The Flea from Rosario: The Lionel Messi Story

Chapter 2: Trials of Talent and a Hidden Battle (1995–2000)The Newell’s Phenomenon (1995–1996)

In March 1995, at eight years old, Messi stepped onto the red clay pitches of Newell’s Old Boys, Rosario’s most storied club, named after Isaac Newell, the English teacher who introduced football to Argentina in the 1880s. The Malvinas Argentinas complex sprawled over 40 hectares—grass fields, dormitories, a swimming pool, and a main stadium that roared on weekends. For a boy from La Bajada, it felt like entering a cathedral.

The youth coordinator, Enrique “Quique” Domínguez, had heard rumors: un pibe que gambetea como Dios—a kid who dribbles like God. He watched Leo warm up in threadbare boots, then placed him with the under-10s. In the first drill, Messi collected a pass on the left touchline, feinted inside, outside, then threaded a no-look pass between two cones. Domínguez stopped the session. “Who taught you that?” he asked. Leo shrugged. “Nobody. I just see it.”

He joined the Máquina del ’87—the 1987-born squad coached by Domínguez and his assistant, Gabriel Digerolamo. They played 140 consecutive matches without defeat between 1995 and 1998, winning every local tournament. Leo was the engine. In one season, he scored 116 goals in 80 games, including a stretch of 40 in 30. Opponents began assigning two defenders to shadow him; he still found space. After a 7–0 thrashing of rival Central Córdoba, the losing coach approached Jorge: “Tell your son to stop humiliating us. We have kids who want to play too.”

Off the field, Leo remained an enigma. He spoke in whispers, avoided interviews, and cried if he lost—even in training games. Domínguez once benched him for refusing to pass; Leo sat under a eucalyptus tree, arms crossed, until his teammates begged the coach to relent. When reinstated, he scored four goals in ten minutes. The message was clear: this was not arrogance, but an inability to comprehend defeat.

The First Whispers of Trouble (1996–1997)

By late 1996, the growth charts told a different story. At nine, Leo measured 1.20 meters—shorter than most seven-year-olds. His energy flagged in second halves; he’d clutch his sides, gasping. Jorge took him to Dr. Diego Schwarzstein, a pediatric endocrinologist in Rosario. Blood tests revealed IGF-1 levels in the 5th percentile. Schwarzstein delivered the diagnosis: idiopathic growth hormone deficiency. Without treatment, Leo might never reach 1.50 meters.

The prescribed therapy—daily subcutaneous injections of recombinant human growth hormone (Somatropin)—cost $900 per month in 1997 dollars. Newell’s promised to cover 30%, then reneged after three months, citing budget cuts. Jorge sold his Fiat Duna, Celia took extra cleaning shifts, and the family rationed meat to one meal a week. Leo hated the needle but never complained. He’d sit on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, while Celia administered the shot into his thigh. “One day,” she told him, “this will make you fly higher.”

River Plate and the Buenos Aires Mirage (1998)

Word of La Pulga reached Buenos Aires. In 1998, River Plate—Argentina’s most glamorous club—invited Leo for a week-long trial. Jorge borrowed money for bus tickets; the family stayed in a pension near Retiro station. At River’s training ground in Ezeiza, Leo faced the under-12s. In a 20-minute scrimmage, he scored five goals, each more audacious than the last. Coach Eduardo Abrahamian pulled Jorge aside: “We want him. Full scholarship, medical coverage, everything.”

But River’s medical staff balked at the hormone costs. “We can’t commit long-term,” they said. “What if he stops growing anyway?” The offer evaporated. On the overnight bus home, Leo stared out the window, silent. Jorge gripped his hand. “This isn’t the end, hijo. It’s just a detour.”

The European Whisper (1999)

Back in Rosario, Newell’s situation deteriorated. The club entered financial crisis; youth coaches went unpaid. Leo trained in borrowed boots, the soles flapping. In March 1999, a scout from Real Madrid—José María Minguella—visited a Newell’s match on a tip from an Argentine agent. He watched Leo dismantle a team from Unión y Cultura: six goals, four assists, a nutmeg on the goalkeeper. Minguella phoned Barcelona’s sporting director, Carles Rexach, in Spain: “I’ve found the new Maradona. But he’s tiny, and there’s a medical issue.”

Rexach, a chain-smoking Catalan with a gambler’s instinct, flew to Argentina in secret. He met the Messis in a café on Córdoba Street. Jorge laid out the hormone invoices. Rexach scribbled numbers: €1,200 monthly for treatment, plus relocation. But Barcelona’s board hesitated—signing a 12-year-old foreigner was unprecedented. Rexach needed a guarantee.

The Napkin Contract (December 14, 2000)

The decisive meeting occurred at the Pompeya Tennis Club in Barcelona, where Rexach was vacationing. Jorge, Leo, and agent Horacio Gaggioli flew in at their own expense. Over coffee and medialunas, Rexach grew impatient with bureaucratic delays. He grabbed a paper napkin, scrawled:“En Barcelona, a 14 de diciembre del 2000, en presencia de los Sres. Minguella y Horacio, Carles Rexach, secretario técnico del FC Barcelona, se compromete bajo su responsabilidad y a pesar de algunas opiniones en contra a fichar al jugador Lionel Messi siempre y cuando se mantengan las cantidades acordadas.”Translated: Rexach committed Barcelona to signing Messi, covering all medical costs, provided the agreed figures held. He signed it, dated it, and slid it across the table. Leo, 13, stared at the napkin as if it were a passport to another planet.The Final Days in Rosario (2000)

Back home, the decision tore the family apart. Celia wanted to stay—Rosario was their roots, their language, their safety. Jorge saw no future without the treatment. Leo, caught in the middle, packed a small suitcase: three T-shirts, a PlayStation, and his Newell’s jersey. On March 17, 2001, the Messis boarded Aerolíneas Argentinas flight 1127 to Barcelona. Leo pressed his forehead against the window as Rosario’s lights faded below. He was 1.27 meters tall, weighed 30 kilograms, and carried a diagnosis that could have ended his dream.

But in his pocket, folded into a tiny square, was the napkin—the flimsiest contract in football history, and the most valuable promise a boy from La Bajada ever received.