June 2013.
The Ezeiza Training Center, Buenos Aires.
It was the peak of a sweltering summer, and the sun beat down mercilessly on the pristine grass of the Argentinian Football Association's headquarters. For the young men sprinting across the field, the heat was the least of their concerns. This was an open trial for the Argentinian U-19 national team, a chance to wear the legendary blue and white stripes.
Every move was being scrutinized. Along the sidelines, local media reporters, scouts from various Primera División clubs, and a handful of influential board members sat in the shade of the pavilions, sipping mate and whispering behind their clipboards.
To the fans watching from the fences, this was the future of the Albiceleste. But on the pitch, the atmosphere was far from professional.
"Damn it! Why didn't you pass me that ball? Do you even want to be on the roster for the South American Championship?!"
A sharp, entitled roar erupted near the penalty box. The surrounding players immediately fell silent, their expressions a mix of resentment and fear. The shouter was Facundo, a striker whose technical ability was mediocre at best, but whose status was untouchable. He was the son of Marcos, the powerful High-Performance Coordinator for the youth divisions. In this camp, Facundo wasn't just a player; he was the law.
"Sorry, Facundo... I saw a better line to the wing, I thought-" a lanky midfielder started to explain, his voice trembling.
Facundo didn't let him finish. He stepped into the boy's space, sneering. "You thought? That's your problem. Get off the pitch. You're done for the day. Actually, don't bother coming back tomorrow. We don't need 'thinkers' who can't follow the plan."
The young midfielder's face flushed a deep, humiliated red. He looked toward the sidelines, hoping for an intervention from the head coach. But Coach Raul didn't even look up from his clipboard; instead, he was busy sharing a laugh with an assistant.
"Facundo's showing real leadership today," Raul remarked loudly enough for the nearby reporters to hear. "He has the temperament of a captain."
With a flick of his wrist, the coach gestured for a substitute. A boy who had been hovering near the bench like a servant rushed on, immediately flanking Facundo with a flattering grin.
"Don't worry about that idiot, Facu. I'll feed you every ball. You just worry about finishing," the substitute whispered. "Lucia is watching from the stands. Give her a show."
Facundo's gaze drifted toward the pavilions, landing on a tall, strikingly beautiful girl. Lucia was the daughter of a prominent club president and the girl Facundo had been pursuing for months. He had expected today to be his grand coronation, a showcase of his dominance.
Instead, it had been a nightmare.
His eyes shifted to the other side of the pitch, settling on a figure wearing a plain white training bib. "Keep a close eye on Lorenzo," Facundo hissed through gritted teeth. "If that arrogant brat scores one more time, I'll make sure none of you ever see a professional contract in this country."
Lorenzo, the subject of Facundo's ire, was currently jogging back to the center circle. He looked entirely bored.
The reason was simple: the level of play was abysmal. For Lorenzo, the intensity of this "elite" trial was laughable. These players, hand-picked from local academies or brought in through family connections, were technically inferior to the kids he had seen playing street football in the suburbs of Barcelona. Their touches were heavy, their tactical awareness was non-existent, and their primary focus seemed to be posturing for the cameras.
Lorenzo wasn't just any youth prospect. He was a transmigrator.
In his previous life, he had been a die-hard football fanatic who lived and breathed the sport. He had died from a sudden heart attack during a particularly stressful match, a victim of his own passion. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in 2013, occupying the body of a seventeen-year-old Argentinian-Spanish boy with a pedigree most would kill for.
He had spent the last two years at La Masia, Barcelona's legendary youth academy. He had trained on the same pitches as the legends of the game. He had come to Argentina with a sense of homecoming, hoping to earn his stripes for his father's country. But within forty-eight hours of arriving at Ezeiza, that hope had turned to cold, cynical realization.
The "selection" process was a farce. It wasn't about who was the fastest or who had the best vision; it was about who your father was and how well you could play the political game.
He had originally held a glimmer of hope, thinking that the rumors of corruption in the national youth setups were just that rumors. But seeing it firsthand, he was speechless. It was bad. Too bad.
The players were essentially divided into two groups: those who were there because of their talent, and those who were there because of their "social etiquette", the ability to curry favor with the powerful. Most of the players were desperately suckling up to Facundo, becoming sycophants before they even had their first professional contracts.
Within the first twenty minutes of the scrimmage, Lorenzo had already scored twice. He didn't do it by being "dirty" or "loud." He did it with the clinical efficiency he had learned in Spain. One-touch passing, perfect positioning, and a finishing touch that left the goalkeeper rooted to the spot. He was playing for "Team B," the team made up of the "unconnected" players, yet he was completely devastating Facundo's "Team A."
On the sidelines, Marcos, the coordinator, was fuming. He had personally arranged this "open" session to build hype for his son. He wanted the headlines to read: Facundo: The Next Great Albiceleste Number 9. Instead, the reporters were whispering about the "Spanish-Argentine" kid who was making everyone else look like amateurs.
Listening to the critical whispers of the reporters and the clicking of camera shutters, Marcos's face was livid. He glared fiercely at the young figure running on the field.
"Sir, about that Lorenzo boy..." an assistant whispered cautiously. "The scouts from the Primera are already asking for his folder. If he completes a hat-trick under the lens, we can't justify leaving him off the roster."
Marcos narrowed his eyes. "He doesn't understand how things work here. He thinks his La Masia resume makes him special. In this country, if you don't know who to respect, you don't play. I don't care how many goals he scores."
"Should we substitute him?" the assistant asked hesitantly.
"Let him stay until the half," Marcos said fiercely in a low voice. "With reporters watching, I can't just yank him now. But tell Raul to get him off the pitch the moment the whistle blows. We'll tell the press he has a 'minor strain.' And make sure the defenders start playing... more 'physically' against him."
Lorenzo saw the exchange on the sidelines. He didn't need anyone to tell him what was happening; he had seen this drama a thousand times in his previous life. He saw the way the coach avoided his eyes and the way the defenders were beginning to aim their studs at his ankles.
He looked at Facundo, who was shouting at a teammate again, and then at the shimmering heat rising off the Ezeiza turf.
So this is the national dream? Lorenzo thought, a cold smile playing on his lips. They want to play politics, but I only know how to play football. Let's see which one wins out when the ball is at my feet.
He didn't care about their "social etiquette" or their family trees. He had two years of Catalan training in his legs and a lifetime of football knowledge in his head. If the youth selection wouldn't have him because he was too good, he would simply make himself impossible to ignore.
The whistle blew for the restart. Lorenzo adjusted his boots, his eyes locking onto the goal. He didn't plan on waiting for the second half. If they were going to sub him out, he was going to give the media something they couldn't possibly edit out.