The moment the coach called my name, everything around me blurred.
"Altamirano, start warming up. You're going in."
I'd been sitting on the bench for sixty minutes, heart pounding, legs stiff, trying not to look like I was desperate to play.
Now, suddenly, I couldn't feel my legs at all.
I jogged up and down the sideline, trying to get the blood moving, my breath tight in my chest.
The score was still 1–1. The game was tense, physical. Our center-back had just gone down after a bad tackle—nothing serious, but he couldn't continue.
I wasn't coming in as a playmaker.
I wasn't coming in as a hero.
I was coming in to cover a gap. To fill a spot.
But I didn't care.
I just wanted to set foot on the pitch.
---
"Number twenty-one," the ref called out.
I looked down at the number taped on my warm-up bib. It was mine.
I jogged to the halfway line.
My boots felt heavy.
My heartbeat louder than the crowd.
Coach Ríos grabbed my arm before I stepped on.
"Keep it simple," he said. "Don't try to be a hero. Just do your job."
I nodded.
But inside, I was screaming.
This was the dream.
This was the moment.
Even if I was just filling space.
---
First few minutes were rough.
I misjudged a header. Then mistimed a tackle.
Nothing catastrophic, but enough to draw a frustrated glare from one of the midfielders.
"Wake up!" someone yelled.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek and nodded.
I started breathing slower.
Watching more.
Finding rhythm.
My body caught up with the pace.
And soon, I was there. Really there.
Not thinking. Just reacting. Reading passes. Pressing at the right moment. Clearing cleanly.
A few good touches.
A solid interception.
A decent pass into space.
It wasn't magic.
But it was solid.
And in this level, that was enough to be noticed.
---
Then came the corner.
We were in the 84th minute. Still 1–1.
We'd earned a corner after a quick counter and deflected shot.
I jogged up into the box like the rest of the defenders.
The coach hadn't said anything, but I remembered what Miguel—the janitor—had told me once:
"Don't wait to be chosen. Go where you belong."
I positioned myself near the back post.
No one marked me tightly.
They didn't see me as a threat.
The kick came in—high, floated, not too fast.
I timed the jump. Not perfectly, but well enough.
And for one brief second, I was off the ground.
I felt the ball connect with the side of my head.
Felt it leave my skull like a stone from a sling.
I didn't even see it go in.
I heard it.
The net rippled.
The bench exploded.
And the world stopped.
---
It was the first goal of my life wearing that jersey.
And it wasn't just a goal. It was the goal.
The winner.
I turned, stunned, as my teammates rushed toward me.
The same kids who once ignored me.
The ones who laughed when they thought I couldn't hear.
Now they were jumping on my back, pulling my jersey, shouting my name.
"¡Bien pibe!"
"¡Qué golazo!"
Even Duarte—who usually just grunted—grabbed my head and shouted, "I told you!"
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
So I just stood there, breathing hard, the crowd fading behind me.
---
Back on the bench, Coach Ríos gave me a long look.
No smile. No praise.
Just a quiet nod.
And for him, that said everything.
---
That night, back at the dorm, I had twenty new followers on Instagram.
A few teammates tagged me in their stories.
"Big header from the tall one."
"Altamirano locooo."
"Villa power."
I laughed at that last one. A few months ago, "villa" was an insult. Now it was a flex.
Funny how things change when the ball crosses the line.
---
[End of Chapter 7]