A few days after the tryout, my parents were asked to meet with someone from the club—not at the stadium, but at an old house in a quiet neighborhood far from any training ground. No signs, no logos. Nothing said "San Lorenzo" from the outside.
My dad carried a folder with the loan documents. My mom clutched her purse like it might fall apart in her hands.
A thin man with slicked-back hair greeted them at the gate. "Right this way," he said, smiling too much.
Inside, the walls were covered in framed photos of championship teams, but they looked dusty, like no one had touched them in years.
To their surprise, sitting at the end of the room wasn't just the youth coach—it was Moretti, the president of San Lorenzo.
He wore a tailored suit, sunglasses pushed up on his head, and a gold ring that caught the light every time he moved his hand.
"So this is the kid's family," he said, standing to shake my father's hand. "You brought the money?"
My father nodded, silent.
The youth coach took the envelope and tucked it under a file. No receipt. No signature.
Moretti leaned back in his chair and looked at my mother.
"How does the boy play?" he asked, almost casually. "Good?"
My mom hesitated. "Very good," she said, almost in a whisper.
Moretti smiled and lit a cigarette.
"Well then," he said, exhaling. "He'll do just fine."
The entrance to the training ground looked different when you were walking in as a player.
The same rusted gates. The same cracked pavement. But now, I wasn't just another kid showing up for a tryout. I had a place—technically.
We had signed the papers. The loan had gone through. The numbers made me dizzy.Twenty-five thousand dollars, spread across too many payments, with interest that grew faster than weeds.
My mom told me not to worry. My dad didn't say much at all.
But every time I looked at them, I felt it.The weight of their decision.The pressure to prove it was worth it.
"Chin up, Skinny," my mom whispered that morning as we waited for the bus.She handed me a sandwich wrapped in foil. "Eat this later. You'll need it."
I nodded, gripping my bag tightly. It held my uniform, a water bottle, and the old cleats that still had the tear near the toe.
We rode in silence, surrounded by workers, cleaners, and students all heading toward different kinds of struggle.
When we arrived, I hugged her quickly and walked through the gates.
I was in.
The locker room smelled like sweat and expensive shampoo.
Kids were already changing, laughing, throwing towels at each other like they owned the place.
Their jerseys were spotless. Their cleats, brand new.Some had designer bags with initials embroidered on them. One kid even had his own personalized water bottle with his name and number.
I found an empty bench in the corner and sat quietly.
Nobody looked at me. Nobody said hello.
I changed into my gear, keeping my head down.The jersey felt loose. The number wasn't mine.Just another kid in the system.
The coach came in—a tall man with gray hair and a clipboard.
"Let's move, boys. Warm-up in ten. Anyone late runs laps."
We trotted out onto the training pitch.
This was it—the field I had dreamed about.Real grass. Painted lines. Real goals. Cones set up perfectly.No broken glass. No bricks for goalposts.
But it didn't feel like magic.
It felt... cold.
The drills started.Passing. Sprinting. Positioning.
They didn't call me Lucas.They didn't call me "Skinny" either.Just "You." Or sometimes "Hey."
When we split into groups, I ended up in defense—again.
"Tall kid. Back line," the assistant coach said without even looking at me.
I opened my mouth to speak, to say I played better as a 10, but the words stuck in my throat.
What was I going to do—correct him on my first day?
So I stayed quiet. Took my place in defense.Tried not to mess up.
The other kids knew each other.They passed to each other, called out names, shouted instructions like they were already a team.
Me? I was invisible.
Once, I intercepted a ball and passed it clean up the line.
The coach didn't even glance my way.
But when the kid next to me made a simple clearance, he got a "Good job, Diego!"
By the end of training, my legs were sore and my heart was heavier than when I arrived.
In the locker room, I sat on the same bench.
My shirt was soaked in sweat. My cleats were caked with grass and mud.
One of the other players—blond, tanned, with perfect teeth—looked at me and smirked.
"Hey, new guy," he said. "What's your name again?"
"Lucas," I muttered.
"Right. You from the villas or what?"
A couple of the others chuckled.
I didn't answer.
He leaned closer. "Let me guess—you're the 'collaboration' kid."
More laughs.
I felt my face burn.
He wasn't guessing. He knew.They all knew.
After training, I waited for the bus alone.My mom couldn't pick me up—she was cleaning a house across town.
I sat on the curb, the sandwich she gave me still wrapped in my hands.I wasn't hungry anymore.
My feet throbbed. My back ached. My ego felt like it had been kicked around like a deflated ball.
This wasn't what I imagined.
This wasn't the dream.
I thought of the kids laughing, the coaches not looking, the name-calling.I thought of the debt we just took on.
And I asked myself, quietly:
Was I really good enough?
Or had I just bought my way into a place where I didn't belong?
I got home after dark.My mom was waiting at the door, still in her work clothes. She smiled when she saw me.
"How was it?" she asked.
I hesitated. Thought about lying.
But instead, I shrugged.
"Hard," I said. "Really hard."
She nodded, pulled me into a hug, and whispered:
"Then it's real."