I Am Jose-Chapter 118 - : A Show Worth Watching

After leaving Real Madrid's academy, José made stops at Atlético Madrid's training ground and then at Rayo Vallecano's, but he still hadn't found anyone worth signing. Atlético was in a rough patch as a club, and their youth players were just as uninspiring. Their golden boy, Fernando Torres, was sidelined with an injury, and none of the others caught José's eye. As for Rayo Vallecano, while their first team had been performing decently, their youth system was built on picking up the leftovers from Real Madrid and Atlético. Naturally, José wasn't impressed.

After visiting three academies, José checked the time—it was barely past two in the afternoon. He grabbed a meal at a nearby restaurant to satisfy his hunger and then debated whether to continue to his last destination.

He had planned four stops, and with three down, there was just one left. José wasn't interested in players too young to be immediately useful. He was mainly scouting those on the verge of breaking into their club's second team—typically 16 or 17 years old. By that age, most promising players already had contracts. Signing an older player was only possible if their club was willing to let them go, and younger prospects would only be available on youth contracts. This explained why he had found so little so far.

His final stop was a bit farther out, in the Madrid suburb of Getafe. But to José, Madrid already felt crowded enough with Real and Atlético vying for talent, not to mention Rayo Vallecano snatching up their leftovers. A second-division club like Getafe, which had spent years bouncing around the middle of the league table, didn't seem like the kind of place to produce top-tier prospects.

Still, after finishing his meal, José decided to go anyway. He had already spent the day running around, so one more stop wouldn't hurt. At the very least, it was better than sitting behind a desk with nothing to do. If nothing else, it was a good excuse to get some exercise.

He took the tram out to Getafe's academy and immediately noticed the difference. Unlike the bustling scenes at Real Madrid and Atlético, where scouts, agents, and parents packed the sidelines, Getafe's training ground was eerily quiet. Even at Rayo Vallecano, José had spotted plenty of people who, like him, were there to evaluate talent. Here, the only spectators were a handful of parents watching their kids from behind a chain-link fence.

"Must be tough for the smaller clubs," José thought to himself. It was a reminder of just how hard life was outside the footballing elite. Still, there was a practice match going on, which gave him a chance to see the players in action.

José never put too much stock in training sessions alone. While he valued good coaching and preparation, he firmly believed that true ability could only be judged in competitive situations. Training could be deceiving—what mattered was how a player performed under real pressure.

He settled in to watch. But after just a few minutes, he was already losing interest. Compared to the high-level football he was used to, this match was sluggish and uninspiring. The players had decent technical ability, and their organization wasn't bad, but none of them stood out. To José, they were just barely adequate.

As he was about to give up and leave, he sensed someone approaching. Turning around, he saw a tall, rugged-looking man with weathered features and large, rough hands—clearly someone used to physical labor. He looked to be in his early forties, slightly taller than José's own six-foot frame, and had an awkward but eager smile on his face.

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José studied him for a moment. The man didn't seem like trouble. When their eyes met, the stranger nervously rubbed his hands together and spoke.

"Excuse me, sir. You're a scout, aren't you?" he asked cautiously.

José frowned slightly. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Ronald Matias Fernández," the man said quickly. "If you're scouting for a club, could you take a look at my son? He's a great player. He has real potential—he could be a star!"

José blinked in surprise and almost laughed. He hadn't expected to be personally pitched by a player's father.

But there was something about the man's nervous smile and desperate enthusiasm that tugged at him. A father's love for his son—he had seen that before. His own father had shared that same kind of unwavering belief in him.

So instead of brushing him off, José gave him a small, friendly smile. "Which one is your son?"

Fernández's face lit up. He pointed excitedly to the pitch. "The tall one in the yellow team! He's playing center-back—the tallest one out there!"

José followed his gaze and quickly spotted the boy. Even from a distance, he could estimate his height—around six-foot-three. He had a strong, athletic build, but his movements weren't clumsy. He had a lean frame that suggested he wasn't slow, either.

"His name is Damián Matias Jensen," Fernández continued proudly. "He's not even seventeen yet—just a few days away. Born on Valentine's Day! He spent four years in Real Madrid's academy!"

José raised an eyebrow. "Real Madrid, huh? But if he was that good, why is he at Getafe now?"

Real Madrid's academy was among the best in the world. If a player had talent, they wouldn't let him go so easily. Jensen wasn't even seventeen yet, and he had already dropped down to a club like Getafe? That didn't bode well.

More than that, if he really had potential, Atlético or even Rayo Vallecano would have snapped him up. Getafe's youth teams usually consisted of castoffs from bigger clubs. It was a red flag.

Still, José didn't show any disappointment. He knew better than to make snap judgments. Instead, he kept watching.

The next attacking play provided a test. A striker picked up the ball in the middle and drove straight at Jensen. Rather than engaging physically, the forward took a quick touch to the side and accelerated past him.

Jensen turned to chase—but his reaction was slow.

José frowned. The defender's turn was sluggish. By the time he adjusted, the attacker had already left him behind. Worse, he hesitated for a moment, his foot twitching like he considered fouling but ultimately backing off.

"Slow on the turn, hesitant to commit..." José muttered to himself. "Not ideal for a center-back."

Fernández, sensing his concern, jumped in. "He's excellent in the air! You'll see!"

Almost on cue, the next play resulted in a corner kick. When the ball was sent in, Jensen rose above everyone else and powerfully headed it clear.

José nodded slightly. "Good leap, strong in aerial duels, reads the ball well."

That was promising. But in an actual match, a slow center-back would be relentlessly targeted by fast attackers. A defender who could only head the ball wasn't enough.

José began to wonder—could Jensen be converted into a striker? A center-forward had more room for mistakes. With his size and aerial ability, he could be useful up top.

Before he could dwell on it, the match took a turn. Another forward ran at Jensen, testing him again. Predictably, the attacker went straight for his weakness—speed.

But this time, Jensen reacted differently.

As the striker tried to burst past, Jensen lunged forward in a perfectly timed sliding tackle. His long right leg swept cleanly through the ball before taking the player down.

A gasp rippled through the spectators.

"Excellent challenge," José muttered, impressed. That was a hard, fearless tackle—risky, but executed with precision.

However, the coach on the sideline wasn't pleased. He stormed onto the pitch, shouting. Jensen argued back before finally ripping off his jersey in frustration and storming off.

José smirked. "Well, this just got interesting."

Beside him, Fernández let out a heavy sigh.