Date: December 23–30, 2004Setting: Rosario, Argentina
The Arrival.
The airplane touched down at Rosario International Airport under a blazing blue sky. The contrast from cold Catalonia hit him immediately — warmth, sun, dust, and the smell of home. It was as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
The moment Messi stepped out of the airport, crowds were waiting. Dozens of teenagers. Some with jerseys. Some with homemade signs. People shouted his name.
"¡Leo!""¡Messi! ¡Una foto!""¡Te vimos en el Clásico, hermano!"
He smiled politely, posed for a few photos, shook hands with old neighbors — but his eyes kept scanning the crowd.
Then he saw her.
Antonela stood beside her cousin, in a simple white dress, her hair tied back, smiling the same smile that had comforted him in letters, calls, dreams.
He walked straight to her.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said softly.
"You didn't ask," she said. "But I always would."
And for a second — just one — he forgot he was Messi.
The House on the Corner.
The house hadn't changed.
The same chipped paint. The same swing hanging from the old mango tree. The scent of his mother's cooking spilled into the street. Inside, his little sister showed him a drawing she'd made of him — in a Barça jersey, holding a trophy.
"You haven't even won one yet," he laughed.
"You will," she said confidently.
At dinner, his father grilled meat in the yard. His mother made milanesa. Everyone asked questions — even the neighbors peeked in. But there was no media here. No pressure. Just home.
He sat in the corner afterward, watching them laugh, thinking:
How lucky I am to have this world… and the other one.
A Walk Through Rosario.
One morning, Messi walked the streets with Antonela — no bodyguards, no cameras. Just two kids who once sat by the riverbank talking about dreams.
They passed his old school. The corner shop where he bought gum after training. The muddy field where he'd scored his first goal barefoot.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I feel like a ghost," he replied. "Like I live in two lives now."
"That's okay. One of them is real," she said, squeezing his hand.
"Which one?"
"This one," she whispered.
The Children at Grandoli.
Before returning to Spain, Messi stopped at Club Grandoli, his first-ever team.
The field was smaller than he remembered. The nets were torn. But the kids — they were everywhere, laughing, chasing the ball, full of wild joy.
The coach, old Señor Medina, still whistled the same way. When he saw Messi, his eyes lit up.
"The boy who never stopped running," he said, hugging him.
Messi trained with the kids for twenty minutes. Nutmegged a 9-year-old. Got tackled by a 10-year-old. Laughed like he hadn't laughed in weeks.
"Why'd you come back?" one of the kids asked.
"To remember why I started," Messi replied.
The Final Night.
His last night in Rosario was quiet. He sat on the roof with Antonela, a blanket over their shoulders, watching stars.
"Do you ever miss being unknown?" she asked.
"Every day," he said.
"Then why keep going?"
He looked at her.
"Because I love the game more than I fear the fame."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Just promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't let the world change your heart."
He nodded.
"I'll always come back. To you. To this."
Notebook Entry – December 30, 2004
Rosario smells like grilled meat, sun, and childhood.I remembered what it felt like to play just for joy — no cameras, no tactics, just chasing a ball across a dusty field.Antonela hasn't changed. She doesn't see "Messi." She still sees "Leo."I think that's what I need the most.Now I return to Barcelona. Not as a star. Not as a brand. Just a boy who can't stop playing.— Leo