This period of intense, joyful focus was punctuated by the familiar, but always thrilling, arrival of an official email from the Royal Spanish Football Federation. Mateo was, once again, being called up to the senior national team for the upcoming international break. But this time, it felt different.

The opponent was Italy, at home in Madrid. This was not a friendly against a lower-ranked nation where he could be eased into the game; this was a heavyweight clash, a true test of his abilities on the highest stage.

For Mateo, who had been a part of the senior squad for nearly a year, the novelty of the call-up had been replaced by a quiet, determined focus. He was no longer the wide-eyed boy, just happy to be there.

He was an established member of the team, a player who was expected to contribute. Against an opponent like Italy, a team renowned for its defensive discipline and tactical cunning, that was a monumental challenge.

Klopp called him into his office, the official letter in his hand. He was beaming. "Italy," he said, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and excitement. "A proper test. This is where you show them that you are not just a talent for the future, but a weapon for the present. Go and make them remember your name."

His teammates' reactions reflected this new reality. There was no surprise, only a quiet, professional respect. Lewandowski, who had faced the Italian defense many times, gave him a piece of advice. "They will try to frustrate you," he said. "They will be physical, they will be clever. Do not fall into their trap. Be patient. Your moment will come."

Arriving in Madrid felt like a homecoming. He was no longer the new kid. He greeted his teammates Casillas, Ramos, Xavi, Iniesta with handshakes and hugs, a sense of easy camaraderie replacing the nervous awe of his first few call-ups.

He was still the youngest player on the team by a significant margin, but he was no longer an outsider. He was one of them.

His conversations with the senior players were different now. Xavi, the team's midfield metronome, pulled him aside after training to discuss the tactical challenges of facing Italy's compact defense.

"They will try to deny you space," he said. "The key is to move the ball quickly, to stretch them, to create the small pockets of space where you can do your damage." It was a conversation between two masters of their craft, a passing of the torch from one generation to the next.

That night, his call with Isabella was filled with a different kind of energy. The boyish excitement of his first call-up was gone, replaced by the focused intensity of a seasoned professional. He told her about the match, about the challenge of facing the Italian defense.

She listened, her expression a mixture of pride and concern. "Be careful," she signed. "The Italian defenders are not known for being gentle."

He laughed, a confident, relaxed sound. "After Zenit, I think I can handle them."

The training sessions in Madrid were a masterclass in tactical preparation. Vicente del Bosque, the calm, unflappable manager of the Spanish national team, gathered the squad in the video analysis room.

The screen was filled with clips of Italy's defensive structure, a perfectly drilled unit that moved with the synchronicity of a ballet. He highlighted the aggressive pressing of their midfielders, the cynical, tactical fouls they used to break up the rhythm of their opponents, and the near-telepathic understanding between their veteran center-backs.

"They will not give us an inch," del Bosque said, his voice calm but firm. "They will try to make the game a street fight. We will not allow this. We will play our game. We will be patient. We will be precise. We will trust the ball. And we will find the cracks in their armor."

For Mateo, this was a different kind of challenge. At Dortmund, the game was about speed, about chaos, about overwhelming the opposition with relentless energy. Here, it was about control, about patience, about the slow, methodical dissection of a world-class defense. It was a test of his football intelligence, of his ability to adapt to a different philosophy.

One evening, after a particularly intense session, he found himself walking back to the hotel with Sergio Ramos, the team's fiery, passionate center-back. Ramos, who had a reputation as one of the most aggressive defenders in the world, surprised Mateo with his quiet intelligence.

"They will target you, you know," Ramos said, his voice low. "You are the new star, the one they will want to make a statement against. They will try to intimidate you. Do not let them. You are one of us now. You are a world champion. You carry the weight of this shirt. Do not ever let them see you back down."

It was a powerful message, a reminder that he was no longer just playing for himself, or for his club. He was playing for his country, for the pride of a nation. The weight of the red shirt was heavy, but it was also a source of immense strength.

His final conversation with Isabella before the match was a welcome escape from the intense pressure of the national team camp.

They didn't talk about football. They talked about her upcoming exams, about his plans for the foundation, about the simple, ordinary things that felt so far away in the bubble of elite sport. Her presence, even through a screen, was a grounding force, a reminder of the life that existed beyond the pitch.

"I am proud of you, Mateo," she signed, her expression serious. "Not because of the goals or the fame. But because of the man you are. You are kind. You are strong. You are good. Do not ever forget that."

Her words were a shield, a protection against the noise and the pressure that awaited him. As he prepared for the match, he felt a sense of calm that surprised him. He was not nervous. He was ready.

He had faced the Russian winter, he had stared down the business of his own fame, he had built a fortress around his values. He was ready for the fire of the Italian defense. The boy from the orphanage was now a man, standing on the shoulders of giants, ready to carve his own name into the history of the beautiful game.

As he packed his bags in his hotel room on the morning of the match, laying out the iconic red jersey, he felt a profound sense of clarity.

The journey was long, the road was hard. But he was on the right path. He was home. The future was a blank canvas, and he was ready to paint his masterpiece. The roar of the crowd at the Vicente Calderón awaited, and he was ready to answer its call.

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