots on turf sounded eerily crisp.
Ríos instructed a series of dynamic stretches—hip openers, walking lunges, A-skips—each movement executed perfectly by every professional. Lucas mirrored them, feeling the burn in his muscles but feeding off the disciplined energy.
Next came concentric passing drills. Players formed two large circles; inside, they circulated the ball with one touch, while outside, defenders pressured. Lucas stood among five defenders, tasked with winning the ball. When a stray pass rolled his way, he stepped in, chest-controlled it, and delivered a crisp pass back into play. Ríos nodded in approval: "Good anticipation."
Then came a rondo involving the entire midfield unit. Romagnoli, Ortigoza, Mercier, and Kalinski formed the juggernaut, with Lucas joining as a fifth pivot. The ball moved so rapidly that Lucas had to trust his instincts. When it arrived at his feet, he took one glance up and slipped a neat through-pass to Buffarini on the edge of the circle. The veteran volleyed it back under pressure. The drill concluded, and Lucas felt the exhilaration of holding his own among seasoned professionals.
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Tactical Walkthrough
They gathered at midfield for a final tactical briefing. Ríos wheeled out a wheeled whiteboard and sketched their formation—4-2-3-1—as well as the patterns they'd practiced all week. On the screen behind them, video clips flashed: narrow pressing shapes, fast transition counters, compact defensive blocks.
"Argentinos will man-mark our number 10," Ríos explained. "They'll force him wide, then pounce on the second ball. Our job is to over-rotate, open the half-spaces, and spring the break. Lucas, watch how the double-pivot rotates when the ball moves from flank to flank. That's where I may send you on."
Lucas's pen scratched across his notepad: "Watch pivot rotation; half-space runs." He felt the plan crystallize: a blueprint to follow if his moment came.
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Bench Duty
Back on the sideline adjacent to the main bench, Lucas took his place beside Sosa and Duarte. They faced the unused seats of an empty popular—every cushion and concrete step visible. In another life, those seats would have been packed, the cries of tens of thousands fueling their hearts. Now the silence focused them inward.
Ríos pinned Lucas's name on the substitutes' board. "No. 32," it read in bold letters. There it was: his official designation for today's game.
The starting whistle blew. Argentinos kicked off, their slender midfielders probing San Lorenzo's shape with sharp passes. Torrico and the back four held firm. From the bench, Lucas watched every move: how the fullbacks angled to block the wing; how the wingers dropped to support the pivots. His mind raced with tactical data.
A few minutes in, Buffarini earned a free kick on the left. Lucas rose to his feet, heart skipping. The delivery whipped in; Cetto rose to meet it but saw his header blocked on the line. The pressure built—just as Ríos had warned.
At the quarter-hour mark, San Lorenzo found an opening. Ortigoza carved out space with a shimmy, clipped a pass to Verón at the top of the box, and Verón side-footed home. 1–0. Lucas leapt to his feet, arms raised. Sosa threw his arm around him in a quick hug. From the bench, Cetto shouted, "Keep that energy, boys!"
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Unfolding Drama
The match flowed into a tense back-and-forth. Argentinos hit the post with a curling shot; San Lorenzo countered with a chance for Piatti. Each swing brought cheers and gasps that echoed oddly in the silent stadium.
In the 65th minute, the pivotal moment arrived. Romagnoli slipped, and Argentinos pounced—a quick one-two and a low shot into the corner. 1–1. The bench groaned. Lucas's pulse raced: this was his moment.
Ríos stood and pointed. "Lucas, get ready!" he barked.
Lucas bolted upright, slipping off his tracksuit top. He felt every eye on him as he moved to the assistant coach to receive his bib. His lungs flared with anticipation.
"Remember your roles," Ríos said, leaning in. "Stay compact. Find the half-turn. We need your legs."
Lucas swallowed hard and nodded.
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The Call
In the 70th minute, the second assistant coach lifted the green flag: "32 on, 7 off!" It wasn't Buffarini or Mercier who made way—it was Verón, the seasoned striker whose tireless work rate had shifted the game's momentum.
Lucas stepped onto the turf, heart pounding like a drum. The grass felt alive beneath his boots. He jogged to his position as the fourth midfielder behind a lone striker—his new home for the final twenty minutes.
The coach's voice carried: "Eyes up! Be first to every second ball."
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Impact and Intensity
Lucas settled into the midfield zone, scanning for passing lanes. Argentinos pressed high, but he found a pocket of space and received the ball from Ortigoza—his first touch under fire, then a quick glance and a weighted pass to Sosa making a diagonal run. The move broke the press and forced the fullback back. The assistant coach on the sideline clapped twice.
Lucas felt a surge of confidence. He pressed on: intercepting a loose pass, sprinting to cover Mercier's position, then recycling possession with a crisp one-two. Each moment affirmed Ríos's trust.
In the 82nd minute, a corner broke out to Lucas at the top of the D. He steadied himself, held off a charging defender, and clipped a pass to Duarte wide. Duarte crossed low; the ball spun away but led to a scramble that ended with a shot into the side netting. The assistant coach's "Listen!" echoed in Lucas's ear—a reminder of defensive accountability.
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Final Whistle
As the match ticked into stoppage time, San Lorenzo held firm. Torrico emerged to smother a late shot; Buffarini and Cetto won crucial duels. The referee's whistle cut sharply through the night air: 2–1 to San Lorenzo.
Relief and elation flooded the bench. Lucas sank to his knees, pressing palms into the turf. Teammates swamped him—Sosa, Duarte, and even Romagnoli offered hearty embraces. Ríos appeared at the edge of the box, his face breaking into a rare grin. He raised Lucas's arm in triumph.
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Aftermath
In the locker room, the victory felt cathartic. Players who had slumped in defeat celebrated with jerseys soaked in sweat and joy. Lucas slung an arm around Sosa's shoulders. "We did it," he whispered, voice thick.
Ríos addressed the squad, breathing hard. "You showed what we are made of: resilience, unity, and belief. Lucas, your energy turned the tide. Well done."
Lucas's muscles trembled with exhaustion and pride as he collected his gear. He found a quiet corner to note in his pocket journal:
> October 4, 2013: My first minutes. From bench to battle, I felt the pulse of this club. I proved my readiness. Tonight, we hold our place.
[End for chapter 33]