Kicking into Gear

The week after the tryouts felt like a dream I was afraid to wake from. The San Lorenzo flyer, once a fragile hope in my pocket, was now a reality, its embossed crest tracing under my calloused fingers—fingers that still carried the faint smell of old goalkeeping gloves. I'd catch myself staring at it, the blue and crimson stripes a silent promise of the improbable turn my life had taken.

The first training session with the San Lorenzo Juveniles hit like a tidal wave. The air buzzed with a sharpness I'd never felt in the chaotic street games of Bajo Flores. The rhythmic thud of perfectly struck balls echoed across the pristine pitch, blending with Coach Herrera's sharp commands. These weren't the cracked asphalt courts of my childhood; this was a different world, one where every touch carried weight, every move was watched.

They handed us our kits, the iconic blue and crimson stripes slipping over my shoulders. I'd worn those colors on faded jerseys as a kid, dreaming under streetlights, but now they felt sacred, heavy with meaning. I ran my fingers over the crest, my heart thumping. This was real. I was a Cuervo now.

Coach Herrera gathered us, her voice cutting through the morning chill. "Discipline. Commitment. Teamwork," she said, her eyes sweeping over us. "You're here because you showed something, but that's just the start." Her gaze lingered on me for a split second, a flicker of acknowledgment for the defender-turned-forward standing out of place. I swallowed hard, determined to prove I belonged.

The drills were a brutal wake-up call. The other forwards moved like they'd been born with the ball at their feet, their first touches flawless, their passes slicing through the air with precision. Years as a defender had taught me to read the game, to anticipate, but in the attacking third, I was a stranger. My instincts betrayed me—lunging for tackles when I should've been sprinting for space, hesitating when a striker would've shot. Doubt crept in, whispering I was out of my depth.

Alexis, my anchor, was a whirlwind on the wing. His quick feet danced past defenders, his crosses curling with menace. "Keep at it, Flaco," he said after I flubbed a pass, his grin infectious. "You've got the engine. Just tune the instrument." I nodded, his words pulling me back from the edge of frustration.

The pace was relentless. Sprints left my lungs burning, my thighs screaming. Every drill demanded focus—control the ball, find space, strike clean. In a finishing drill, we had to trap a lofted pass and shoot in one motion. My first touch was heavy, the ball bouncing away like a traitor. My shot skidded wide, drawing a stifled laugh from a wiry kid named Pérez, his eyes glinting with smugness. "Stick to defense, Altamirano," he muttered, jogging past. My jaw tightened, but I reset, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck.

Coach Herrera's whistle cut through my thoughts. "Aerial duels!" she barked, pointing to the penalty box. This was my ground. Years of leaping to clear crosses as a defender gave me an edge. I timed my jumps, my height towering over the smaller defenders, and met each ball with a thud, headers crashing into the net. Alexis whooped, his fist pumping. Herrera's nod was subtle but real, a spark that lit my resolve.

The week was a cycle of triumphs and stumbles. I shone in physical drills, my stamina surprising even me. But the finesse—the delicate flicks, the tight-space footwork—felt like a foreign language. After practice, I stayed late, juggling the ball against a worn brick wall near the complex, my boots scuffing the dirt. Each touch was a step toward closing the gap, a refusal to let my past define me.

The other boys watched, some with curiosity, others with skepticism. I was an anomaly—a defender in a striker's kit. Every pass, every shot was a statement: Judge me for what I can become. Pérez's taunts stung, but they fueled me too. "You'll trip over your own feet, Flaco," he sneered during a scrimmage, his shoulder clipping mine. I pushed back, winning a loose ball and firing it to Alexis, who grinned like we'd cracked a code.

As the week ended, exhaustion settled into my bones, but something else took root—a fragile sense of belonging. The blue and crimson stripes no longer felt borrowed; they were mine. The pitch, once intimidating, was starting to feel like home. I was still raw, still learning, but I was here, running toward my dream.

On the final day, we ran a small-sided game, the pitch tight with intensity. I drifted into space, calling for the ball. Alexis whipped a pass, and I trapped it cleaner than I had all week. Pérez charged, his smirk sharp, but I held him off, my shoulder firm. I cut inside, my heart pounding, and struck the ball. It sailed low, grazing the post before nestling into the net. The boys roared, Alexis tackling me with a laugh. "That's my Flaco!" he shouted. Even Herrera's stern face cracked into a faint smile.

As we jogged to the benches, sweat dripping, Coach Herrera pulled me aside. "You're not there yet, Altamirano," she said, her voice low but steady. "But you've got fight. Keep that, and you might surprise us all." Her words landed like a challenge, heavy with possibility.

Walking home with Alexis, the Bajo Flores streets buzzing with evening life, I felt lighter. The weight of the tryouts was gone, replaced by a fire to prove myself. Alexis nudged me, his grin wide. "First week down, Flaco. You ready for the real work?"

"Born ready," I said, bumping his fist, my voice steady despite the ache in my legs. As I reached my door, the familiar peeling paint greeting me, I glanced at the San Lorenzo crest on my kit bag. The road ahead was steep—others had years of striker's instinct, and I was playing catch-up. But with Alexis by my side and the pulse of Bajo Flores in my veins, I'd fight for every inch of this dream. Tomorrow, the real test began, and I wasn't backing down.

[End for Chapter 2]