Part 1: Out of the Game
October 15, 1972. I had just turned 13 and felt like I was at the peak of my soccer game. I had the body of a 15-year-old, played defense near the goal with pride and discipline: never late to practice, shirt tucked in, head fully in the game. Coach Fuensalida had trusted me with that position because he saw in me strength, spirit, and discipline.446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXTVKX8MGOM
That day, as always, I arrived ten minutes early at Holy Cross Academy’s training center. By 2:50, I was already changed, ready to head out from the locker room. Then Coach Fuensalida called me into his office. Not so unusual—but his somber look set off alarms: something serious was coming.
I knew Coach Fuensalida well. Unlike the priests, he was blunt and direct—he didn’t dress things up with fancy words or hide behind riddles. For us, he was the adult we could trust, the one who always spoke straight. That day, though, his honesty would cut deeper than any goal scored against us.
“Roberto, come in,” he said. “I need to talk to you before practice.”
I sat across from his desk. The first thing he said froze me in place:
Father Felipe, under orders from the Rector, had instructed him to make room on the team. Don Julio Gallo’s son, Sebastián, had to join the starting lineup . The order was word‑for‑word:
“First, identify the boy who is to be sacrificed. Then, inform him—diplomatically but clearly—that he is no longer in the starting team. I shall speak with him later to provide the necessary spiritual comfort if needed.”
That phrase kept bouncing around in my head as Coach Fuensalida repeated it in his deep voice.
I already knew Sebastián Gallo. Scrawny, uncoordinated, hopeless. In the locker room, without his padded vest, he looked like a bundle of bones. Up until then, he’d only been allowed to tag along in a few practices. Suddenly, he’d become a starting defender—in my spot.
Coach Fuensalida tried to explain it with his usual bluntness:
“Roberto, you have to understand my hands are tied. I fought this decision, but Don Julio leaned on both the Rector and Father Felipe. We have no choice, even if it means cutting you. It pains me to lose such a disciplined player with a future. But that’s how the hierarchy works.”
I tried to argue, stunned:
“You’re putting Gallo in defense to replace me? That bag of bones can’t survive a single tackle!”
He sighed, shaking his head.
“Believe me, I considered every position. Of all the bad options, replacing you was the least damaging. I’m sorry, Roberto. There’s no way around it.”
Rage surged through me. I thought of Eduardo Andrés, the other defender, and burst out:
“But Eduardo Andrés is much worse than me—take him out instead!”
Coach looked me dead in the eye.
“Impossible. He’s an Irarrázaval. He’s untouchable. My hands are tied.”
That day, on my 13th birthday, they ripped my spot away from me—for a weak, clumsy kid with a powerful last name. Tears burned in my eyes as I tried to reason one last time:
“I’ve been on time, disciplined, always committed! And you’re cutting me for a kid who can’t even control the ball?”
Fuensalida lowered his gaze but didn’t soften the verdict:
“I know. That’s why you’ll always be welcome at practice… but you won’t play official matches.”
“Not even as a sub?” I asked, stunned.
“Not even as a sub,” he said firmly. “That would just create pressure for substitutions. With Gallo in defense, it’s better not to have anyone waiting on the bench. But if you’d like, you can still train—or support the team from the stands.”
I walked out of that office feeling, for the first time, the raw weight of last names, the tangible injustice of hierarchy. I knew instantly I would never return, not even to watch: the whole point of practice was to prepare for competition, and my spot, my effort, my passion had just been erased.
That October 15, 1972, they took away my field… and with it, a piece of my childhood.
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Part 2: History Class and Back Row Chaos
Afternoon dragged in Mr. Morales’s history class. Sunlight streamed through dusty windows; most kids barely listened. In the back, guys were messing around while Roberto sat quietly. Juancho leaned toward him with a cocky grin.
Juancho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa4MJ1h4If4
—Hey man… what’s the deal? Did Fuensalida kick you off the team ‘cause you sucked?
Toño:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9PYgtOjIQA
—Yeah! Tell us the truth, man! Did he drop you ‘cause you couldn’t stop a ball if your life depended on it?
(Everyone bursts out laughing — though they all know Roberto was the brick wall in defense.)
Roberto (laughing):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9nA76RwT57
—Oh, screw off, you idiots. Me, bad? I was the iron bar of that defense. Nobody — and I mean nobody — got past me.
Juancho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqHjSqPvZAa
—Come on then, spill it. What really happened?
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡko8oaO55u0
—The old man calls me to his office, face like he just smelled something rotten, and drops the line: “My hands are tied, Roberto…”
Toño:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEYTzITZZMf
—Hah! There it is! Always some last-name drama behind it, huh?
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQy202KNyum
—Exactly. Freakin’ Gallo. That scarecrow. Old man Julio Gallo leaned on the school, and of course, his skeleton of a son gets the spot.
Juancho (almost shouting):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsGlzKkHmVk
—No way! Sebastián? That bony twig who looks like a clothes hanger?
Another classmate:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIfkUd1OBP3
—That weak-ass twig couldn’t take a shoulder bump. You push him once and he’s out ‘til Christmas break.
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6OcbIj9Qp0
—I told Fuensalida to his face: “Are you serious? You’re putting that bag of bones in defense to replace me? He’s gonna snap the first time someone kicks the ball!”
Toño:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbRhCHI4Ocd
—That’s the spirit! What’d the old man say?
Roberto (imitating the coach in a dumb voice):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO2zNhX4q8i
—“I’ve looked at all the possible positions… and out of all the evils, this is the lesser one.”
