Football Dynasty-Chapter 557: Little El Chino

Arguineguín was a small coastal town on the southwest of Gran Canaria, about ten to fifteen kilometers from Maspalomas. It wasn’t a place built for dreams of football stardom. It was built for fishing—for quiet routines, for families who measured life by tides, shifts, and the certainty of tomorrow’s work rather than distant trophies.

David Silva’s house sat on one of the narrow streets that climbed gently away from the harbor. It was modest and sun-worn, its white walls dulled by years of Atlantic wind and salt. A low fence bordered a small front garden where the soil was dry and uneven, a place better suited for pots and crates than flowers.

"Did you know? He was introduced to the beautiful game by his dad right in front of that garden—wearing a diaper as his kit and fresh produce as the ball," said Eva Silva, David Silva’s mother, who surprised Richard by being of Japanese descent.

After being introduced by Marina, she and Eva quickly struck up a conversation like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years, leaving Richard awkwardly alone with the twelve-year-old boy, watching them talk.

Richard sighed softly. Today was supposed to be the day—David’s father was due to return home after hearing that they had an important visitor from far away. Suddenly, he felt it. Someone was looking at him. He turned his head slightly and met the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy.

"..."

It was as if he was being assessed.

’What the fuck?’

Richard shook his head, dismissing the thought, before asking, "Do you have a ball here?"

David Silva, who had been meeting Richard’s gaze, was shy at first and almost looked away—but the question caught him off guard.

"Let’s go get some fresh air outside."

Richard then stood up.

Rather than awkwardly waiting and listening to two women who showed no sign of finishing their conversation, he would rather enjoy the cries of seagulls and the distant hum of fishing boats heading out before sunset.

David glanced toward his mother, who was still deep in conversation, then back at Richard. After a moment, he followed.

Outside, the street sloped gently toward the harbor. The houses grew closer together as they descended, their walls sun-bleached and patched with years of quiet repair. Laundry hung from balconies, fluttering lightly in the breeze.

David’s house sat just high enough to overlook the port. Soon, Richard found a ball lying near the corner. He picked it up and tossed it lightly to David.

"Use this one," he said.

David caught it instinctively, then dropped it to the ground and tapped it forward. The ball responded immediately, skimming over the uneven pavement. He adjusted without thinking, compensating for every crack and slope in the street.

David stopped the ball under his sole and looked at Richard again.

"You don’t look like a coach," he said.

Richard chuckled. "I’m not."

"Then why are you here?"

Richard met his gaze, serious now.

"Because sometimes," he said slowly, "people put you in the wrong place—not because you aren’t good, but because they’re afraid of where you might end up."

David didn’t reply. He took a few quick touches, feinted left, shifted his weight, and burst right. It wasn’t flashy. It was efficient. The kind of movement that fooled defenders because it looked too simple to be dangerous.

"Come on, pass it to me," Richard said.

The sudden request caught young David Silva off guard.

"Hahaha—"

Seeing his reaction, Richard burst out laugh.

"You know," Richard said, rolling the ball under his sole, "I used to be a footballer."

Hearing that made David’s eyes widen.

"Really?" 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"Of course," Richard replied. "Let me show you."

He passed the ball gently toward David.

They began with simple passes. Nothing intense—just clean, measured touches. Richard was careful with his movements. His body remembered more than it could now execute. Injuries had taken sharp turns and sudden bursts, but the fundamentals were still there.

They played along the narrow street, adjusting their angles to avoid doorways and parked scooters. Richard never chased the ball aggressively. Instead, he positioned himself well, letting the ball come to him, guiding it back with the inside of his foot.

"Good," Richard said. "One touch. Two at most."

David nodded, focusing harder.

After a few minutes, he grew bolder. He added a feint before passing—a small shoulder drop, then a quick drag with the sole of his foot before releasing the ball. It was instinctive, uncoached, the kind of movement that came from playing on streets rather than training grounds.

Richard smiled at the sight of it.But age—and years of not playing—were beginning to make themselves felt.

"Alright," he said, raising a hand. "Let me take a rest for a moment."

He bent forward, resting his hands on his knees, breathing out slowly. A dull ache pulsed through his leg.

David stopped immediately, the ball settling at his feet. He looked at Richard with concern.

