Against the Odds

The training field of San Lorenzo de Almagro buzzed with nervous energy, the late March sun casting long shadows across the pristine grass. Lucas Altamirano stood among the hopefuls, his patched sneakers sinking slightly into the turf. At fifteen, he felt like an imposter, a defender daring to compete in a tryout for forwards. The other boys moved with confidence, their brand-name kits gleaming, their cleats clicking rhythmically as they juggled balls with ease. Lucas's heart pounded, but the fire inside him—the spark that had led him to rip that flyer off a Bajo Flores lamppost—burned brighter than his doubts.

He scanned the field, his eyes finding Alexis Cuello among the boys in official San Lorenzo uniforms. His best friend, a year older and already part of the club's youth academy, stood with a group assisting the tryout. Alexis caught his gaze and flashed a grin, a silent You've got this. Lucas managed a shaky smile, but his stomach twisted. He hadn't told Alexis he was coming, too embarrassed to admit he was trying for a position he'd never played. A forward? he thought, gripping the straps of his worn backpack. What was I thinking?

A sharp whistle cut through the chatter. Three coaches stepped forward, their presence commanding silence. Valentina Herrera, the assistant coach, stood with a clipboard, her sharp eyes scanning the group. Tomas Mazza, the head physical trainer, loomed beside her, his broad frame intimidating even from a distance. And then there was "Gallego" Insúa, the head coach of the youth team, a grizzled man whose nickname came from his Galician roots and whose reputation as a football encyclopedia preceded him. Lucas swallowed hard. These were the gatekeepers to his dream.

"Listen up!" Mazza barked, his voice booming. "This isn't a game. San Lorenzo doesn't take just anyone. Show us skill, heart, and discipline, or you're out. Forwards need flair, precision, and hunger. Let's see it."

The tryout began with a series of drills—dribbling, shooting, passing. Lucas's palms sweated as he stepped into line, the weight of every rejection from the past year pressing down on him. Boca, River, Independiente, Vélez—every club had told him he wasn't enough. Now, he was here, in the shadow of San Lorenzo's crest, trying to be something he wasn't. The first drill was dribbling through cones, a test of agility and ball control. The other boys moved like dancers, weaving effortlessly. Lucas, though, was all legs and no finesse. The ball slipped from his foot, skittering wide, drawing a stifled laugh from a boy in a shiny Nike kit. His face burned, but he reset, trying again. Another miss. Another chuckle.

The shooting drill was worse. Lucas's shots were wild, either sailing over the crossbar or rolling weakly to the keeper. He could feel the coaches' eyes on him, their pens scratching notes. Valentina's brow furrowed, and Mazza shook his head slightly. Lucas's chest tightened. He was failing—spectacularly. Why did I think I could do this? he thought, his dream slipping away like sand through his fingers.

But then came the heading drill. The coaches set up crosses, testing the boys' ability to attack the ball in the air. Lucas, towering over most at six feet, felt a flicker of confidence. As a defender, he'd spent years leaping to clear crosses, using his height to dominate. The first ball came in, a high arc from the wing. Lucas timed his jump, his body rising instinctively, and connected cleanly, sending the ball thumping into the net. The keeper didn't move. A murmur rippled through the group. Another cross, another header—this one harder, more precise. Lucas landed, his heart racing. For the first time, he felt like he belonged.

The final drill was about pressure—chasing down defenders, forcing mistakes. Again, Lucas's defensive instincts kicked in. He hounded the ball, his long strides closing gaps, his tackles clean but relentless. A boy in an Adidas kit cursed as Lucas stole the ball, earning a nod from Gallego Insúa. By the time the whistle blew, Lucas was drenched in sweat, his legs shaking but his spirit alight. He'd failed at flair, but he'd shown something else—grit, determination, a fire that refused to die.

The coaches huddled, their voices low as they deliberated. Lucas stood with the other boys, his breath uneven, watching as Valentina scribbled names on her clipboard. The group was thinning—some boys already slinking toward the exit, heads bowed. Lucas's stomach churned. He'd given everything, but was it enough? He glanced at Alexis, who gave him a thumbs-up, but doubt gnawed at him. I'm not a forward. They'll see right through me.

Finally, Gallego stepped forward, his voice gruff. "The following names stay. The rest, thank you for coming." He began reading: "Martínez… Gonzáles…" Lucas's heart sank with each name that wasn't his. Then, at the very end, Gallego paused, glancing at Valentina. She nodded, almost reluctantly. "Altamirano. Lucas Altamirano."

Lucas froze, his name echoing in his ears. Me? The boy in the Nike kit shot him a disbelieving look, but Lucas barely noticed. Joy surged through him, raw and overwhelming. He'd made it. Against all odds, San Lorenzo wanted him. He turned to Alexis, who was already sprinting toward him, his grin wide enough to light up the field.

"Flaco, you did it!" Alexis shouted, pulling him into a bear hug. "I knew you had it in you!"

Lucas laughed, disbelief bubbling up. "I thought I was done for. I was terrible out there."

"Nah, you showed heart," Alexis said, clapping his shoulder. "That's what they want. You're one of us now."

They walked toward the exit, the sun dipping low over Bajo Flores. Lucas's legs felt like jelly, but his chest swelled with something new—hope, real and tangible. At home, he burst through the door, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "Mamá, Papá, I made it! San Lorenzo picked me!" Carla's eyes welled up, her arms wrapping around him. Raúl, silent as ever, gave a rare smile, pride flickering in his gaze.

Later, as Lucas and Alexis sat on a curb outside, sharing a warm soda, Lucas made a promise. "I'm gonna catch up to you, Alexis. Wait for me, yeah?"

Alexis laughed, their fists bumping in the fading light. "No doubt, Flaco. You're just getting started."

But as Lucas looked back at the San Lorenzo gates, the crest glowing under the streetlights, a new fear crept in. Making the team was one thing. Proving he belonged was another.

[End for chapter 2]