Six months.
It felt like a lifetime, and yet it went by in a blink.
Half a year of training.
Half a year of silence and repetition.
Of drills in the cold, games in the rain, meals eaten alone, and moments of hope too small to say out loud.
---
Things had changed.
Not drastically. Not like in the movies.
I still wasn't the star.
But I was no longer invisible.
It started slowly—after one good game in an internal scrimmage, a coach called me by my name.
Then came the nods. The occasional "Nice ball" from teammates. A pass back instead of being skipped over.
A spot in the second team lineup during practice.
I wasn't just the kid who paid to be here anymore.
I was the kid who stayed. Who worked. Who didn't complain, didn't disappear, didn't break.
---
I learned how to use my body.
How to win headers.
How to move off the ball and read the play three steps ahead.
I still wasn't in my ideal position—still stuck as a center-back—but I started to make the most of it.
A goal during a corner in training got the assistant coach to raise an eyebrow.
An interception followed by a 30-meter pass led to a whisper among the staff.
They were noticing.
Not openly. Not fully.
But enough.
---
Duarte, the kid who had once mocked me, now sometimes asked to warm up with me.
I caught two others arguing once about who I should be paired with in a practice match.
I wasn't part of the inner circle.
But I wasn't outside it anymore either.
---
And then came the call.
It was a Thursday.
I was lacing up my boots when Coach Ríos walked into the locker room with a clipboard.
"Altamirano," he said. "You're suiting up on Saturday. We're short on the U-17 roster. You'll be on the bench."
I tried not to react. I really did.
But I felt my heart knock against my chest like it wanted out.
"Yes, coach."
That was all I said.
But my hands shook when I tied the second boot.
---
Saturday came fast.
I barely slept the night before.
I kept going over everything in my head—passes, positioning, corner coverage.
I imagined every mistake I could make. Every chance to fail.
My stomach twisted the entire ride to the training complex.
The team met in a side room next to the pitch. The walls were covered with dusty banners and motivational quotes in fading paint.
Most of the guys looked relaxed. Joking. Tapping their cleats together.
I sat near the door, trying not to let the nerves show on my face.
Duarte sat a row behind me.
He leaned in slightly and muttered, "You'll be fine. Just do what you always do."
It wasn't much.
But it meant more than he knew.
---
The coach gave the tactical talk.
Who was marking who. What the formation would be.
I wasn't starting, but he looked at me when he said, "Be ready. Everyone plays today."
Then we moved to the tunnel.
You don't forget your first walk through it.
Even if it's not the first team stadium. Even if the stands are half empty.
There's something about the light at the end. The sound of the crowd, even if small. The feeling that this—this moment—is one you'll remember forever.
I stood behind the starting eleven, in my warmup gear, staring out toward the pitch.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Saw the dirt fields back home.
The bricks as goalposts.
My dad smoking in silence.
My mom wrapping sandwiches in foil.
And I told myself, not out loud but clear as anything:
This is only the beginning.
Then the whistle blew.
And I stepped forward.
---
[End of Chapter 6]