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Chapter 2: The Trials Begin
Elias woke up before the sun the next morning, his excitement bubbling like a pot on the stove. He couldn't sit still. He'd already packed his bag with a water bottle, his football, and an old pair of boots that had seen better days.
"Mama, wake up!" he called from the kitchen, where he was pouring cereal into a bowl. "We need to look up the trials! We have to start now!"
His mother shuffled in, still tying her headscarf, and looked at him with an amused expression. "You're up early," she said, stifling a yawn. "Don't you have school today?"
Elias froze. School. In all his excitement about football, he'd forgotten he was supposed to start at his new school today. "Can't we skip it? Just today? This is more important!"
Nelson walked in just in time to hear that and smirked. "Skipping school for football? You're already starting trouble, little man."
Elias glared at him but turned back to his mother, his hands clasped together in a pleading gesture. "Please, Mama. Just today. I'll go tomorrow. I promise!"
She shook her head with a sigh. "Fine. But you'll make up for it by studying twice as hard tomorrow. Understand?"
"Yes!" Elias shouted, pumping his fist in the air.
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After breakfast, the three of them gathered around Nelson's laptop at the dining table. His brother clicked away at the keyboard, pulling up information about La Masia.
"Alright, so here's the deal," Nelson said, pointing at the screen. "They have scouts who watch youth matches and tournaments. That's how most kids get noticed. But… there are also open trials. Looks like the next one is in two weeks."
"Two weeks?!" Elias nearly jumped out of his chair. "That's so far away!"
"It's not that far," Nelson replied, smirking. "You'll need the time to prepare. These trials aren't a walk in the park. They're looking for the best of the best. If you're not ready, they won't even look twice at you."
Elias nodded, his determination hardening. He wasn't going to let anything stop him—not the competition, not the nerves, and definitely not the two weeks of waiting.
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That afternoon, Elias headed to the park with his ball, determined to train until his legs couldn't move anymore. He set up a goal using two water bottles and started practicing his shots. His strikes weren't always perfect—some went wide, others barely made it to the makeshift goal—but each miss only made him more determined.
After a while, a familiar voice called out from behind him. "Hey! You again!"
Elias turned to see the lanky boy from yesterday jogging toward him, followed by a couple of his friends. "You're pretty good," the boy said in Spanish, though Elias only caught a few words. The boy pointed to Elias's ball and then to himself, grinning. "¿Jugar juntos?"
Elias didn't need a translator to understand. The boy wanted to play. With a grin, Elias nodded and tossed him the ball.
They set up a small-sided game right there in the park, the boys splitting into two teams. The game was fast-paced, and Elias found himself out of breath within minutes. These kids were skilled—faster, stronger, and more technical than anyone he'd played with back in Zambia. But Elias had something else.
He had heart.
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Hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Elias stumbled home, exhausted but exhilarated. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and his legs felt like jelly, but he couldn't stop smiling.
When he walked through the door, his mother raised an eyebrow. "You've been out all day. Did you forget about dinner?"
"Sorry, Mama," Elias mumbled, flopping onto the couch. "I was training. I'm getting ready for the trial."
Her expression softened as she walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I admire your determination, Elias. But you can't overwork yourself. Even the best players need rest."
Elias nodded, though he knew he'd be back out on the pitch the next day.
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The next two weeks flew by in a blur of school, training, and late nights spent watching videos of his favorite strikers—Thierry Henry, Didier Drogba, and Samuel Eto'o. He studied their movements, their techniques, trying to mimic their style during his training sessions.
Finally, the day of the trial arrived.
Elias woke up before dawn, his stomach twisting with nerves. He put on his favorite jersey—a bright orange one he'd brought from Zambia—and laced up his boots, the soles worn but reliable.
His mother and Nelson accompanied him to the trial, which was being held at a sprawling training facility on the outskirts of Barcelona. Dozens of kids were already there, all of them chatting excitedly or warming up with their balls.
Elias felt small in comparison. Some of these boys looked older, bigger, and stronger. But he clenched his fists and reminded himself why he was here. I belong here, he thought. I'm going to show them what I can do.
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The trial began with drills—dribbling, passing, shooting. Elias poured every ounce of energy into each exercise, his focus razor-sharp. The coaches, dressed in FC Barcelona tracksuits, walked around with clipboards, scribbling notes and watching the players intently.
Elias tried not to think about the clipboard. He tried not to think about the other players, some of whom were performing brilliantly. Instead, he focused on the ball, on the feeling of it at his feet, on the way the world faded away when he played.
When it was time for the scrimmages, Elias was placed on a team with four other boys. His nerves spiked as he stepped onto the field, the coaches' eyes following their every move.
The game was intense. The other team scored early, and Elias's teammates began to panic, shouting at each other in Spanish. Elias didn't understand their words, but he understood their frustration.
When the ball came to him, he didn't hesitate. He sprinted past one defender, then another, his heart pounding in his chest. The goal loomed ahead, and he struck the ball with everything he had.
It soared into the top corner, the net rippling with the force of the shot.
For a moment, everything was silent. Then, his teammates erupted in cheers, patting him on the back and shouting words of encouragement.
Elias glanced at the sidelines and saw one of the coaches looking at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
For the first time, Elias felt like maybe—just maybe—he had a chance.
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