March 2013 brought cool breezes at dawn, a welcome change from January's heat. The season of birthdays, of new years on personal calendars, always made the air feel different. For me, it was more than the changing wind—it was my seventeenth spring, a marker of how far I'd come from that skinny kid in the potrero.
The morning of March 21st, I woke before my alarm. A thin sliver of sunlight crept under the curtain. I lay in bed for a moment, thinking of every birthday before this one: candles on a pasta dish, late wishes in my barrio, the hope of something new. Today, I felt the same curiosity—and the weight of expectation.
I slipped on my training clothes and texted Sosa.
Me: "Seventeen today. Meet me at potrero? 6:30?"Sosa: "Skinny or mountain goat? I'll be there."
I smiled and left for the field.
Potrero Dawn
By 6:30, the potrero was empty except for the gravel and two abandoned goals. Sosa was already there, leaning on a tree trunk, juggling the patched ball from our first seasons together.
"Happy birthday, Skinny," he said, tossing the ball to me.
"Thanks," I replied, catching it. "Feels weird being old enough for Reserve matches, first-team rumors…"
He cut me off with a grin. "Seventeen is prime. You've got two strong legs and a mind sharper than most veterans. Own it."
I nodded, heart warmed. We began our ritual: quick touches, wall passes against the concrete wall, and 1v1 drills through soda-bottle cones. Every flick and turn carried the weight of my years, my mistakes, and my growth. By the time we sprinted home, my lungs burned—and I felt alive.
Club Celebration
At the academy, I arrived to find a small surprise. On the locker board, someone had taped a sheet of colored paper: "Feliz Cumple, Lucas!" Beneath it, a few teammates had scrawled pencil signatures and inside jokes.
Coach Ríos approached, pockets stuffed with envelopes. He handed me one sealed in red tape.
"Open after training," he said. "Then back to work."
I slipped it into my pocket. Ríos gave me a rare smile. "Seventeen, eh? The year you solidify who you are."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
Training Under the Sun
The session was intense—tacticals with the U-17s in the morning, then skill circuits with the Reserve in the afternoon. Every coach called my name more than usual, peppering me with feedback:
"Vision on that pass—good."
"Shield the ball longer—too easy to lose."
"Body position—brace for impact."
I soaked it in. Seventeen was the age when potential met responsibility. I wanted no regrets.
At the end of drills, the team formed a circle. Vargas pulled me to the center, handed me a water bottle.
"Here's to you," he said, voice loud enough for all. "Seventeen years of trouble, skill, and surviving our chaos. Keep shaking us all."
A smattering of cheers. Sosa bumped my shoulder. Miguel clapped from the fence.
I raised the bottle. "Gracias, guys."
The Envelope
That evening, I returned home to find my parents waiting by the kitchen table. My dad held the red envelope from Ríos. My mom had made tortas fritas and baked quince jam squares.
I opened the envelope: a gift card from the club's store. Enough for new boots, or a jacket, or books—anything to mark my birthday.
I looked at my parents. "They… they trust me."
My mom's eyes shone. "They see what we've always known."
My dad nodded. "Use it wisely, son."
I tucked the card into my notebook, where I'd written my goals. Seventeen was a blank page—my record of sweat, growth, and purpose.
Night Reflections
Later that night, I climbed to the rooftop with my notebook and a pen. The city lights wove constellations of my memories: childhood goals, that first San Lorenzo flyer, the moment I nailed my first assist as a 10, the suspension, the rebirth.
I wrote:
"March 21, 2013. Seventeen.I am not the boy who lashed out.I am not the kid who looked away.I am the one who stands.I play for the crest, for my family, for the storm inside."
I closed the notebook and gazed up. Somewhere above, a star blinked.
I whispered, "This one's for you, mamá."
Looking Ahead
Seventeen would test me: tougher training, bigger matches, deeper pressures. The clásico against Boca Reserva loomed next month. Then the mid-season stretch—River, Independiente, Huracán again. But for now, I savored this moment: a promise kept, a mark made.
I slipped off the rooftop and headed inside, boots by the door and hunger in my chest.
Seventeen springs to grow.
[End of Chapter 24]