The sky was overcast when we arrived at the Vélez training complex.
Their fields were immaculate—short grass, crisp lines, silence like a cathedral.
No music. No shouting. Just quiet focus.
They didn't need noise to intimidate you.
They let their game do that.
---
Before kickoff, Coach Ríos gathered us in a tight circle.
"They're not flashy. They're smart," he said. "They don't chase. They wait for you to make a mistake."
His eyes landed on me.
"Which means you," he added, "need to think fast and act faster."
I nodded. Swallowed hard.
I'd watched Vélez on tape.
They pressed in pairs, cut off the passing lanes, and punished hesitation.
This was no potrero. This was chess.
And I was wearing the number 10.
---
From the first whistle, I knew I was in trouble.
Every time I turned to receive the ball, someone was already there.
Not diving in—just close. Close enough to make me rush.
I took a heavy touch in the third minute and immediately lost it.
By the tenth minute, I'd completed two passes and lost the ball three times.
Vargas hissed at me under his breath.
"Slow it down! You're playing into them."
But how could I slow down when everything moved so fast?
---
At the sideline, I heard the Vélez coach yell: "¡Encimálo, no lo dejes girar!"
Press him. Don't let him turn.
They knew who I was.
And they had a plan.
---
Midway through the first half, I dropped deeper, just to breathe.
I stopped trying to turn and started playing one-touch.
Wall passes. Drops. Little give-and-gos.
Nothing magical—but safe.
That gave me time to think.
And thinking led to something better.
In the 37th minute, I feinted right, dragged the ball left, and slipped past their midfielder for the first time all game.
I had space.
Real space.
I threaded a pass into the run of our winger.
He crossed it low—too low—and the keeper collected it.
No goal.
But it was the first crack in their wall.
And I made it.
---
At halftime, I sat on the bench with my head down. My shirt was drenched.
Coach Ríos crouched beside me. He didn't yell.
"You're not playing bad," he said. "You're just playing alone."
I looked up.
"They're a machine. You want to beat them? Become a wrench."
It didn't make full sense then. But I nodded anyway.
---
Second half, I did things differently.
I stopped trying to break the game open by myself.
I played the rhythm.
One touch. Move. Receive. Pass.
And then, when Vélez's backline took one step too far forward, I sprinted into the space behind.
Duarte saw me and sent a long diagonal ball.
I took it down with my chest, let it bounce once, and hit it low and hard.
The keeper dove. Got fingertips. But not enough.
The ball crossed the line.
Goal.
Silence on their side. Roar on ours.
---
We drew 1–1 in the end. Vélez equalized from a corner.
But I walked off knowing I had earned that goal—not from a moment of magic, but from understanding.
Understanding that sometimes, the smartest player isn't the one who dribbles five…
It's the one who learns how not to get eaten alive.
---
That night, I lay in bed sore, but proud.
Not because I'd scored.
Because I'd adapted.
And deep down, I knew:
This was the first time I had played real football.
---
[End of Chapter 13]