The February rain fell in sheets across San Sebastián, turning the pristine green of the Reale Arena pitch into a glistening canvas. Mateo Alvarez paced the sideline, his number 11 jersey dry beneath his training jacket as he stretched his hamstrings methodically. From his position, he could see Coach Matarazzo's eyes tracking Gonçalo Guedes on the right wing, the Portuguese veteran clearly laboring after sixty minutes of intense play against Elche.
Mateo's heart rate quickened. He'd been with Real Sociedad's first team for just three months, promoted from the Sanse reserve side after a string of impressive performances had caught the coaching staff's attention. At twenty years old, he was still adjusting to the reality of sharing a locker room with players like Mikel Oyarzabal and Brais Méndez—men whose names he'd worn on replica jerseys not so long ago.
"Alvarez!" Matarazzo barked, his American-accented Spanish cutting through the noise of the 40,000 fans. "Final warm-up. You're going in."
Mateo nodded, his face betraying nothing of the storm inside him. He'd made five substitute appearances so far this season, totaling less than ninety minutes of play. Each time, he'd been solid but unremarkable—doing his job, making the simple passes, tracking back diligently. The coaching staff had praised his work rate and tactical discipline, but the Spanish media had largely ignored his existence. Just another youth product trying to break through at a club famous for developing local talent.
The fourth official raised the electronic board: 11 for 11. Guedes's number for his. A straight swap on the right wing.
As he jogged to the touchline, Mateo heard his sister Elena's voice in his head: "When opportunity comes, be ready. No hesitation." Elena had negotiated his first professional contract with the precision of the corporate lawyer she was becoming—modest by superstar standards but with performance incentives that would prove prophetic within the hour.
Guedes slapped his hand as they passed. "Campo está pesado," he warned. The field is heavy.
Mateo nodded his thanks for the advice. The rain-soaked pitch would make his first touch crucial. One bad control and the ball could skip away, momentum lost, confidence shaken.
The referee waved him on in the sixty-third minute. Real Sociedad trailing Elche 0-1 in a match they were expected to win comfortably. The crowd's frustration was palpable, their expectations weighing on every player in the txuri-urdin's blue and white colors.
His first touch came almost immediately—a simple pass from Turrientes that Mateo settled with the inside of his foot before laying it back to Soler. Nothing fancy, just establishing himself in the rhythm of the game. Two minutes later, he tracked back to help Aramburu double-team Elche's dangerous winger, forcing a throw-in. Small contributions that wouldn't make highlight reels but would be noted in the coaching staff's post-match analysis.
In the seventy-first minute, everything changed.
Brais Méndez intercepted a sloppy pass in midfield and immediately looked up. Mateo, reading the play, had already begun his run, accelerating into the space behind Elche's left-back who had pushed too far forward. Méndez's pass was perfect, curling around the retreating defender.
Mateo's first touch took him toward the penalty area, his second set the ball perfectly for his shot. The Elche goalkeeper rushed out, making himself big, but Mateo had already decided his finish—a precise, low drive toward the far post that kissed the inside of the woodwork before nestling in the net.
1-1.
The Reale Arena erupted. Mateo found himself engulfed by his teammates, Oyarzabal's arm around his neck, Soler ruffling his hair. The moment was surreal—the roar of the crowd washing over him like a physical force.
"¡Sigue así!" Oyarzabal shouted in his ear. Keep it up!
The equalizer energized both the team and the stadium. Real Sociedad pressed forward, sensing Elche's vulnerability. In the seventy-ninth minute, Mateo collected the ball near the halfway line, facing his defender. A quick step-over, a burst of acceleration, and he was past him, driving toward the box. The central defender came across to cover, but Mateo cut inside onto his stronger right foot and curled a shot into the top corner.
2-1.
This time, he ran toward the Anoeta's south stand, sliding on his knees through the wet grass, arms outstretched. The rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead, the thin headband he wore barely containing it. The fans chanted a name many of them had barely known before today: "¡AL-VA-REZ! ¡AL-VA-REZ!"
In the eighty-seventh minute, with Elche pushing desperately for an equalizer, Real Sociedad won possession deep in their own half. Oyarzabal, the captain and talisman, carried the ball forward before spotting Mateo's diagonal run. The pass was slightly overhit, forcing Mateo to stretch, but he managed to control it with an extended right boot. One touch to control, another to set himself, and then a powerful finish past the goalkeeper's despairing dive.
3-1. Hat-trick complete.
As the final whistle blew, Mateo found himself surrounded by teammates and staff. Coach Matarazzo embraced him, whispering something in his ear that was lost in the stadium's noise. The fans remained in their seats, continuing to chant his name as he was guided toward a pitchside interview.
"Three goals in your first extended appearance," the reporter said, thrusting a microphone toward him. "How does it feel to become an instant hero at Real Sociedad?"
Mateo blinked rainwater from his eyes, suddenly aware of the camera trained on his face, broadcasting his image across Spain and beyond.
"I'm just happy to help the team," he said, falling back on the safe clichés he'd heard countless times from other players. "The most important thing is the three points."
"But a hat-trick on your first real chance—did you expect this kind of debut?"
Mateo hesitated, the humility his parents had instilled in him warring with the confidence that had driven him to this moment.
"I've worked for this opportunity," he said finally. "Every day in training, I try to show what I can do. Today, thanks to my teammates, I had the chance to demonstrate it in a match."
Later that night, as San Sebastián's sports programs replayed his goals on endless loops, Mateo sat quietly in his modest apartment in the Antiguo district. His phone had exploded with notifications—teammates' congratulations, messages from childhood friends, and dozens of new follow requests on Instagram. His follower count had jumped from eight thousand to nearly fifty thousand in just three hours.
His mother had called, crying with pride. His father, more reserved, had simply said, "Remember who you are, Mateo. This changes nothing about your character."
Elena had texted: "Don't answer calls from numbers you don't recognize. We'll talk strategy tomorrow. Proud of you, little brother."
Mateo placed his phone face-down on the coffee table and walked to the window, looking out at the Bay of Biscay in the distance. The rain had stopped, leaving the city glistening under streetlights. Three months ago, he could walk these streets in complete anonymity. Tomorrow would be different.
He thought about the journey that had brought him here—the countless hours on muddy fields in Madrid's working-class outskirts, the sacrifice of leaving home at sixteen to join Real Sociedad's academy, the lonely nights in the youth team dormitory, the injuries and setbacks, the moments of doubt.
All for this. All for sixty-three minutes that had changed everything.
His phone buzzed again. Another message from Elena: "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we plan for what comes next."
Mateo smiled faintly. His sister, always thinking ahead. But she was right. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—media attention, increased expectations, the pressure to prove this wasn't a fluke. The real work was just beginning.
He closed the curtains and headed to bed, his body aching pleasantly from the exertion, his mind still processing the events of the evening. As sleep began to claim him, the chant from the stadium echoed in his memory: "¡AL-VA-REZ! ¡AL-VA-REZ!"
For better or worse, his life had irrevocably changed in those twenty-seven minutes of play. The sixty-third minute had marked not just his entrance into the game, but his emergence into a new reality—one filled with possibilities he'd dreamed of and complications he'd never imagined.