Theo was mid-drill when the man finally spoke.
"Your first touch is lying to you."
Theo stopped the ball under his sole and turned sharply.
"And you are?"
The man didn't answer.
Theo frowned. "I didn't ask for a coach."
"Good," the man replied. "You need one."
Theo laughed once—short, defensive. "Look around. You see anyone else here?"
"I see why you're still here," the man said.
That landed harder than an insult.
"You don't get to tell me what I'm doing wrong," Theo snapped. "Everyone does that already."
The man stepped closer and pointed at the ball.
"Pass it."
Theo struck it against the wall. Hard. Fast.
The return bounced awkwardly behind him.
Theo adjusted, annoyed.
"Again."
Theo repeated it.
Same result.
"You hit like you want the wall to save you," the man said. "You play hoping space forgives you."
Theo crossed his arms. "It's a wall. It doesn't move."
"That's why it tells the truth," the man replied.
Theo scoffed. "You sound like every coach on TV."
"Name one."
Theo hesitated. "Guardiola."
The man nodded. "Guardiola teaches patience."
He repositioned the ball slightly off-center.
"Now," he said, "pass it like Xavi would."
Theo snorted. "I'm not Xavi."
"No," the man agreed. "That's why you'll try."
Theo struck it again—lighter this time.
The return came clean.
Theo paused.
The man tilted his head. "You felt it."
Theo frowned. "Timing."
The man allowed himself a brief smile. "Good. Again."
Training became strict.
Annoyingly precise.
"No dribbling," the man said.
Theo groaned. "What's the point then?"
"Iniesta," the man replied. "He escaped pressure without tricks."
"Left foot only."
"That's cruel."
"Ronaldo Nazário learned control before power."
"Two-touch minimum."
"That's stupid."
"Busquets," the man said calmly. "You think he's slow?"
Theo muttered something under his breath but obeyed.
They worked on body orientation—hips open before reception.
On weight transfer—ball cushioned across the stride, not killed.
On breathing—exhale before contact, inhale after release.
Theo argued constantly.
"That was fine."
"No," the man replied. "That was rushed."
"You didn't even see the defender."
"I saw him. I ignored him."
"Exactly."
Sometimes the man laughed when Theo failed badly.
"Again," he'd say. "Football doesn't remember excuses."
Theo started talking to himself.
"Open."
"Delay."
"Wrong angle."
The man didn't stop him.
Rafa watched from a distance.
At first, out of spite.
Then curiosity.
Then something colder.
Theo wasn't faster.
He wasn't flashier.
He was earlier.
Theo wasn't trying to beat defenders anymore.
He was trying to disappear from them.
That scared Rafa.
At the academy, Rafa changed how he defended.
He stopped lunging.
Stopped chasing.
Started waiting.
He imagined Theo drifting between lines.
Imagined Theo delaying, baiting pressure.
Coach Valente noticed.
"Better," Valente said one morning. "You're learning to suffer correctly."
Rafa nodded.
But that night, he stood at the edge of the alley again.
Watching.
Not to mock.
To understand.
The man stopped coming on the eighth day.
No warning.
No goodbye.
Theo waited.
Then trained anyway.
The drills felt louder without correction.
But clearer.
That evening at home Theo sat cross-legged on the floor, close to the television.
The glow from the screen painted the walls blue and red.
His grandmother settled into her chair behind him, adjusting the shawl over her shoulders.
The stadium roared.
"El Clásico," Theo said, almost reverently. "This is the biggest one."
She smiled. "They say that every year."
Theo shook his head. "This one means things."
The ball moved quickly. Short passes. Sharp angles.
Theo leaned forward. "See him?" he said, pointing. "That's Messi."
She squinted. "He doesn't run like the others."
"That's because he doesn't need to," Theo replied. "He waits."
On the screen, Messi received the ball and paused — just a heartbeat — before slipping it through a gap that hadn't existed a second earlier.
Theo's voice softened.
"He scans before the ball even comes. That pause… that's control. Everyone moves because of him."
His grandmother clapped once, late. "He walks like he's thinking."
Theo smiled. "He always is."
The ball shifted wide.
"And that one?" she asked.
"Neymar," Theo said. "He plays like the street."
Neymar attempted a feint, lost the ball, then sprinted back to recover it.
Theo nodded. "But he knows when to stop. When to help."
The counterattack broke again.
"And him?" she asked.
"Suárez," Theo said. "He's not pretty."
She frowned. "Then why is he there?"
Theo's eyes stayed on the screen.
"Because he moves before defenders decide. He doesn't wait for permission."
Suárez pressed, forced a mistake, and won the ball back.
Theo clenched his fists.
"That's suffering correctly."
His grandmother glanced at him. "You sound like your father when he talks about work."
Theo paused.
Maybe he did.
The match slowed. Then accelerated.
Theo explained why one player moved so another could receive. Why space mattered more than the ball. Why some players looked invisible but controlled everything.
She listened. She always did.
At halftime, she adjusted his collar without thinking.
"When you were small," she said, eyes still on the screen, "you kicked the ball before you could tie your shoes."
Theo laughed quietly. "I still do."
She smiled. "Just don't forget to come back inside."
Theo nodded.
On the screen, Messi dropped deeper.
Theo leaned forward again.
"He's changing the game now," he whispered. "Not with speed. With patience."
His grandmother didn't know the names.
But she understood the lesson.
Back in the alley, the streetlight flickered.
Theo struck the ball again.
Cleaner.
Sharper.
The return snapped back fast.
Theo adjusted instinctively.
No voice.
No correction.
Just understanding.
He didn't look for the man anymore.
But he knew.
The training wasn't over.
Rafa stood at the academy gate that evening, boots over his shoulder.
He looked toward the direction of the alley.
And for the first time—
He didn't imagine stopping Theo.
He imagined surviving him.