Chasing Brilliance

The ball skidded away from my boot, a traitor in a passing drill, as Alexis Cuello glided past, his touch so clean it seemed the ball was glued to him. San Lorenzo's Juveniles were a different breed—polished, precise, their years as attackers etched into every move. I was a defender in a striker's kit, my feet still learning to dance. Alexis, though, was a maestro, his brilliance a light I chased and a shadow I couldn't escape.

On the pitch, Alexis was untouchable. His first touch tamed wild passes with ease, his dribbling a blur of quicksilver that left defenders grasping air. In small-sided games, he'd weave through challenges, his low center of gravity defying tackles, his shots curling into corners with deadly calm. Coach Herrera's praise rang out—"Well played, Cuello!"—a reminder of the gap I was clawing to close. I admired him, but each flash of his genius sparked a quiet ache, a longing to match his spark.

This wasn't jealousy, not the bitter kind Mamá warned about. It was "envidia sana," she'd say—a healthy hunger to emulate someone great. Alexis was my friend, my brother from Bajo Flores' dusty pitches, always quick with a joke or a nod during grueling sprints. But when he unlocked defenses with a flick of his boot, I felt the weight of my own raw skills, the distance I had to run to stand beside him.

The video archive had taught me theory—Zlatan's swagger, Lewandowski's runs, Messi's magic—but I needed more. I needed to learn from the source, from Alexis's effortless brilliance. His game was alive, not frozen on a screen, and I had to tap into it to bridge the gap.

One evening, after a brutal session where Alexis dismantled our defense with a curling shot, I found him alone by the sidelines, firing free kicks into the net. The other boys were gone, the rhythmic thud of the ball echoing in the dusk. My stomach churned with nerves, but I walked over, kicking a stray ball.

"Hey, Alexis," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He looked up, his easy smile breaking through. "Qué onda, Flaco? Still got legs after that session?"

I grinned, nerves easing. "Barely. Look… I've been watching you. The way you move, the way you control the ball—it's unreal. You see things out there I'm still blind to." I paused, heat creeping up my neck. "Could you… maybe show me some stuff? After training? Dribbling, close control, that kind of thing?"

Silence hung, broken by distant birds. I braced for a no, feeling foolish for asking a natural to coach a rookie. But Alexis's grin widened, his eyes warm.

"Extra training, Flaco? You're serious about this, huh?" He bounced the ball, thoughtful. "I remember those late nights in Bajo Flores, kicking 'til we dropped. Let's bring that fire here. Where do we start—those step-overs you butchered today?"

I laughed, relief flooding me. "Yeah, those. And maybe how you make defenders look like statues."

"Deal," he said, tossing me the ball. "Let's try a one-on-one drill. You attack, I defend. Show me what you've got."

I nodded, heart racing. We set up cones, the pitch quiet under the fading light. My first move was clumsy, my step-over tripping over itself. Alexis stole the ball, laughing. "Too slow, Flaco! Keep your hips loose, like you're dancing." He demonstrated, his feet a blur, then reset. I tried again, mimicking his sway, and slipped past him, my touch lighter. "Better!" he shouted, tackling me playfully.

We drilled for an hour—dribbling, feints, quick turns. My boots scuffed the grass, sweat stung my eyes, but each move felt sharper, Alexis's pointers sinking in. "Look at their hips, not their feet," he said. "That's where the move starts." I nodded, absorbing every word, the gap between us shrinking with each rep.

Pérez, the wiry kid from last week, lingered nearby, watching. "Cuello's giving charity lessons now?" he called, smirking. My jaw tightened, but Alexis waved him off. "Focus, Flaco. He's just noise." I pushed harder, nailing a feint that sent the ball past an imaginary defender, drawing a grin from Alexis.

As dusk settled, we slumped by the goalpost, catching our breath. "You're getting it, Flaco," Alexis said, tossing me a water bottle. "Keep that hunger, and you'll catch up."

"Thanks, man," I said, voice thick. "This… it means a lot."

He bumped my fist, Bajo Flores style. "We're in this together, like always."

Walking off the pitch, the azulgrana crest on my bag gleamed under the floodlights. The climb was steep, but with Alexis's brilliance lighting the way, it felt possible. I was raw, but I was learning, each step a defiance of my past.

Then, a shadow moved near the sidelines—Coach Benítez, clipboard in hand, watching us. "Cuello, Altamirano," he called, his voice low but firm. "Extra work's good, but save some for tomorrow. The reserves are coming, and they'll test every inch of you." His gaze lingered on me, a mix of curiosity and challenge. "Show me you're ready, Altamirano."

My pulse quickened. The reserves—older, sharper, a step from pro—were no small hurdle. Alexis nudged me, grinning. "Time to shine, Flaco." As I headed home, Bajo Flores alive with night sounds, the weight of Benítez's words settled in. Tomorrow's session wasn't just practice—it was a chance to prove I could stand with the best, and I wouldn't let it slip.

[End for Chapter 4]