Learning the Strike

The thrill of wearing San Lorenzo's azulgrana had faded into the grind of becoming a forward. The other Juveniles danced with the ball, their feet speaking a language mine couldn't yet grasp. Years as a defender had wired me for caution—track runners, block shots, clear danger. But up top, caution was a chain. Every passing drill, every tight-space turn, every off-ball run felt like a puzzle I was solving with the wrong pieces.

Coach Benítez's voice rumbled across the pitch, gruff but steady. "Luca, a forward's mind is a predator," he said during a drill, his eyes locking onto mine. "See the goal, seize the chance, strike without hesitation. Shed the defender's fear. Be bold." His words echoed in my head, a mantra battling the instincts that still pulled me back, urging me to protect instead of attack.

I found refuge in a musty video archive behind the equipment room, its clang of metal fading as I slipped inside. The dim space, lit by a flickering TV, was my classroom. Before dawn painted Buenos Aires, I'd huddle there, the whir of an ancient video player my only company. Legends flickered on the screen—my teachers, their goals my textbooks.

Zlatan Ibrahimović owned my attention first. His towering frame, like mine, hid a grace I envied. I rewound his goals obsessively, studying the subtle shift of his hips before a rocket shot, the delicate touch that tamed wild crosses. On the pitch, I tried to mirror his hold-up play, shielding the ball with my body, my lanky frame finally a weapon. My first attempts were clumsy—balls bouncing off my chest, teammates snickering—but I felt a spark, a hint of Zlatan's swagger.

Robert Lewandowski, young and hungry in Borussia Dortmund tapes, taught me goal poaching. His runs were surgical, exploiting slivers of space with feints and bursts that left defenders grasping air. I traced his paths, noting how he curved his sprints to stay onside, how he pounced on loose balls. During drills, I mimicked his timing, darting into the box with new urgency, though my shots often skidded wide, lacking his icy precision.

Lionel Messi was another world. The ball was part of him, his low center of gravity defying physics as he carved through defenses. My long strides couldn't match his quickness, but I chased his principles—sudden pauses, sharp bursts, finding space in chaos. In agility drills, I pushed for quicker turns, my limbs heavy compared to his, but the intent was there: a flicker of unpredictability, a touch of Messi's magic.

My notebook filled with scribbles: "Ibra: chest control buys time," "Lewy: blind-spot runs," "Messi: pause, then explode." These weren't just notes—they were my fight to rewrite years of defensive wiring, to mold myself into a forward.

On the pitch, the screen's lessons took root, slow but real. My passes in the final third gained intent, risking creation over safety. In aerial duels, I channeled Zlatan, meeting crosses with authority, my headers thudding into the net. During a scrimmage, I scored with a towering leap, the ball crashing past the keeper. Alexis whooped, sprinting over. "You're stealing Ibra's moves, Flaco!" he said, smirking. Coach Herrera's nod from the sidelines was rare, a quiet jolt of pride.

But my past clung tight. In a full-pitch scrimmage, I drifted too deep, instincts screaming to shield our goal. Pérez, the wiry kid from last week, pounced on my hesitation. "Still a defender, Altamirano?" he taunted, stealing the ball. My jaw tightened, but I chased back, winning it with a clean slide. Coach Benítez blew his whistle, his voice sharp. "Good recovery, Luca, but stay up top. You're not back there anymore."

The taunt stung, but it woke me. I pushed forward, calling for the ball. Alexis whipped a pass, and I trapped it, cleaner than before. Pérez charged, his smirk sharp, but I held him off, spinning to face the goal. My shot grazed the post, drawing a gasp from the boys. "Close, Flaco!" Alexis shouted, his grin wide. I jogged back, heart pounding, the defender in me fading, the forward stirring.

After practice, I stayed late, juggling against the brick wall near the complex, my boots scuffing the dirt. Each touch was a step closer to the player I wanted to be. Pérez lingered nearby, watching. "You're trying hard, I'll give you that," he said, his tone half-mocking, half-curious. "But strikers don't get points for effort." I met his gaze, my voice steady. "They get goals. I'll get there." He shrugged, walking off, but his words lingered, a challenge I couldn't ignore.

As the week ended, I felt the shift. The azulgrana fit better, less like a borrowed skin. The pitch, once daunting, was my proving ground. I was raw, my touch still heavy, my instincts half-formed, but I was moving forward, carving a new path.

On the final day, Coach Herrera called us in after a grueling session. Sweat dripped, legs ached, but her words cut through. "Some of you are starting to show up," she said, her gaze sweeping the group. "Next week, we scrimmage against the reserves. They won't go easy. Prove you belong." Her eyes landed on me, brief but heavy, a silent question: Can you keep up?

Walking home with Alexis, Bajo Flores alive with evening noise, I felt the weight of her words. "Reserves, huh?" Alexis said, nudging me. "Time to show 'em what Flaco's got." I nodded, my pulse quickening. The reserves were older, faster, sharper—boys on the cusp of pro contracts. I was a rookie forward, barely finding my feet. But as I reached my door, the San Lorenzo crest on my bag gleaming, I felt a fire ignite. The real test was coming, and I'd face it head-on, no matter how steep the climb.

[End for Chapter 3]