Mateo kicked the scuffed ball against the cinderblock wall and watched it bounce toward the empty dirt field behind his house. He tapped it gently with his heel and whispered, 'World Cup,' while the late sun painted everything orange.
At the neighborhood field, Mateo lined up cones made from crushed soda bottles and dribbled through them, but the ball rolled past his left foot every single time. He frowned and set his jaw. 'Again,' he said, and the word bounced off the chain-link fence.
His friends gathered — Tomás with his mismatched cleats, Sofi with hair braided tight, and little Rafa who tripped over his own shoelaces. They laughed and reset the cones. 'Again,' Mateo said, and the word bounced off the chain-link fence.
Weeks passed and the three of them repeated the same drill over and over: Mateo called the play, his friends sprinted into position, and the ball sailed somewhere else entirely. He thought this was the hardest thing in the whole world.
On the fourth attempt, Tomás missed the pass and the ball thudded into a bush — a tiny lizard blinked at them from inside. They all froze, then howled with laughter as the lizard bolted.
A scout's white truck rumbled onto the dirt road and slowed to a halt. Mateo's knees knocked together as the man climbed out and held up a folded green jersey with 'PARAGUAY' stamped across the chest in gold. The jersey flapped in the dry wind and caught the light.
The jersey flapped in the dry wind and caught the light. Mateo tucked it against his chest and closed his eyes. He thought of the empty field, the cones, the laugh that came from the bush.
Mateo stood at the edge of the field and tucks the jersey against his chest while Tomás wraps an arm around his shoulders and Sofi jumps up and down. The ball sits at Mateo's feet, dusty and familiar, and somewhere a rooster crows as the sun dips below the fence line.