The buses rolled into the shadow of Nuevo Gasómetro just as the sun dipped below the skyline. I felt the stadium's floodlights flicker on, and a shiver ran through me—part excitement, part dread. This wasn't just another Reserve match; it was the clásico against Huracán's youth team. Even the Prospect League called it a "juvenile encounter," but everyone knew better.
We filed down the tunnel in silence. My heart throbbed so loud I thought the wall might crack. At the mouth of the tunnel, I glimpsed a ragged sea of red-and-blue scarves and flags, drums pounding a frantic rhythm. They looked nothing like the tired parents who came to academy games.
I leaned toward Sosa, voice low. "Who are those? They look like… fans, but not parents."
He shot me a grin that mixed pride with mischief. "That, Skinny, is the Butteler. San Lorenzo's barra brava. They follow the first team everywhere—even youth games. It's the clásico. Of course they're here. They'd show up if we played in a sandbox."
I swallowed, blinking at the drums that seemed to echo inside my chest. "Even for kids?"
Sosa laughed softly. "Sarcasm, amigo. They want a glimpse of the future heroes." He punched my shoulder. "They'll be on your side tonight."
I nodded, drawing in a breath that tasted of sweat and anticipation.
Coach Ríos was waiting at the tunnel's end, clipboard in hand. He didn't pat me on the back or offer a smile—just looked me in the eye.
"Remember," he said, voice steady, "this match isn't just about tactics. It's about heart. You've trained for this—on the potrero, in the rain, under those lights. Carry that with you." He tipped his chin toward the roar. "They're here for passion. Give them yours."
I swallowed again. "Yes, coach."
He stepped aside, and we poured onto the pitch.
The first whistle snapped through the night air. Huracán pressed from kickoff—fierce, collective, unrelenting. Their captain, a stocky midfielder named Ramírez, closed me down as soon as I touched the ball. His arm brushed mine, a calculated shove.
I stumbled, but kept the ball in play, rolled it to Sosa, and sprinted into space. He saw me, flicked the ball behind the midfielder's back. I chased it down, heart pounding.
That first tackle set the tone. Huracán's defenders didn't pull punches. In the tenth minute, Ramírez slid in studs-first and caught my ankle. The gasp from our bench echoed the crack in my ribs. I hit the ground, breath gone. The referee wheeled around but waved play on. No foul.
I lay there a moment, eyes on the sky. Then I stood, tracing my steps back to position. Sosa slapped my back as I passed. "Forget it. Play on."
Our midfield fractured under the pressure. Passes grew hurried, mistakes multiplied. The stadium drums thundered as if urging us on.
In the 22nd minute, Duarte went down clutching his thigh; a loud snap that had us all freezing. He limped off, face white. I felt a knot tighten in my gut.
We held on until halftime, nursing a 1–0 deficit from a swift counter. The dressing room stank of sweat and tension. Ríos paced the length of the bench.
"We can't outmuscle them," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. "We need to outthink them. Play clean. Play smart. Make them chase their mistakes."
He fixed me with a look. "That includes you, Skinny. They'll test you physically, verbally, mentally. Don't let them win any of those battles."
I nodded, tapping the crest on my jersey, as if drawing strength from it.
The second half opened with renewed urgency. We pressed higher, passing more deliberately. In the 52nd minute, I spotted a sliver of space on the left flank. Sosa released a precise pass; I turned my body, felt the defender's weight off me, and drove forward.
Approaching the box, I saw the keeper off his line. I chipped the ball—delicate, perfect. It bounced once before settling in the net. The stadium exploded. The Butteler's drums pounded a victory march.
I wheeled away, arms spreading wide, taking in the roar. My teammates rushed me. In that moment, I believed we could turn the game around.
But Huracán's youth weren't deterred. In the 68th minute, their winger, Velázquez, cut inside and drew defenders like a magnet. His cross found the onrushing Ramírez, who headed it home. The net rippled. Stunned silence on our side; arrogant chants from theirs.
I felt a cold wave of frustration. The drums thudded mockingly.
Deep down, another voice reminded me of Ríos's warning: Stay smart. Don't let emotion break you.
The final minutes were chaos. I chased loose balls, intercepted passes, and felt every tackle as a pulse through my veins. With a minute remaining, I intercepted a poor clearance and found Sosa unmarked. He crossed low—our striker's shot tipped against the post and cleared.
The full-time whistle blew. A 1–1 draw.
We trudged off, exhaustion and pride wrestling in our chests.
Back in the locker room, we sat in a circle, jerseys soaked, water dripping onto the tile. No one spoke at first. The silence said it all: we'd held our own in the clásico, but we'd left everything out there.
Ríos stood in front of us, arms folded.
"You showed heart," he said. "Against a team that plays for something more than points." He looked at me. "Resilience under pressure—that's your brand. Don't lose it."
He turned and walked away, leaving the echo of his words hanging.
Later, Sosa found me by the door, towel draped over his shoulders.
"You were good," he said, voice steady. "Better than good. You carried us."
I managed a grin. "Couldn't have done it without you, bro."
He bumped my shoulder. "Team effort. Now rest up. Huracán doesn't breathe easy next time."
Walking home under the floodlights of streetlamps, I replayed every moment—the shove in the ribs, the chip into the net, the equalizer that stung. In my pocket, my phone buzzed with a single message from Miguel:
Miguel (Field Guy):"You made them feel the crest tonight. Sleep well."
I smiled at the screen and slipped it back in.
At my front door, my mom waited with hot chocolate and empanadas. She hugged me before I could speak.
"You were brave," she whispered.
I wrapped my arms around her. "It was more than a game."
She nodded, eyes shining. "You're becoming a man."
I held her in the lamplight, thinking of every field I'd played on—dirt, grass, turf—and how they'd led me here: to the heart of the storm and out the other side.
[End of Chapter 19]