The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wet earth from last night's rain. Azul's boots were polished, his kit freshly washed, and the Newell's Old Boys training ground looked different today — alive. Patches of sunlight struck the grass in gold streaks, glinting off the white lines freshly painted, the goalposts gleaming like sentinels.
Azul took a deep breath, gripping his ball under his arm. His heart thumped hard in his chest, a rapid echo that matched the rhythm of his dreams. Today wasn't just another practice. This was the first real trial — his first chance to prove he belonged among the best kids in Rosario.
He walked past the fields where older boys trained, their movements precise, confident, as if the ball were an extension of themselves. Azul's stomach fluttered. He was small, eleven, and yet… he had the eyes. The vision.
The coach, Domínguez, greeted him with a nod. "Good morning, Reyes. Ready?"
Azul swallowed. "Yes, sir."
The warm-up began. Kids sprinted, stretched, passed the ball in tight patterns. Azul joined in, careful to follow every instruction. He could feel the tension in the air — the subtle competitiveness radiating from every boy who had dreamed of this moment for months, maybe years.
The trial proper began with a simple exercise: small-sided games on half the pitch. Five attackers, five defenders. Azul's team had been picked almost randomly, but it didn't matter. From the first touch, everything changed.
He saw the game differently. Not in the way most kids did, chasing the ball with frantic energy, hoping for a lucky break. Azul *saw the movements before they happened *.
A winger on the opposing team, Javier, dribbled down the flank. Most kids would have rushed to challenge him, maybe risk a collision. Azul held his position, eyes fixed. He could *predict* Javier's feints — the tilt of his head, the subtle shift of weight, the way his right foot nudged the ball slightly forward before the cross.
At the perfect moment, Azul intercepted, tapping the ball to a teammate, setting up a counterattack. The coaches muttered in surprise. "Where did he learn that?"
The game flowed, and Azul's vision became more than a talent — it was a weapon. Passes threaded through impossibly tight spaces, runs predicted with almost supernatural timing. A through-ball that split two defenders landed perfectly at the striker's feet. Every play seemed preordained, yet natural.
But not everyone was impressed. A boy named **Diego Calderón**, tall, athletic, with a fiery temper, glared at Azul every time he touched the ball.
"Who does he think he is?" Diego muttered under his breath, stepping into Azul's path repeatedly during drills, trying to force errors.
Azul ignored him. He couldn't waste energy on anger. Every second he spent reacting to Diego was a second lost in seeing the game.
By midday, the coaches divided the boys into smaller groups for technical drills: dribbling, shooting, passing under pressure. Azul moved through them like water — smooth, precise, calm.
During the shooting drill, he took his chance from the edge of the box. A defender lunged, but Azul had already anticipated the movement. He shifted, feinted, and struck the ball with perfect placement. Goal.
A few boys clapped politely, some scowled, but Coach Domínguez's face lit up. "Excellent. Reyes, excellent vision. You see the openings before they exist."
Azul felt a rush of pride. *This is why I play*, he thought. *Toseewhatotherscannot.*
---
But trials are never just about success.
During the afternoon, the session moved to scrimmage — eleven versus eleven. Azul's team struggled against bigger, stronger opponents. Diego made a point of pressuring him, cutting off passing lanes, shouting. "Come on, little man, show me what you've got!"
Azul's vision helped, but he wasn't invincible. A few missteps led to lost possession. A boy tripped over his own feet. The opposition scored. The scowl on Coach Domínguez's face deepened.
"You need to read not just the ball," Domínguez called out, blowing his whistle. "You need to read the players. Predict their choices, yes, but adapt when the unexpected happens!"
Azul nodded, heart pounding. He could feel frustration bubbling — and Diego's gloating smile didn't help. But he focused, breathing deeply, eyes scanning, noticing the tiny tells, the subtle hesitations, the shifts in posture.
The second half began. Azul took control. He intercepted a pass near midfield, dribbled past two defenders with deceptive speed, and threaded a ball between two others. His teammate shot and scored.
Domínguez whistled. "That's it! That's the vision I'm talking about!"
Diego ran up to Azul afterward, face red. "You're lucky. That was one play! Don't think you're untouchable."
Azul smiled faintly. "I'm not. But I see more than you do."
Diego's glare could have split stone.
---
After scrimmage, the coaches gathered the boys. They discussed each player, pointing out strengths and weaknesses. When it was Azul's turn, Domínguez's praise was measured but pointed.
"Youngest player here. Smallest by far. But the way he reads the field — the timing, the anticipation — it's remarkable. I haven't seen this since Messi was eleven. This boy has the potential to be extraordinary."
Murmurs spread through the group. Some kids whispered, envious, skeptical. Some stared in awe.
Azul's chest swelled. He knew it wasn't the end — not even close. But it was the first tangible recognition that maybe he was on the right path.
---
Later, walking home through the familiar streets of Rosario, boots muddy, shirt soaked with sweat, Azul thought about Messi. *Whatwould he do if he werehere?*
He imagined the tiny prodigy from Rosario decades ago, running across these very streets, dreaming bigger than anyone else thought possible. Azul closed his eyes, letting the memory of the day settle — the moments of brilliance, the small errors, the intense focus of the coaches.
Lucía waited at the door, smiling, arms crossed. "So?"
Azul dropped his bag and collapsed onto the couch. "I did… okay. Better than okay, maybe. But there's so much to learn."
She sat beside him. "You're growing, Azulito. One day, they'll all see it. And Messi… he'll see it too."
Azul smiled faintly, thinking of the letter. *"Maybe one day we'll share the same pitch."*
Someday.
He stood on the balcony later that night, looking out at the dim glow of Rosario's city lights. Somewhere in Spain, Messi trained, played, existed in that world Azul dreamed of entering. The distance was vast, but not impossible.
Azul held his hands out, imagining the ball at his feet, the pitch stretching endlessly. He could see every defender, every passing lane, every opportunity before it came.
His vision, his instinct, his fire — it all felt alive, pulsing beneath his skin.
And deep inside, he whispered: "I will reach you, Leo. I'll be on that pitch with you. And when I am… I won't just watch the game. I'll *own it* in my own way."
For the first time, the dream didn't feel far away. It felt like it was beginning.
---
### *End of Chapter 3 – "The First Trial"*###