The shrill blow of the whistle signaled the start of the match.
The field had been adapted for a futsal-style 7v7 format —small, fast, and intense.
The space was tight.The ball moved quickly.No room for mistakes.
Perfect to reveal which boys could think, react, and perform under pressure — and which would crumble.
Mateo lined up alongside his teammates.
He stole a glance at the opposition —and immediately recognized familiar faces.
Nils Becker, the towering center-back, commanded the defense like a wall.Leonhard Schmitt, the nimble winger, danced along the left side, ready to pounce.Four other players, noted earlier for their raw promise, filled out the rest of the opposition.
Meanwhile, Mateo's team was made up of one other standout player and three decent but clearly outmatched boys.
It wasn't a fair fight.
And Mateo felt the imbalance immediately.
The match kicked off.
The ball zipped across the turf — fast, unpredictable.
Within seconds, the pressure was suffocating.
Mateo's first few touches were timid, lacking conviction.
He hesitated on a pass — intercepted.
He second-guessed a dribble — dispossessed.
His movements were stiff, unnatural, betraying his nervousness.
From the sidelines, Coach Dietrich watched with a hard, clinical eye.
"Inexperience," he muttered to the instructors beside him."He's never played under true pressure before. His body doesn't trust itself yet."
The instructors nodded grimly.
Raw talent meant nothing if it froze when it mattered.
It didn't take long for the punishment to arrive.
First Goal — a quick steal by Schmitt, a blinding sprint down the wing, and a sharp cross into the box, finished cleanly.
0-1.
The boys on Mateo's side scrambled to reorganize, shouting, trying to cover the gaps.
But the opposition's cohesion was too strong.
Second Goal — a corner kick, a towering leap by Becker, a thunderous header past the helpless goalkeeper.
0-2.
Mateo stood frozen near the halfway line, fists clenched.
The crowd of coaches and scouts remained silent, but their pens scratched relentlessly against their notebooks.
From the sideline, Dietrich's cold gaze locked onto Mateo again.
"Let's see what he's made of now," he said under his breath.
On the field, Mateo's heart pounded painfully against his ribs.
Doubt clawed at him —Maybe I'm not ready.Maybe this is too much.Maybe I don't belong here.
But then —A memory surged up, clear and powerful.
The last moments in that hospital room.His father's weak but firm voice:
"Live your life intensely, Mateo. Follow your dreams. No matter what happens, never hold back. Never be afraid."
Those words echoed through his mind like a thunderclap.
Mateo closed his eyes for half a second, breathing deeply.
And when he opened them again, a new fire burned behind them.
No more hesitation.
If he was going down —He would go down giving everything he had.
The ball rolled toward him again.
Mateo tightened his jaw, planted his feet, and for the first time that match —stepped forward to meet it without fear.
The real battle was about to begin.