"Are you okay?"

Richard straightened a little and waved it off with a faint chuckle. "I’m fine. This body just isn’t what it used to be."

David only needed a moment and let Richard rest, while Richard himself used the time to watch David Silva playing alone.

Richard watched carefully. This wasn’t raw flair—it was something rarer: efficiency. The ball never left David’s control. His head stayed up. His touches were light, deliberate, purposeful.

Too purposeful for a goalkeeper. Richard exhaled quietly.

Time passed as he watched how David Silva handled the ball himself, unaware that someone had already stepped up beside him.

"I know his new-found obsession has become an exercise in futility," the unknown guy muttered.

The sound shocked Richard, and he almost jumped. However, when he saw the police uniform the man was wearing, he realized this was David Silva’s father.

"Mr. Richard, I am sorry for making you wait," said Fernando Jiménez, David Silva’s father, before extending his hand for a handshake.

Seeing it was the man they had been waiting for, Richard let out a quiet sigh of relief. He took Fernando’s hand and shook it firmly. "It’s okay," he replied, before turning his attention back to David Silva.

Five minutes passed in silence between the two adults until Richard acknowledging the technique displayed by the twelve-year-old boy. Seeing Richard’s approval made Fernando Jiménez proud of his son.

"You know, at the age of three, I gifted him his very first football," Fernando said before continuing. "I used to play semi-professionally, and you know what, Mr. Richard? He loved roaming the touchlines while I played. Silva would try to imitate everything he saw."

Richard’s attention was soon fully drawn to the story. However, before Fernando could continue, two fishermen passed in front of the house, and Richard overheard their conversation.

"Oh, it’s the little El Chino playing again. Sigh... if only I had a son, probably..."

"El Chino?" Richard was taken aback.

It was Fernando who filled him in. "Ah, it was the fishermen around the town who would call David ’El Chino’ due to his small eyes and reticent nature."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah," said Fernando, before he looked at how David Silva was playing football with a pained expression. "His footballing education continued within the confines of the home, directed by his idol, Michael Laudrup, via the television," he said.

"I remember when he was five years old, watching his idol on television," he continued, "saying it was exhilarating to witness such exquisite technical ability and unrivaled vision."

"Idol?"

"Yeah, Michael Laudrup," he replied to Richard before continuing. "Since then, he would spend hours meticulously taking notes, striving to replicate all of Laudrup’s magic, hoping that one day all of his hard work would carry him to a starring role on the hallowed pitches of LaLiga. David’s progression soon became evident enough that he was recruited by the youth team of the third-tier side UD San Fernando at just the age of nine."

"As a goalkeeper?"

Fernando was taken aback. "Yes... as a goalkeeper."

Now Richard saw the problem.

"With that kind of technique?" he muttered, his eyes narrowing as he pointed toward David Silva.

With that kind of dribbling and maneuvering... well, for now it didn’t matter. He was like an open canvas, so they were secondary. Still, here was David, wasting his natural genius in a position that didn’t suit him.

Richard then continued, "You know," he said more casually now, "playing out of position can teach you things others never learn. As a goalkeeper, you see the whole field. As a street player, you feel the ball. When those two meet..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "...you get something special."

But still... to play as a goalkeeper.

Fernando frowned hearing this. "He... he’s just following the club’s guidance," he said cautiously. "They thought it would be good for him... discipline, positioning, you know..."

Richard chuckled softly, almost to himself. "Discipline, maybe. But talent like that—it’s like trying to cage a bird in a glass box. He’s not meant to stand there waiting for shots. He’s meant to move, to create, to pull defenders out of position before anyone even notices what he’s doing."

No one knew that the twelve-year-old David Silva already knew his father had arrived and was having a serious conversation with Richard. There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, so he played slowly, gradually moving closer to them.

"I’m not here to argue with the club," he heard Richard say.

"I’m here to make sure David doesn’t lose himself in a position that doesn’t let him breathe. His gift—it deserves space. One day, you’ll see why what he’s doing now will make him better. But you have to know... there are other ways to grow besides standing in goal."

"Are you here to recruit David?"

Finally, the question was asked.

"And that," Richard added with a small smile, "is why we’re here."

He let the words hang in the air, giving the father space to digest them.

"How about letting David train in England?