(The guys explode in laughter, pounding the desks like drums.)
Juancho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsSgEIQ0oGs
—The “lesser evil,” he says! So the team’s screwed anyway, but hey — could’ve been worse if he played striker!
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVPrDcvpA4y
—I told him right there: “Then bench Eduardo Andrés instead. That guy’s worse than a mosquito bite.”
Toño:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEGtrLIbIdL
—Exactly! That Irarrázaval kid only plays ‘cause of his fancy last name. Useless on the field!
Roberto (mocking Fuensalida again):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjXaeefiVBu
—“Can’t do that, Roberto. He’s an Irarrázaval.”
(The whole back row lets out a long “booooo,” half laughing, half cursing.)
Another classmate:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrJ9KvI49sz
—All these last-name princes, man. If it weren’t for family names, you’d already be playing for the national squad.
Juancho (smacking Roberto’s back):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQWgqWoafDk
—You’re a walking brick wall, dude! Tell Gallo to shove that position where the sun don’t shine!
Toño (raising his fist):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLXZKQFwTVE
—Hell yeah! We’re with you, Roberto! That broomstick kid couldn’t defend a paper goal!
(The crew pounds the desks, whisper-chanting like a fan section:)446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt66JVPj0gK
—Ro-ber-to! Ro-ber-to! Ro-ber-to!
(The teacher finally snaps from the front of the class.)446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKk42pktyAz
Teacher:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTM445UEI8U
—Hey! You in the back! Quiet down or you’re out!
Juancho (muttering):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS6Usgseaz8
—Chill, old man… we’re just cheering for the school wall here.
(Muffled laughter; Roberto grinning like a hero. The classroom feels like a mini stadium.)
Outside, on the schoolyard.
Kids yelling, the ball bouncing across the asphalt. Roberto sits on a bench when a couple of classmates approach.
Lucho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7LdeDy65bv
—Yo, Roberto! What happened, man? Why aren’t you back in defense? Did they kick your ass off the team?
Pepe:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvujViP4pN5
—Haha! Maybe Fuensalida told you: “Take off the jersey and go sell peanuts, bud!”
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfujl6t9AkH
—Get lost, assholes. I was the wall in front of that goal. Not even a bus got through me! But nooo, the coach had to pull a stupid stunt.
Lucho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvDBhIQ0jpt
—What stunt? Out with it, man.
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUnWcdFRRXN
—He calls me in all serious: “Roberto, we’ve got to follow orders… even if it means taking you out of defense to make room for another kid.”
Pepe:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfeBEkGGxg7
—What kid?
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtthrkeR3CI
—The Gallo twig, man. Skinny as a rake, son of a bigshot. Fragile like wet cardboard. A total nightmare.
Lucho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd132ckwSF1
—You’re kidding! They dumped you for that bony freak?
Pepe (laughing loud):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU2M5jRUWuS
—Haha! That dude probably sleeps in his shin guards!
Roberto:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzqlN90wAy1
—Exactly. And me — always on time, jersey soaked, giving it my all — they replace me with a scarecrow.
Lucho:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrqw6Bkrrsj
—That’s criminal, bro. You were tougher than the Berlin Wall!
Pepe:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVL4uYW6f6I
—Hell, this guy could take on a truck head-on!
Roberto (grinning):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpziJJjH99J
—Alright, shut up, clowns. I know you liked me on defense. Fuensalida didn’t kick me out ‘cause I sucked — he did it to kiss up to the boss’s kid.
Lucho (yelling to the crowd):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb1savXayXy
—Yo, everyone! They dumped Roberto to put in the bigshot’s skeleton kid! What a load of crap!
Another classmate:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFvU77OvztB
—Haha! That Gallo guy won’t last a match! They’ll have to carry his broken ass off the field!
Pepe (raising both arms):446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJ25Kz5u04v
—Roberto’s the real defender! Not that limp noodle!
(The crowd howls, chanting and laughing like wild fans.)446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ80GtUMubU2
—Roberto! Roberto! The one and only defender!
446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUISCxV1xMy
Epilogue: The Wall That Can’t Be Knocked Down
The days passed, and the team carried on without me. From time to time, watching from a distance, I’d see Gallo standing in my place—a loose, awkward shape moving through the area where I used to command. I didn’t feel satisfaction when he messed up; I felt a cold distance, a hollow I couldn’t quite name. That’s when I realized that the soccer I had learned to respect—the kind where sweat and discipline still counted—was gone from that field.
Fuensalida stopped meeting my eyes in the corridors. He didn’t have to. He was left with his “hands tied,” and I was left with mine clean. Don Julio Gallo secured a spot for his son, but there was one thing he couldn’t buy: the quiet respect of those who truly knew the game.
During recess, when Mr. Morales wasn’t watching, the shout never changed:446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIaX2vcJVgL
—“Pass it to the Wall!”
They weren’t shouting surnames. They were calling for the one who wouldn’t let anyone through. My teammates didn’t need explanations or spiritual comfort. They already knew.
Looking back now, I see that October 15, 1972, wasn’t an exception—it was a warning. Sometimes hierarchy weighs more than skill. Some people are untouchable. And there aren’t always shouts or tears strong enough to change that.
They took the field from me and ruined my birthday. Gallo kept the number four jersey. I walked away with something less visible and far more lasting: the certainty that nothing in my life had ever been handed to me, and that the wall I built for myself—silent, unmovable—was mine alone.
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446Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡESQQIMMAdk
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and then Add to home screen.