Barcelona, Spain – 2001
Two weeks after his trial, Lionel Messi stood at the edge of the training ground again. But this time, he wasn't a guest. He wasn't a trialist. He was one of them.
Officially signed.
The napkin contract—that famous piece of paper Rexach had used to commit to Messi when the board hesitated—was now a story being whispered across La Masia.
"The kid from Argentina? The one they signed on a napkin?""Yeah, that short one. Quiet. Kinda weird.""He's good, though. Like… really good."
The whispers didn't bother Messi. He'd always been the outsider. In Argentina, they called him el enano—the dwarf. Here, he was el chico raro—the strange kid. But on the pitch, the ball didn't care about language or height.
And that was all that mattered.
Messi's daily routine was intense.Wake up. Train. Eat. School. Homework. Train again.Repeat. No shortcuts.
The coaches noticed how focused he was. Relentless. Even the senior youth coaches—those who'd seen dozens of promising boys fade out—started to pay attention.
"He doesn't talk much, does he?" one of them asked."No," another replied, "but he listens better than anyone I've seen."
Still, Messi struggled with everything off the field. The food tasted strange. The kids joked in Catalan. He missed mate, his mom's voice, and Antonela's smile.
Every night before bed, he pulled out the small notebook from his drawer.
Anto,It's hard sometimes. I feel like I'm on a different planet.But I'm playing. I'm scoring. Today, I got fouled twice and still scored.I know this is what I was born to do.But I miss the way you laugh. I miss the river. I miss home.I hope you're doing okay.—Leo
That week, Messi was selected for a youth tournament match against Espanyol.
It was his first official match in a Barcelona shirt.
Cesc, now his close friend, nudged him as they walked out of the tunnel. "Ready to destroy them, little magician?"
Messi just nodded.
Within five minutes, he had an assist. In ten, a goal. By the end of the first half, the opposition's defenders didn't know what hit them. His low center of gravity made him nearly impossible to push off the ball. He zipped through defenders like wind weaving through branches—untouchable.
The final whistle blew. 4–1 to Barça. Messi with two goals and two assists.
That night, as the team ate dinner in the cafeteria, even the older boys clapped him on the back.
"You were flying today, Leo," one said.
"You see how he turned that defender inside out?" another laughed.
Messi just smiled quietly and kept eating.
He didn't need praise.
He needed progress.
The next morning, the academy director summoned Jorge Messi to the office.
"We want to fast-track him," the man said. "Move him up a level. His touch, his vision, it's... advanced."
Jorge nodded, pride swelling in his chest. "He'll be ready."
That night, Lionel found another letter waiting for him—mailed from Rosario.
It was from Antonela.
Leo,I watched the stars the other night and wondered if you were doing the same.Everyone here talks about you. Newell's boys miss you.I saw a little boy dribbling in the street yesterday, and I thought of you.You're not forgotten. You never could be.I miss you. But I'm proud of you.—Anto
He held the letter to his chest and closed his eyes.
The following week, he played with the older youth squad. Bigger boys, faster pace. But Messi didn't shrink. He rose. He adapted.
One of the assistant coaches watched from the sidelines, arms crossed. "The kid doesn't back down. He doesn't even flinch."
"Let's see how he does against Cadiz next week," the head coach said. "If he delivers again… we'll have to let Rijkaard know."
That night, back in his room, Messi took out his notebook.
Anto,I got moved up. I'm playing with older boys now. It's harder, faster… but I'm not afraid.Something inside me feels different. Like I'm not just chasing the dream anymore… I'm living it.And I carry you with me in every match.—Leo
He glanced out the window where the Barcelona skyline shimmered in the dark.
The city didn't feel like home yet.
But football?
Football always did.