The pitch was nothing but dust, parched grass, and holes that looked like craters. In this suburb of Buenos Aires, the goals were two lopsided piles of stones and the ball—old and deflated—didn't even seem capable of rolling straight. But for Juglian, who at twelve was already a shadow too large for his own body, it was a grand stage. The legs of the other boys, their shouts, and their frantic energy were merely background noise. He moved with a grace that didn't belong to that place. A defiant smile adorned his lips—an expression of disarming, almost offensive, superiority.
A boy fired the ball toward him, a slow and irregular pass. Juglian didn't flinch; he waited for it to arrive. His body was an oasis of calm in the middle of the storm.
"First principle," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "One does not receive the ball. One ensures the ball finds the foot. This is called the Annihilation of Time."
The ball died on the instep of his right foot with unnatural precision—no bounce, no slip. The dust rose in a tiny cloud, and before it could settle, he had already turned without losing an ounce of speed, leaving the passer confused and helpless. The ball was his.
The opposing team's most aggressive defender, a tall and muscular boy, lunged at him with legs spread wide, ready to tear the ball away. Juglian slowed his pace, and a smirk widened on his lips.
"Second principle," he murmured. "It is not a feint. It is a Spatial Distortion. They don't expect you to decelerate that way. They don't realize that their time is limited, while mine is infinite."
He took a light step to the left, his body leaning into the movement. The defender bit, launching into a slide that kicked up a massive screen of grit. Juglian, however, stopped for the duration of a single breath, then with a feather-light touch, sent the ball forward to the right. The defender hit the dirt, ignorant of how or why he'd been beaten. Juglian had moved through his space without touching his body—a simple illusion.
Another defender, desperate, threw himself into a sliding tackle from behind. Without even looking, Juglian let the ball roll between his own feet—a "sole" drag that halted for a split second before pushing forward through the attacker's legs. For a heartbeat, the ball sat perfectly still under his total command.
"Third principle: the dribble. My power is not speed. My power is control. Control of time, rhythm, and space. But above all, control of my own soul. This is Regression to Point Zero."
With a sudden burst of acceleration—more of an explosion than a sprint—he left the two defenders in the mud and tears. Two more appeared, their faces a cocktail of rage and frustration. Juglian, with the ball glued to his foot, looked around. The smile never wavered.
"Fourth principle," he said, surveying the field as if it were a canvas. "I am not moving through them; they are moving through me. Their space is my space. Their time is my time. This is my Dominion of the Pibe."
His run was an electric discharge. One, two, three, four rapid, surgical touches. A "stop and go," a body feint that sent two defenders sprawling, and then another delicate "sole" touch that nut-megged the final man. The air seemed to stand still, as if time had frozen just to let him pass. The ball was a shadow, and he was a ghost.
He found himself alone before the goalkeeper, the smile still fixed on his face. He didn't unleash a powerful shot; he didn't even aim for the corners. He gave the ball a gentle flick, a shot that felt like a caress. With surgical precision, the ball came to rest in the back of the net. The keeper, a boy older than him, couldn't even move a finger. It was as if an illusion had paralyzed him.
The referee, the father of one of the boys, blew the final whistle. Juglian, without saying a word, turned and walked away, leaving the dust and the noise behind. His smile did not fade—it never faded.