Mid-July 2010
The very atmosphere surrounding the San Lorenzo training ground seemed to hum with a different, almost electric energy in the tense days that preceded the highly anticipated youth clásico against their bitter vecinos from Huracán. Even at the relatively nascent and formative youth level, the deep-seated rivalry between the two storied Buenos Aires clubs was palpable, an invisible yet tangible thread woven into the very fabric and identity of San Lorenzo. While the raw, visceral animosity that characterized the fiercely contested encounters between the first teams was noticeably absent, there was nonetheless a heightened and almost palpable sense of nervous anticipation that permeated every training session, a collective and unspoken desire to definitively prove youthful superiority that manifested itself in noticeably sharper tackles during practice drills and more fervent, almost heated discussions amongst the players on the sidelines.
The morning of the crucial match arrived cloaked in a palpable veil of nervous excitement and focused anticipation. As we meticulously prepared in the cramped confines of the locker room, Coach Herrera's pre-game address emphasized the critical importance of maintaining unwavering discipline and absolute focus, urging us to approach the clásico with the same level-headedness and strategic mindset that we would apply to any other pivotal league match, despite the undeniable and emotionally charged weight that this particular fixture carried. However, despite Herrera's pragmatic counsel, the underlying and almost primal pull of the clásico was an undeniable and potent force, a silent current that ran through each player's veins.
Upon our arrival at Huracán's somewhat more modest training complex, the overall atmosphere was immediately and noticeably different. Along with the usual smattering of supportive parents who had made the journey to cheer on their sons, a significantly larger and considerably more vocal contingent of Huracán supporters had also made the trip, their presence adding an unexpected layer of intensity to the otherwise familiar youth league setting. Within this larger group, a small and rather conspicuous faction of perhaps two or three fathers stood out with a strikingly fierce and almost intimidating appearance. Their arms were heavily and aggressively tattooed with swirling designs and club insignias, their facial expressions were uniformly stern and unyielding, and their collective presence seemed to exude a simmering and almost palpable aggression that felt distinctly out of place within the generally more sportsmanlike and supportive environment of a youth league football match.
From the precise moment that the young referee's whistle pierced the tense air, signaling the official commencement of the clásico, the game itself immediately devolved into a tight, fiercely contested, and undeniably physical affair. Both youthful teams battled with unwavering determination for every single inch of the worn and slightly uneven pitch. The sheer intensity of the contest was clearly evident in the strained and determined faces of the young players and in the increasingly fervent roar of the assembled parents who passionately supported their respective sons from the sidelines. However, the small and conspicuous group of heavily tattooed Huracán fathers quickly and consistently drew attention to themselves. At every contested refereeing decision, every perceived slight or injustice against their beloved team, their booming voices echoed across the otherwise relatively subdued field, a constant and often vitriolic barrage of loud complaints and aggressive pronouncements directed squarely at the visibly young and increasingly flustered referee.
Despite the disruptive and unsettling external noise emanating from the visiting parents, we on the San Lorenzo side valiantly attempted to maintain our focus on the intricate flow of the game and adhere to Herrera's carefully laid tactical plans. The fluid and increasingly effective attacking trio of Ángel, Alexis, and myself diligently sought to combine our diverse talents and create meaningful scoring opportunities against a determined Huracán defense. Ángel's electrifying pace and mesmerizing dribbling skills down the left flank consistently posed significant problems for the opposing defenders, often leaving them bewildered and off-balance, while Alexis's increasingly accurate and dangerous crosses delivered from the right wing expertly stretched their defensive backline, forcing them into uncomfortable and often vulnerable positions. I managed to find the back of the net on two separate occasions during the fiercely contested first half, both times capitalizing on intelligent and well-timed movement within the crowded penalty area and finishing with a calm and clinically precise touch that belied the high stakes of the match.
My second goal, which momentarily gave San Lorenzo a crucial lead, seemed to particularly infuriate the small yet vociferous group of Huracán fathers who had positioned themselves behind the opposing goal. Their already loud shouts and aggressive pronouncements escalated sharply, becoming noticeably more personal and venomously directed specifically at me, their angry voices laced with an unsettling and almost palpable malice. The young referee, visibly a teenager himself and clearly overwhelmed by the intensity of the occasion and the increasingly hostile scrutiny from the visiting parents, appeared increasingly uncomfortable and hesitant in his decision-making.
Midway through the fiercely contested second half, during a particularly tense and physical battle for crucial possession in the congested midfield, I went in for a seemingly routine tackle on a tenacious Huracán midfielder. However, in the heat of the moment and amidst the swirling legs, I slightly mistimed my challenge, inadvertently catching his ankle with a clumsy and unfortunate movement. It was an undeniably clumsy mistake, entirely unintentional and born of the intense physicality of the clásico, but the young referee, adhering strictly to the letter of the youth league regulations, had little choice but to reach into his pocket and issue me a yellow card.
The immediate and explosive reaction from the small but incredibly vocal group of Huracán fathers was both instantaneous and genuinely alarming. They erupted into a furious torrent of angry shouts and vile insults, their voices now laced with a raw and genuinely threatening ferocity that sent an uncomfortable ripple of tension across the entire pitch. "Son of a bitch!" one of them bellowed with unrestrained rage, his face contorted into a mask of pure fury. "That should have been a straight red card, you blind idiot!" another screamed at the visibly shaken young referee, his spittle-flecked face inches from the touchline. Their crude and venomous words, filled with offensive language and deeply personal attacks, were clearly and unequivocally directed at me, creating a palpable and almost suffocating wave of discomfort and unease that rippled across the entire playing surface.
My San Lorenzo teammates exchanged visibly uneasy and concerned glances amongst themselves, and even some of the other, more restrained Huracán parents looked visibly embarrassed and ashamed by the disgraceful behavior of this small yet disruptive faction of their fellow supporters. Alexis, ever the calming and supportive presence, offered me a quick and reassuring pat on the back as we lined up for the ensuing free kick. "Don't even worry about those clowns, Luca," he murmured with quiet conviction. "Just keep your head down and keep playing your game. They're just trying to get under your skin."
The remaining tense and hard-fought minutes of the youth clásico were played under the lingering and oppressive shadow of their sustained aggression and vitriolic outbursts. Every touch of the ball I made was immediately met with a chorus of angry jeers and increasingly personal insults emanating from that particularly hostile corner of the stands. The young referee, visibly intimidated and flustered by their relentless badgering, seemed increasingly hesitant to make any further decisive calls that might inadvertently provoke them into even greater displays of unrestrained fury.
When the welcome sound of the final whistle finally pierced the tense air, signaling a hard-fought and ultimately satisfying victory for San Lorenzo, a palpable wave of collective relief washed over our entire team. However, despite the elation of securing a win in the clásico, the distinctly unpleasant and lingering taste left by the disgraceful behavior of those few aggressively partisan parents remained, a stark and unsettling reminder that even within the seemingly innocent and idealistic world of youth football, the darker and more corrosive edges of unbridled passion and bitter rivalry could sometimes emerge to cast a disturbingly ugly shadow over the beautiful game.
[End of Chapter 19]