Every Saturday, Leo trudged down the creaky basement steps. He left his phone on the top stair. “No cold light,” Abuelo would say. “Only the warm glow.”

Abuelo caught his wrist. His grip was strong, surprisingly strong.

Leo tried to argue. He pointed out that on his laptop, he could watch any game, any time, from any angle. He could see Messi’s pores. He could pull up a heat map of a midfielder’s runs. It was more sport, not less.

Leo Vasquez was twelve years old and lived in two worlds.