Mateo González Schwarz lived for the game of football.
Since he was old enough to walk, a ball had been at his feet — kicking it through the narrow hallways of his small Buenos Aires apartment, chasing it across the cracked sidewalks of his neighborhood, dribbling it endlessly between battered goalposts in the local park.He was twelve years old now, short for his age, with messy black hair and bright hazel eyes that burned with a fierce determination.His classmates at school called him el pequeño luchador — the little fighter — because no matter how many times he fell or missed a goal, he would always get back up and try again.
Mateo wasn't a prodigy.He wasn't the kid everyone stopped to watch at training sessions.But what he lacked in natural genius, he made up for with heart — an endless, stubborn drive to improve, to chase the dream that lived inside him like a roaring flame.
At night, after homework was done and the streets grew quiet, Mateo would sit cross-legged on his bed, watching clips of Lionel Messi weaving through defenders, or Cristiano Ronaldo leaping impossibly high for a header.Messi was his hero — the pride of Argentina, the magician with the ball.Cristiano, too, he admired deeply — the living symbol of hard work and relentless ambition.
Mateo dreamed of one day following in their footsteps.Not for fame, not for money, but for the simple, pure joy of playing the game he loved on the biggest stages of the world.
But dreams sometimes had to wait.
Tonight, football felt like a distant memory.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital ceiling buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the small, cramped room.Mateo sat on a stiff plastic chair, his sneakers tapping nervously against the tiled floor, his hands clenched tightly around the edge of his mother's jacket.
Across from him, lying motionless on the hospital bed, was his father.
Alejandro González had once been larger than life — a towering figure with a booming laugh, a man who had taught Mateo how to tie his first pair of cleats and who cheered the loudest at every school match, no matter how small the victory.He had always been there, a constant, reassuring presence in Mateo's life.
Until the sickness came.
Cancer, they said.A cruel, invisible enemy that stole strength day by day, no matter how fiercely they fought.
Now, Alejandro was a shadow of the man he once was.His face was gaunt, his hands frail, his breaths shallow and labored.
Mateo tried to be brave.He squeezed his mother's hand harder, feeling her silent tremble beneath the surface.
"Come here, mi campeón," his father's voice rasped, barely more than a whisper.
Mateo stood up on trembling legs and moved closer, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might explode.
Alejandro opened his eyes with effort, looking at his son with a warmth that seemed to cut through the chill of the room.
"You have... so much fire inside you," he said, his lips curling into a faint smile."Don't let the world put it out. Live your life, Mateo. Live it... as you wish. Chase your dreams. Chase them with everything you've got."
Mateo's throat tightened painfully.He wanted to speak, to promise something, anything — but the words got stuck behind the lump of grief rising higher and higher inside him.
"I will be watching you," Alejandro continued, his voice growing softer, "from the sky. Every goal... every step you take. I'll be there, my son."
Tears blurred Mateo's vision.He felt his mother's hand on his back, steady but shaking.
"I love you both," Alejandro said, his eyes drifting to Mateo's mother with a depth of love that broke Mateo's heart all over again."I love you... always. Be happy... even when I'm gone."
Mateo reached out, grabbing his father's hand — so light, so frail.He held it tightly, willing him to stay.
"I love you, Dad," Mateo choked out, his voice cracking.
For a moment, they simply stayed like that — hand in hand, connected by a bond that even death would not sever.
And then, slowly, Alejandro exhaled one final breath.
A smile lingered on his lips, a look of peace on his face, as he slipped away.
The machines beeped a flat, unbroken tone.The world seemed to tilt sideways.
Mateo buried his face against his mother's chest, sobbing uncontrollably as she wrapped her arms around him.The grief was too big, too heavy, and it swallowed him whole.
He cried until the exhaustion overcame him, until he drifted into a restless, dreamless sleep, still clutching the last memory of his father.
Outside the window, the lights of Buenos Aires twinkled indifferently against the night sky, and somewhere far beyond the stars, a father's promise lingered — watching over a boy whose journey had only just begun.