I Am Jose-Chapter 179 - : Matías’ Story

Everyone has a soft spot in their heart—José does, and so does Matías.

Despite his brash personality and reckless attitude, Matías had someone he could never let go of—his father, an ordinary construction worker who tirelessly supported his son's football dream. He ran all over town, begging for opportunities, yet Matías' temper led him to a nomadic youth career. From Real Madrid's youth academy to Getafe's, he had offended plenty along the way. If it weren't for José recognizing his potential, Matías might have already quit football and joined his father on a construction site.

Now, things were different. He had secured a contract with Mallorca B, earning $260 a week—over $10,000 a year. It wasn't much, but it was enough for him to live on without burdening his father. At least his old man wouldn't have to break his back with hard labor anymore and could settle for an easier job.

Expenses were minimal. He had a place to stay in the club's dormitory—not luxurious, but Matías had been through worse. Meals were covered by the club, and since Mallorca's climate was mild year-round, he didn't need to worry about winter clothes.

Matías was thriving. He had become a regular starter for the B team and was getting minutes in Segunda División matches. His physicality and aerial ability had always been his strengths, but his sluggish turning speed and slow reaction time held him back. However, with consistent training, he improved his positioning and decision-making, covering his weaknesses. He was no longer a liability on defense.

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For Matías, life was good. His coach, Mésquida, had even hinted that with more experience, he could make it to the first team within a year or two. The last player to achieve that before turning 20 was Thiago Motta, the team's current midfield orchestrator. Other key players like Tristán, Luque, and Novo had only broken into the squad in their twenties. Mallorca valued its youth academy but was careful not to rush young players into the senior team. Matías had a bright future ahead.

That's why he decided not to return home for Christmas. He wanted to stay in Mallorca and train—only by improving himself could he solidify his place in the team.

Besides, a plane ticket from Mallorca to Madrid wasn't cheap, and Matías wasn't one to waste money.

"Dad, don't worry about coming to Mallorca, it's a hassle... I'm doing great here. I'm a starter for the B team! Have you watched any of my games in the Segunda? Give me some time, and I might even break into the first team! Once I land a big contract, I'll fly back to Madrid whenever I get a break... or maybe I'll buy a house here in Mallorca. The real estate market is booming, prices are bound to rise. Don't worry, I need to focus on training—there's a first-team spot waiting for me."

After making the call from the training center's phone booth, Matías stepped out and headed toward his dorm.

Not many players lived in the team dormitory—most of the B team players had their own accommodation in Mallorca, as the club still relied on local talent. Even senior squad players like Drogba, who had been sent down for match fitness, had their own places. At this time of year, most young players had gone home for the holidays, leaving Matías alone in the dormitory.

But solitude never bothered him. After grabbing dinner at a nearby restaurant, he carried a few cans of Coke back to his room, humming a tune.

The dorm was modest but had all the essentials—a bed, a table, a sofa, a TV, and his prized possession: a PlayStation. Gaming was his favorite pastime.

Just as he was about to fire up his console, a knock on the door interrupted him.

"Who is it?"

Matías was puzzled but unconcerned. The training center wasn't a fortress, but it was secure enough that burglars wouldn't be stupid enough to break in—what could they possibly steal? A few footballs? Some sweaty old jerseys? The expensive training equipment was too bulky to lift.

He confidently opened the door and found himself face-to-face with first-team manager José Alemany.

"Coach!" Matías, bold as he was, couldn't help but be startled. José rarely visited the youth teams, likely out of respect for Mésquida's authority. When he did show up, it was usually to scout players.

Since everyone else was on holiday, there was no doubt—José was here for him.

Matías invited José in, who took a seat on the sofa and glanced around.

"Not bad. Are you settling in well?"

Matías nodded. "It's decent. Way better than Getafe's facilities."

"I heard from your father that you played for Real Madrid, Atlético, and Rayo Vallecano's youth teams before. Honestly, I'm curious—those clubs have strong academies and experienced scouts. How did they let you slip through the cracks? From what I've seen, you have the talent to make an impact, or at the very least, earn a steady role."

José's tone was casual, but his gaze was sharp, waiting for an honest answer.

Matías didn't hesitate. "It's simple—they thought I was too aggressive in training, scared I'd injure their golden boys."

He started counting on his fingers. "At Madrid, I was in the C team, playing a friendly against the B team. I tackled Portillo, their star striker, and after the game, the coach tore into me. I wasn't about to take that lying down, so I talked back... and got kicked out."

José raised an eyebrow. No surprise there. Portillo was Madrid's goal machine, tipped to be the next Raúl. The academy's job was to nurture top talent, so of course, the coaches would protect their star players.

"Then you joined Atlético?" José asked.

Matías shook his head. "No, I went to Rayo first. After a year, Atlético scouted me, and I figured they had a better future, so I left. A few days in, I got into a fight with some freckled kid... and got kicked out again. Rayo wouldn't take me back, so I ended up at Getafe. You know the rest."

"A freckled kid?" José's eyes narrowed. "You don't mean... Fernando Torres?"

"I think so." Matías scratched his head. "I was only there a few days, who remembers names? But yeah, he was called something like that. Supposed to be some 'Golden Boy.' Spain has way too many 'Golden Boys.'"

José laughed. Spain indeed loved crowning its young stars—Madrid had Raúl, Atlético had Torres, and Bilbao had Guerrero.

Matías suddenly realized something. "Wait, boss, you know that guy?"

"Of course. I almost signed him once. If it weren't for Jesús Gil blocking the move, you two might have been teammates."

Matías snorted. "Pfft, that kid's soft. Bumped into him a couple of times in training, and he couldn't handle it. He wanted to fight, so I clocked him, and boom—bloody nose! Hahaha!"

José was speechless.

"I like it better at Mallorca. Here, as long as I give my all, no one complains about me being 'too rough.' Now we've even got Drogba—going up against him in training is amazing! Not many forwards can go head-to-head with me physically."

José chuckled. The fact that Matías could hold his own against Drogba was remarkable. White players were often physically impressive, but in terms of raw power and explosiveness, they usually lagged behind Black players.

Taking a closer look at Matías, José noted his striking features. Not conventionally handsome, but tall, well-built, and chiseled—black hair, light blue eyes, an unusual mix.

"You're mixed-race, aren't you?" José asked.

Matías nodded. "Yeah. My dad and grandpa are Spanish, my mom's Dutch, my grandma's German... oh, and my great-grandma was Chinese."

José blinked. No wonder—his full name, Damián Matías Jensen, included a distinctly German surname.

Their conversation wrapped up. José had been curious about Matías' past, and from what he gathered, the kid wasn't a lost cause—just a hothead who wouldn't tolerate disrespect. That was fine by him.

"I'll be keeping an eye on you," José said. "If you keep improving, a first-team call-up won't be far off."

"Boss, don't worry—I'll make it to the first team in no time!" Matías declared, full of confidence.