The sun dipped low over the rooftops of Bilbao, casting a warm, golden hue across the narrow streets. The scent of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery, blending with the faint aroma of motor oil from the garages scattered along the block.
In a cracked, dusty lot wedged between two aging apartment buildings, a group of boys chased a scuffed football with wild energy, their laughter echoing through the air.
Alonso was always the last to leave.
At nine years old, his feet moved with a grace and hunger that set him apart from the others. Barely taller than the goalposts fashioned from old wooden crates, he weaved between his friends with a fierce determination.
His shoes, torn at the seams, barely held together as he dribbled the ball, but Alonso didn't care. When he had the ball at his feet, the world around him faded.
"Alonso! Pass it!" Mateo's voice rang out as he sprinted down the makeshift pitch, but Alonso barely heard him. With a flick of his ankle, he sent the ball spinning past an older boy twice his size, drawing gasps from the others.
In his mind, he wasn't on the cracked pavement of his neighborhood – he was in San Mamés Stadium, wearing the red and white stripes of Athletic Bilbao, the crowd roaring his name.
"Goooool!" Alonso shouted as the ball rattled against the rusty fence that served as their goal. He raised his arms triumphantly, his grin wide and bright. For a moment, he felt unstoppable.
"One day, I'm going to play for Athletic," he declared, brushing sweat from his brow.
His friends laughed, but not unkindly. They had heard it before. Every day, Alonso spoke about his dream as if it were a certainty.
"Keep dreaming, Alonso," Mateo teased, clapping him on the back. "Maybe if you get new shoes first."
Alonso laughed along, but deep down, he felt a pang. His shoes were falling apart, just like everything else at home. His father worked long hours at the docks, his mother cleaned houses across the city, yet money always seemed to disappear faster than it came.
There was no extra for football boots or academy fees.
As the other boys drifted home, Alonso stayed behind, practicing until the sky turned purple and stars blinked to life.
Every touch of the ball was a promise to himself—one day, he would make it.
By the time he walked home, the streets were quiet. His family's small apartment was on the third floor of a faded brick building.
The stairwell smelled of dampness and cooking oil, and the paint peeled in uneven strips. Alonso pushed the door open, the familiar creak announcing his arrival.
"You're late again," his mother said softly from the kitchen.