September 21, 2013 arrived gray and electric, as though the sky itself held its breath. Lucas awoke before dawn, the tension coiling in his chest tighter than any knot he'd ever tied in his boots. Today was the match every soul in Buenos Aires whispered about—the one that would decide if San Lorenzo crawled from the brink or plunged into the abyss. He and thirty other reserves, led by Ríos and Sosa, were summoned to the popular stand, each clutching a ticket that felt like both a blessing and a burden.
Lucas met Sosa and Duarte at the training ground's entrance. Vargas and Cavallaro fell into line behind them, eyes shadowed with excitement and trepidation. Ríos handed each boy a scarf, its red-and-blue stripes vivid against the morning gloom. "Remember," Ríos said, placing a firm hand on Lucas's shoulder, "you're more than spectators. You're the club's future. Keep them focused."
They filed onto the team bus, the engine rumbling beneath a canopy of anxious whispering. As the cityscape gave way to the looming walls of the Nuevo Gasómetro, Lucas's pulse drummed in his ears. The iconic arch loomed ahead, an eternal witness to triumphs and tragedies. He gripped the edge of his seat, knuckles white.
When they disembarked and entered through the players' tunnel—as an unprecedented gesture—Lucas felt the world shift. He led the teenagers through the dim passage and into the northern popular. The concrete terraces yawned before them, an expanse of worn steps and iron railings. Flags fluttered overhead; drums lay poised like artillery. The air tasted of damp stone and anticipation.
At the top of the stand, they settled into a block behind the goal. Before them, the pitch lay taut, a ribbon of emerald under floodlight halos—though today the sun would peek through heavy clouds. All around, the popular thrummed: scarves waved, drums pounded a heartbeat, and a low chant rose and fell like distant waves.
Across the field, San Lorenzo's first team emerged in their red-and-blue kits. Torrico checked his gloves at the edge of the penalty area; Buffarini ran along the sideline, snapping off stretches; Romagnoli and Ortigoza exchanged quiet words as they jogged into position. Lucas swallowed. These faces had been legends to him; today they fought side by side.
The whistle blew, and pandemonium unfurled. San Lorenzo charged forward, pressing high. Every touch in the visitors' final third drew thunderous approval. Each miscue from Defensa y Justicia's back line earned gasps and taunts. Lucas urged the boys beside him: "Let's go, vamos!" His voice, surprisingly strong, carried above the roar.
In the 10th minute, the first blow landed. A loose pass in midfield turned into a blistering counter: Defensa's winger tore down the flank and whipped a low cross past a diving fullback. Their striker met it with a clean volley that nestled in the far corner. 1–0. Silence slammed the popular like a door. Lucas felt the air gone from his lungs.
He glanced at the boys around him—eyes wide, bodies frozen. He swallowed hard, drew a slow breath, and raised his scarf. "¡San Lorenzo!" he shouted. Sosa's voice joined his: "¡Ciclón, Ciclón!" Slowly, the popular stirred back to life, drums resuming a steady pulse.
For the next twenty minutes, San Lorenzo fought to regain balance. They won corners, forced saves, and battered the visitors' penalty area. Lucas watched Buffarini flick a header behind for a throw-in; saw Romagnoli's soft first touch bring Hundez into play (though Hundez miscontrolled). He recognized the patterns they'd drilled in training and felt proud: these were the moves he would execute one day.
In the 28th minute, fulfillment came. A looping cross from the left by Romagnoli curled toward the near post. Gentiletti rose above two markers and met it with a thundering header. The net rippled and the popular exploded. Lucas pumped his fist: 1–1. The boys jumped with wild joy, spilling down the steps before Ríos barked, "Stay where you are!"
The match settled into a tense equilibrium. Each half-chance drew cheers; each defensive clearance, a roar. Lucas pounded his scarf against his chest, urging the team forward. The drumbeats of the Butteler grew louder, a reminder that passion could be both power and peril.
Rain began to fall in the 55th minute, thin at first but soon a steady drizzle. The grass darkened, the terraces gleamed, and every chant sounded sharper. In the 63rd minute, Defensa struck again. A quick interchange near the box's edge sliced through San Lorenzo's midfield; the final pass found their striker alone—and Lucas felt the punch of disappointment: 2–1.
The popular fell strangely silent as the rain soaked their scarves and songs. Lucas's throat tightened. He spotted a floodlight flare ignite behind them—orange smoke curling upward. The Barra Lincoln, San Lorenzo's barra brava known as the Butteler, surged against the railing. First one man, then a dozen, then an unstoppable wave. Flare smoke billowed; the crack of batons and shields echoed like thunder.
Chaos reigned. Fans screamed as tear gas canisters hissed into the stand. Lucas grabbed Sosa's arm. "Get down!" he shouted. He herded the boys into the first aisle, low and shielding their faces. The tear gas burned their eyes; their lungs seized with coughs. Lucas led them down the concrete steps, guiding them through the haze toward the tunnel.
Ríos appeared at the mouth, flanked by security. "This way!" he bellowed. Lucas and the boys spilled through, lungs stinging, hearts pounding. Behind them, the popular boiled with conflict—flashes of riot shields, the clash of bodies.
They emerged onto the sideline corridor, slick with water and tear gas residue. The first team's substitutes gathered, eyes wide but faces grim. Torrico snapped Lucas's scarf across his face to clear his vision, then clapped the boy on the shoulder. "You did good," he said quietly.
Lucas coughed but nodded. He turned to see the match resume through the metal fence—now shielded by smoke and screams. He felt the weight of the moment: the club's survival, the fragility of fandom, the power of unity. The final whistle blew through the haze: 2–1 to Defensa y Justicia.
---
The next morning, Lucas arrived at the reserve pitch to the sound of silence. The usual laughter and banter had evaporated. On the bulletin board, tacked with grim solemnity, were printouts of newspaper front pages:
> "Infierno en Boedo: Fuego y gas lacrimógeno en el Gasómetro"
"AFA sanciona a San Lorenzo con –9 puntos y tres partidos sin público"
He read each headline with sinking heartbeat. The AFA's decree cut like a blade: nine points docked in the relegation table, three home games behind closed doors. San Lorenzo had dropped from near safety into the chasm of danger.
In the locker room, Ríos stood before the reserves. His face was unreadable, but his voice carried steel. "They've hit us hard," he said. "But this club survives on heart. We train today as if we have no tomorrow. We fight for every inch."
Lucas met Sosa's eye. No pity, only resolve. They don't know what's coming, Lucas thought. But we will show them.
---
That afternoon, the club announced the departure of Bernardo Romero, the first-team coach whose tenure had ended in disaster. Local papers reported that the indemnity—remaining salary, bonuses, and penalties—totaled roughly 800,000 USD. By evening, Ríos's name whispered through the corridors as the man poised to take the helm.
Lucas sat at home, the television flickering with pundits calling for unity and blaming underperformance. His mother placed a bowl of soup on the table. "It's a setback," she said softly. "But you have to believe in yourself."
Lucas nodded, lifting the steam to his face. "We will climb back," he promised. "I'll see to it."
He returned to his notebook, pen poised.
> September 22, 2013: Tonight, the club is wounded—but not broken. Tomorrow, we begin the fight back.
He closed the book and stared at the ceiling. The future loomed uncertain, but Lucas felt the sting of purpose. He whispered into the darkness:
> Stay ready.
[End for chapter 30]