The morning air at Newell's Old Boys training grounds smelled of wet grass and possibility. Azul laced up his boots, the worn leather comforting beneath his fingers. Today wasn't just another practice — today, he would finally face Diego Calderón one-on-one, in a drill that would test both their skill and their will.
Diego was already there, stretching and muttering under his breath. Taller than most of the boys his age, muscular, with a permanent furrow of concentration between his eyebrows, he was the kind of player who dominated a pitch simply by presence.
As soon as he saw Azul, Diego's expression tightened. "Back again, huh?" he said, voice low but sharp. "Still think you're better than everyone?"
Azul smiled faintly. "I don't think I'm better. I just… see more."
Diego snorted, clearly unconvinced. "We'll see about that."
The coach blew the whistle. "Pair off! Passing and defensive drills. Today, you'll work one-on-one. Control the ball, predict your opponent, and anticipate."
Azul's heart thumped as he squared off against Diego. The tension crackled between them like electricity. He could feel Diego's presence, the way his muscles tensed, the slight twitch in his left shoulder. Every little movement told a story, and Azul read it like a page.
The drill began. Diego charged forward immediately, forcing Azul to react. Azul feinted, dribbled to the right, then spun left, slipping past him effortlessly. Diego gritted his teeth and tried to block the next pass, but Azul had already anticipated it, threading a perfect through-ball to a teammate.
"Good! Excellent vision, Reyes!" the coach shouted, clipboard in hand.
Diego slammed his hands on his knees, breathing hard. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. "He's… too fast with his brain!"
Azul didn't respond. He couldn't. Every second counted. Every move, every touch, every glance at the field had meaning.
The drill continued for hours. Azul's precision was remarkable, but it wasn't flawless. Diego managed to steal the ball once, a rare mistake that left Azul scrambling. For a moment, embarrassment flared in his chest. But he quickly recalibrated, analyzing the misstep.
"Predict, adjust, see," he whispered to himself.
By the end of the session, the boys were exhausted. Sweat dripped down their faces, shirts clinging to their backs. Coaches gathered them in a semicircle.
"Reyes," Domínguez began, "today you showed what real football vision looks like. You anticipate, you adapt, you see patterns before they exist. But even vision isn't enough if you don't learn from failure. You made a mistake. You corrected it. That's why you'll succeed."
Diego glared at him, jaw tight. "Lucky," he muttered, but there was a flicker of respect hidden in his eyes.
---
The rivalry with Diego became the defining thread of Azul's academy life. Every practice was a chess game — both players anticipating, testing each other, learning from every mistake.
One afternoon, after a grueling scrimmage, Diego approached Azul, slightly out of breath. "You're… not bad," he admitted grudgingly. "You see things I can't. But don't think I'll make it easy for you."
Azul smiled. "I wouldn't want you to."
The tension between them wasn't just skill — it was fire. Competition that pushed both of them beyond their limits. Azul realized quickly that rivals weren't enemies. They were mirrors, reflecting what he lacked and forcing him to grow.
---
Outside the pitch, Azul began to understand more about the world he wanted to enter. Newell's wasn't just a club — it was a community. Older boys had already dreamed of professional careers, and some had failed. The coaches didn't just teach skill; they taught discipline, humility, and perseverance.
Azul noticed that the best players weren't always the fastest or the strongest. They were the ones who saw the game, adapted to every situation, and carried themselves with quiet confidence. Every pass, every movement, every glance mattered.
During breaks, he would retreat to the far side of the pitch, notebook in hand. He drew patterns, studied professional matches, analyzed Messi's movements frame by frame. Each sketch, each note, was a step closer to understanding how to translate his vision into reality.
---
One evening, after the last drill, Azul sat on the bench, staring at the fading sun over Rosario. His thoughts drifted to Messi again. The letter he had received weeks ago lay folded in his pocket, a constant reminder that dreams were possible.
Coach Domínguez walked over and sat beside him. "You're different, Azul," he said quietly. "Most kids your age are chasing the ball. You're seeing the game before it even happens. But talent alone isn't enough. You'll need courage, resilience, and heart. Talent without them… it fades."
Azul nodded slowly. "I understand, sir. I want to be ready. Not just to play. But to be great."
Domínguez smiled faintly. "Good. That's the right mindset. Keep your eyes open, your mind sharper. And never forget — the game is bigger than one player, one team, one victory. The game is about vision, connection, and the moments you create for others to shine too."
---
As the days passed, Azul's reputation began to spread quietly through the academy. Coaches whispered his name. Older players took note of his instincts. Even Diego, though outwardly competitive, began to show subtle signs of acknowledgment — a nod here, a careful pass there.
But with recognition came pressure. Every mistake felt magnified. Every success carried expectation. Azul was learning the delicate balance of humility and confidence, of ambition and patience.
One night, after training, Azul returned home, exhausted but exhilarated. Lucía had prepared a small dinner — lentil stew and fresh bread.
"You look tired," she said, helping him to sit. "But happy."
"I am," Azul admitted. "It's hard… and Diego Calderón is… well, he's good. Really good. But I think we're going to push each other."
Lucía smiled. "Rivals are important. They make us see who we really are."
Azul nodded. He thought of Messi again, the way the Argentine had faced challenges, critics, and impossible odds. Every match, every goal, every moment Messi had made look effortless had been built on years of vision, sacrifice, and learning from rivals.
Azul closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the meal and the quiet hum of home settle around him. Tomorrow would bring another trial, another drill, another test. But for the first time, he felt ready.
Not just to play football.
But to see it.
And perhaps, one day, to *change* it.
---
### *End of Chapter 4 – "Rivalries and Revelations"*###