The afternoon heat in Rosario shimmered over the cracked pavement like a mirage. Dust hung lazily in the air, stirred only by the thud of a worn-out football against a wall painted with fading graffiti — "La Pulga es eterno." *The Flea is eternal.*
The ball rolled back to a skinny boy barefoot on the sunbaked street. His name was **Azul Reyes**, and everything about him looked ordinary — the ragged blue Boca Juniors shirt two sizes too big, the scuffed knees, the sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead.
Everything except his eyes.
They were sharp, pale hazel — watching everything. The ball. The cracks in the pavement. The flicker of a pigeon taking flight across the street. The shifting stance of the older boys blocking his path.
He wasn't just seeing; he was *reading.*
"Come on, Azulito!" shouted Tomás, his friend, waving from the corner. "You gonna stand there daydreaming or you gonna play?"
Azul smiled faintly, brushing his hair back. "Let's make it interesting," he said. "Next goal wins."
The others laughed. Azul was the youngest, the smallest — an eleven-year-old playing among fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds. But no one wanted to face him one-on-one. Somehow, he always *knew* where you'd move before you did.
They set up the makeshift field — two bricks for goals at each end of the narrow street. Cars honked occasionally, and the kids scattered to the sidewalks, laughing, before rushing back to resume the game.
The score was 4–4. Sunset was bleeding into the horizon, painting the sky in orange and violet streaks.
Tomás rolled the ball to Azul. "You take it."
Azul nodded, then closed his eyes for just a second. He breathed in the street — the scent of asphalt, dust, fried empanadas from the corner stall. Then he opened them again, and the world seemed to slow.
He saw the angles. The shadows. The way Diego on the left leaned too much on his right foot. The hesitation in Javier's eyes. The glint of the ball as it spun in the dying light.
He didn't think. He *saw.*
One step, two feints — he slipped through the first boy. A toe flick sent the ball rolling between another's legs. Gasps. A shout.
"¡Pibe, how did you—!?"
Azul didn't answer. He just kept moving, light and effortless, the ball glued to his foot.
Only one defender left. A taller kid, muscles tense, grinning. "Not this time, Reyes!"
Azul smiled back. "Sí, this time."
He cut left, but the defender lunged right — perfect. Azul had already seen that moment before it happened. He dragged the ball behind his heel, spun, and sent it flying toward the brick goal.
The ball smacked against the wall with a dusty thud. Goal.
The game ended in chaos — laughter, cheers, mock anger. The older boys lifted Azul onto their shoulders, chanting his name. "¡Azul! ¡Azulito! ¡El chico con los ojos de fuego!"
The boy with the eyes of fire.
But when they dropped him back to the ground, Azul didn't smile. He just looked at the goal again — the bricks, the faded paint, the rough concrete.
It wasn't enough. Not yet.
He glanced at the graffiti on the wall again: **"La Pulga es eterno."**
Messi's name, scrawled in a dozen childish hands, like a prayer.
Azul touched the words with his fingertips. "I'll play with you someday," he whispered. "And when I do… I'll make you proud."
---
That night, the Reyes family's apartment was filled with the smell of lentil stew and the sound of an old TV showing highlights from *El Clásico.* Azul sat cross-legged on the couch, eyes glued to the screen as Lionel Messi danced through defenders like they were shadows.
The commentator's voice soared: "¡Messi! ¡Messi! ¡Messi! ¡Golazo del genio argentino!"
Azul's heart raced. He felt the same thing he felt on the street — that strange stillness, that clarity. The way Messi's eyes seemed to predict every movement before it happened.
His mother, **Lucía**, smiled gently as she watched her son watching the screen. "You look just like him when you play," she said softly.
Azul blinked. "No, mamá. He's… different."
"Maybe. But you both see the world in your own way."
Before he could answer, his father, **Jorge Reyes**, came out of the small bedroom, still wearing his mechanic's overalls. He looked tired — oil-stained hands, sunburnt neck, eyes heavy with worry.
"Still watching football?" he grumbled. "Don't you have school tomorrow?"
Azul lowered his head. "Yes, papá."
Jorge sighed, sitting down beside him. "You think football will feed this family? You think kicking a ball will take you anywhere?"
Lucía gave her husband a warning look. "Jorge—"
"No," he said sharply, "let him hear it. I was like him once. Thought I'd be the next Maradona. You know where that got me? Nowhere. So, Azul, you study. You finish school. Football's for weekends."
Azul didn't argue. He just stared at the TV, where Messi had just scored again.
"I'll make it," he whispered.
Jorge didn't hear him. But his mother did.
---
Later that night, when everyone was asleep, Azul slipped out of bed. The moonlight streamed through the window, silvering the walls. He pulled out his worn football and set it at his feet.
He began to dribble — slow, soft taps, weaving around the furniture silently. Every touch was deliberate. Every movement flowed. His eyes were open, but his mind was somewhere else — on a pitch far away, where the grass was greener, the crowds louder, and *he* was there, waiting.
Messi.
He imagined running beside him — one pass, one look, no words needed. Two players seeing the same game, one heartbeat apart.
He smiled, whispering to the ball, "Someday."
---
The next morning, Azul walked to school with his friend Tomás, the football tucked under his arm.
"You know," Tomás said, kicking a rock along the path, "the scout from Newell's was watching our game yesterday."
Azul stopped. "A scout?"
"Yeah! He's coming again next weekend. Maybe he'll pick you. You'd be perfect, Azul. You see everything."
Azul laughed, but his heart was pounding. "He won't notice me."
"Trust me," Tomás said, grinning. "He will."
They reached the schoolyard, where kids were already kicking a ball around before class. Azul joined in, and within minutes, a small crowd gathered — even the teacher stopped to watch.
He didn't score often. He didn't need to. He *made* the goals happen — passes no one expected, turns that opened the field like magic.
After class, as he left, a man in a red jacket approached the gate. He had the calm, appraising eyes of someone who had seen a thousand young players and was still searching for one.
"Azul Reyes?" he asked.
Azul froze. "Yes, señor."
The man smiled slightly. "I'm Coach Domínguez, from Newell's Old Boys. I saw your match last weekend. I'd like you to come to a trial next month."
Azul's mouth went dry. "Me?"
"Yes, you. Tell your parents. We'll see if those eyes of yours are as sharp as they say."
The man walked away, leaving Azul standing in the dust, heart hammering in his chest.
He didn't move for a long time. The street stretched out before him, the same one with two goals — the same bricks, the same graffiti. But somehow, it looked different now.
The horizon seemed wider. The air, lighter.
He lifted the ball and spun it on his finger. The sun glinted off its surface, like a quiet promise.
He smiled, whispering to himself, "I'm coming, Messi."
---
##Chapter 1 complete##