I grew up in the southern part of Buenos Aires, in a neighborhood most people only saw on the news—when something went wrong.
My name is Lucas Altamirano. Back then, everyone called me "Skinny."I was tall, lean, quiet. I wasn't good at fighting, but I was fast with the ball. Fast enough to stay out of trouble—most of the time.
Our street was made of concrete and dirt. Stray dogs slept under abandoned cars. The only colors came from graffiti sprayed across crumbling walls.At night, we fell asleep to the sound of sirens and stray gunshots—if we fell asleep at all.
My mom, Carla, worked as a house cleaner six days a week. She woke up before sunrise and came home long after sunset, her hands red and cracked from bleach and soap.My dad, Raúl, took whatever construction jobs he could find. Some months were good. Most weren't.On the bad days, he would sit at the kitchen table, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, staring at nothing.
Our home was small—two rooms, a kitchen, a leaking roof—but it was ours.And somehow, in that cracked shell, dreams were born.
For me, everything changed when I stepped onto a football pitch. Or what passed for one.We played on empty lots filled with rocks and broken glass. Our goals were bricks stacked two by two. Our ball was whatever we could find: a deflated old leather one if we were lucky, a plastic bottle or tied-up socks if we weren't.
But when I had the ball at my feet, none of that mattered.
I wasn't poor.I wasn't afraid.I wasn't "Skinny" from the bad neighborhood.I was Lucas Altamirano—future legend.
My dream was simple: to play for San Lorenzo. I had never been to the Nuevo Gasómetro. Tickets cost more than we earned in a week. But on weekends, I sat by the window with an old radio, twisting the antenna until the static cleared just enough to hear the games.In my mind, I was already there—running on perfect grass, wearing the blue and red.
At ten, I started trying out for local teams.The coaches took one look at my lanky frame and threw me into defense. Tall kid? Defender. End of story.
It didn't matter that I saw spaces before others did.It didn't matter that I could thread passes through a wall of defenders.Nobody cared.They only saw height. They only saw what they expected to see.
But I didn't quit.I played every day.I trained until my shoes fell apart and my socks had holes.I played barefoot when I had to. I played even when the others laughed at my patched-up clothes and sunburned skin.
Because I believed. Even when no one else did.
One afternoon, I was walking home from practice. My backpack was torn. My cleats were tied together and slung over my shoulder.The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the broken sidewalks.
That's when I saw it.
A flyer, taped crookedly to the wall of the bus station.The letters were faded, but they might as well have been written in gold.
Open Trials — San Lorenzo Youth Academy Ages 13–19 No Cost to Enter
I froze.
For a long moment, I just stared.
Then I reached out and carefully peeled the paper off the wall, like it might shatter if I wasn't careful.
My heart pounded so loudly I thought everyone around could hear it.
I clutched the flyer to my chest and ran.
Maybe—just maybe—this was it.
Maybe this was the moment everything would change.
[End of Chapter 1]