It was taped to the wall of the locker room—just a piece of paper with the line-up printed in bold black letters. But my eyes zeroed in on one thing:
Altamirano — 10
The number I'd always wanted. The role I'd dreamed of playing.
For a lot of people, the number meant flair. Dribbling. Street magic.
But I didn't see it that way.
I wasn't like Riquelme or Ronaldinho.
I didn't have samba in my feet.
When I looked in the mirror, I thought of someone else:
Cristiano.
Not just the goals. Not just the muscles.
It was the way he walked onto the pitch like he belonged—like it wasn't even a question.
Tall. Cold. Focused. Hungry.
That's who I wanted to be.
A number 10 with the soul of a striker and the mindset of a killer.
Like Zlatan. Like Drogba.
Players who didn't just play—they imposed themselves.
But even with all that, there was one name that would never move from my heart.
Messi.
As an Argentinian, that name meant something sacred.
He didn't need to be loud. He didn't need to shout.
He just played. Like a whisper that silenced the world.
Messi was the soul. Cristiano was the fire.
And me?
I wanted to be something in between.
---
The coach's instructions were clear.
"Get the ball, keep it moving. Make them chase. When the gap opens—hit it."
Simple. In theory.
---
As soon as the whistle blew, I felt the difference.
In defense, you wait for problems.
As a 10, you create the chaos.
Every time I touched the ball, someone was already on my back. A defender. A midfielder. Shadows everywhere.
I missed my first two passes. Misjudged a flick.
Coach Ríos didn't shout—but I could feel his gaze.
I tightened up.
---
Then, in the 18th minute, everything slowed.
Duarte broke wide. Vargas made a dummy run. The center-back stepped forward, just a little too far.
I cut inside and threaded a ball between three defenders—sharp, clean, low.
The winger latched on, crossed it fast—and our striker tapped it in.
Goal.
The crowd of academy kids roared like it was a final.
I didn't even celebrate. I just stood there, heart hammering.
I saw it. I created that.
---
After that, I settled.
Started turning with confidence. Picking out the rhythm.
The field opened up like a map, and I was tracing paths no one else saw.
In the second half, I nearly scored with a shot from the edge of the box—low and hard, palmed wide by the keeper.
I wasn't perfect. Far from it.
I lost the ball a few times. Took too many touches. Got shoved off balance once and fell hard.
But I got back up.
And the team followed me.
---
Late in the match, we earned a free kick just outside the area.
Duarte looked at me. "You want it?"
I nodded.
The wall stood tall. The keeper barked orders.
I stepped back, took a breath, and struck it clean—curling over the wall, dipping fast.
It smacked the crossbar and bounced out.
So close.
But when I turned back, even Coach Ríos had leaned forward.
That alone meant more than applause.
---
We won 2–0. I had one assist, five key passes, and a bruised rib from a late challenge.
After the game, as we walked off the field, Duarte patted my back.
"Nice work, enganche."
He meant it.
---
In the locker room, the assistant coach read out a few names for extra video review. Mine was first.
"Altamirano—you'll sit down with Ríos tomorrow. Go over positioning."
It wasn't punishment.
It was a sign.
They were investing in me.
---
That night, I lay in bed thinking about the game.
The passes. The spaces. The moment the field opened like a puzzle and I solved it with one movement.
I thought about how, for 90 minutes, I was the heart of something. Not just a body in the way.
And I realized:
This is what I was made for.
---
[End of Chapter 11]