That summer, Leonel scores the game-winning goal.
That summer, someone breaks Leonel's leg.
Everyone saw the video; there's no doubt that Esteban Güemes, the team captain, orchestrated the dirty attack. What no one knows is that there's a lot more t...
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The day Leonel returned to the club after the period of rest prescribed by the physiotherapist, his leg still in a cast and with a pain that forced him to sit down at regular intervals, he believed that what he saw — or rather, what he didn't saw — was an error of perception, or perhaps a consequence of the summer. Something that would return to its original state as March passed and the holidays came to an end.
But as the weeks went by, the situation became clearer: the club was getting emptier by the day.
"Yes, we know what happens with these things," explained coach Goya with a sigh that was a mixture of despair and weariness. "Some parents don't want their kids to be part of the 'Wild Ones Club'."
Leonel pursed his lips when he heard the nickname. It had been bestowed by netizens during those terrible weeks when the video of Leonel's attack went viral. With his leg in a cast, confined first to a hospital bed and later to his room, he had spent day and night scrolling through social media on his phone. It trended for two days in a row, then the story seemed to fade away until the media got wind of it and reignited the viral sensation by broadcasting the video on television.
"The violent footballers", "The junior gang", "The Barrita", among others, were the tentative nicknames that journalists wanted to popularize. When attention turned to the club where all the participants played, the name announced itself.
"The Wild Ones Club..." Goya repeated, shaking his head. "I knew from the beginning that one day the name of the club would be problematic."
"It could be worse," Leonel added with a shrug.
"I don't know. This seems to be one of those cases where bad publicity is just... bad."
He fell silent, staring off into the distance as the small group of children made their way towards the exit. In a few minutes, another handful of slightly older boys would arrive to take over the field for their allotted time. Coach Goya let out a long sigh. Even in profile, there was a shadow of weariness and disappointment on his face—emotions that must have gnawed at him every night, robbing him of the good humor for which he was once known.
And these were just the observations Leonel could make on a superficial level. He had no idea what was going on inside the man's head or in his personal life. The coach's hazel eyes glanced sideways at him, perhaps attracted by the younger boy's concern.
"I love seeing you, kid, you know I do, but..." He moved his lips for a moment, as if calculating his next words. "You don't have to force yourself to come."
"I like being here. Why do you say that?"
"It's just that..."
He fell silent again, this time with a pause that felt heavy.
Ah. He understood it immediately: Goya believed that the club had become an aversive place for Leonel, where every corner and hallway served as guardians of harmful memories that would disturb him.
