Six months had passed since Mateo received his first real football, and the transformation in the young boy was remarkable.
What had begun as natural talent had evolved into genuine skill through countless hours of dedicated practice.
Every morning before breakfast, every afternoon after lessons, and every evening until the sun disappeared behind Barcelona's skyline, Mateo could be found with his ball, pushing the boundaries of what seemed possible for a seven-year-old.
The narrow streets surrounding Casa de los Niños had become his training ground.
The orphanage sat in the heart of Gràcia, a neighborhood where football was more than just a sport; it was a way of life. Children grew up kicking balls against ancient walls, their dreams echoing off the cobblestones that had witnessed generations of aspiring footballers.
This particular morning, Mateo made his way to Plaça de la Vila de Gràcia, the small square that served as the neighborhood's unofficial football pitch.
The space was barely thirty meters long and twenty meters wide, surrounded by cafés and shops whose owners had long ago accepted that their windows would occasionally rattle from the impact of wayward shots.
"¡Mateo!" called out Jordi, a ten-year-old boy whose family owned the bakery on the corner. "We need one more for teams!"
The local children had initially been skeptical of the quiet orphan who appeared in their square with his worn leather ball and serious expression.
But skepticism had quickly turned to amazement, then to eager acceptance. Mateo's skills were undeniable, but more importantly, his presence elevated everyone's game.
"I'll play," Mateo said simply, setting his ball down and surveying the makeshift pitch.
The goals were marked by backpacks and water bottles, the boundaries defined by the natural architecture of the square. It was street football in its purest form – no referees, no formal rules, just the beautiful game stripped down to its essence.
The teams were quickly organized: Jordi, Carlos, and Mateo against Luis, Andrés, and Tomás.
The older boys were bigger and stronger, but Mateo had learned to use his size as an advantage. His low center of gravity made him nearly impossible to dispossess, and his vision allowed him to find spaces that others couldn't see.
"Same rules as always," Jordi announced. "First to five goals wins. No hands, no crying, no excuses."
The game began with Luis taking possession for the older boys' team.
He was thirteen and considered himself the best player in the neighborhood, a reputation that had gone largely unchallenged until Mateo's arrival. Luis drove forward with confidence, his longer stride eating up the ground as he approached the makeshift goal.
But Mateo had been watching, reading the game with the tactical awareness that continued to amaze everyone who saw him play. As Luis prepared to shoot, Mateo slid in with perfect timing, his tackle clean and decisive. The ball popped free, and before anyone could react, Mateo was already moving in the opposite direction.
What happened next would be talked about in the neighborhood for years to come.
Mateo received the ball with his back to the goal, surrounded by three defenders in the confined space of the square.
A normal player would have looked to pass or simply clear the ball to safety. But Mateo saw something different. In his mind, the chaos of bodies and movement resolved into clear patterns, like a complex mathematical equation suddenly revealing its solution.
He feinted left, causing Andrés to shift his weight, then rolled the ball under his own leg and spun right.
Tomás lunged forward, but Mateo had already anticipated the movement, flicking the ball over the defender's outstretched leg with the outside of his foot. As the ball dropped, he caught it on his chest, let it fall to his feet, and in one fluid motion, chipped it over Luis's head and into the goal marked by two backpacks.
The square fell silent.
Even the adults who had been watching from the café terraces stopped their conversations to stare at the small boy who had just produced a moment of magic that would have been impressive in a professional match, let alone a street game between children.
"Dios mío," whispered Señora García, the elderly woman who ran the flower shop. "Did you see that?"
The silence was broken by Jordi's ecstatic celebration. "¡Golazo! ¡Golazo! Mateo, that was incredible!"
But Mateo simply retrieved the ball and jogged back to the center of the square, his expression calm and focused.
For him, the goal had been the natural conclusion of what he had seen developing in the game. The fact that others found it extraordinary was both puzzling and gratifying.
The match continued, but the dynamic had shifted. The older boys, who had initially approached the game with casual confidence, now found themselves genuinely challenged.
Mateo's presence seemed to inspire his teammates as well. Carlos, normally a defensive player, began making forward runs he had never attempted before. Jordi's passing became more adventurous, his confidence boosted by having a teammate who could make the impossible seem routine.
By the time the game ended with Mateo's team winning 5-3, a small crowd had gathered around the square. Word had spread through the neighborhood's informal network of shopkeepers, residents, and regular café patrons that something special was happening in the plaza.
"Who is this boy?" asked Señor Martínez, who coached the local amateur team and had stopped by after hearing the commotion.
"He's from the orphanage," Jordi explained proudly, as if Mateo's talent reflected well on all of them. "He's only seven, but he plays like... like..."
"Like Ronaldinho," Carlos finished, naming the Brazilian magician who had captured Barcelona's heart with his skill and creativity.
Señor Martínez studied Mateo with the experienced eye of someone who had spent decades around football. The boy's technique was remarkable, but what impressed him most was the intelligence behind every movement. Mateo didn't just possess skill; he understood how to use it effectively.
"Young man," Señor Martínez called out, "would you like to play for a real team?"
Mateo looked up from where he had been practicing keepie-uppies with his ball. "I already play for a team," he said politely. "Señor Vásquez coaches us."
"Ah, yes, the youth league," Señor Martínez nodded. "But I'm talking about something more serious. My team plays in the regional amateur league. We could use someone with your... vision."
The offer was tempting, but Mateo had learned to be cautious about commitments that might take him away from his friends and his home. "I'm only seven," he pointed out.
"Age is just a number," Señor Martínez replied. "Talent is eternal."