Soccer Boy

The first light of dawn stretched over San Isidro, painting the sky in soft shades of gold and pink. The air was still cool but the day would soon turn mercilessly hot, just like every other.

Santiago "Santi" Cruz was already awake. Twelve years old, barefooted and covered in yesterday's dust, he followed his father through the fields. His shoulders ached from carrying baskets filled with corn, his fingers sore from the rough husks. But he knew better than to complain.

His father, Don Manuel was a man of few words and even fewer smiles. He had spent his entire life under this same sun, cutting maize, bending over the dry earth and accepting his fate.

"Men don't chase dreams, Santiago. They work. They survive."

That was what he had always told him. Santi knew his father wanted the best for him. But they didn't see the world the same way.

To his father, the land was their lifeline. To Santi, it was a prison.

The morning's work had barely begun when Santi's foot brushed against something small and round, an orange that had fallen from a nearby tree. It was bruised and slightly overripe but in that moment, Santi didn't see fruit.

He saw a soccer ball. Tap. A small nudge with his toes. Tap. Tap. A gentle flick to the side. His heart raced. The field disappeared. The rows of crops faded into the roar of an imaginary crowd.

He wasn't in San Isidro anymore. He was in the Estadio Azteca, the biggest stadium in Mexico. Thousands of fans chanted his name as he sprinted down the pitch.

He feinted past an invisible defender, rolled the orange under his sole and lifted it into the air with one touch, two, three and kept it afloat like magic.

Then, thwack! A strong hand smacked the back of his head. The orange hit the ground, rolling to a stop at his father's feet.

"What are you doing?" Don Manuel growled. His sun-darkened face was stern, his jaw tight. Santi swallowed hard. "Nothing, Papá."

His father picked up the orange and examined it, then squeezed it hard until juice dripped between his fingers.

"This is food," he said. "Not a toy."

Santi bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream. But he had learned long ago that it wouldn't matter.

"Get back to work!" His father ordered.

San Isidro wasn't on any maps that mattered. It was a place where dreams dried up like the riverbeds in the summer.

The houses were small and cracked adobe structures with rusted tin roofs. Stood in uneven rows along the dirt roads. There were no traffic lights, no sidewalks and no fancy stores. The only place with electricity all day was Don Chuy's tienda, where people gathered to watch soccer games on an old TV with bad reception.

People here worked hard. Too hard to believe in miracles.

Santi's mother, Doña Rosa, was already in their tiny kitchen when he got home, kneading dough for tortillas. She was a strong woman, her hands worn from years of washing clothes and cooking over an open fire.

"Did you eat?" she asked. "I'm not hungry."

She gave him a look. The kind only mothers could give. Then she pressed a warm tortilla into his hand and folded around a scoop of beans.

"Eat," she said.

Santi sat on the floor next to his little sister, Lupita. She was six, full of mischief and laughter, always drawing in the dirt with a stick.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing at her latest creation. "A flower," she said proudly. Santi squinted. "Looks like a chicken."

Lupita scowled and smacked his arm. "You don't know anything." He laughed, shoving her playfully.

She was the only one in the family who never scolded him, the only one who didn't tell him to stop dreaming.

"Are you gonna play today?" she asked. Santi hesitated, glancing at their father outside. "If he doesn't catch me." Lupita grinned. "Then run fast."

By the time the sun began to dip, Santi was running full speed through the village, dust kicking up behind him. He wasn't heading home.

He was going to the only place where he felt free.

Behind Don Chuy's store, there was an alley where the boys of San Isidro played every evening. It wasn't much, just a stretch of packed dirt with two stacks of bricks for goalposts and whatever they could find to use as a ball.

That day, they had a half-flat leather ball, its stitches coming undone. A treasure compared to the cans and rags they sometimes used.

"Santi!" called Tavo, his best friend. "Took you long enough."

"Had to escape my father," Santi said, breathless.

"Then let's make it worth it."

The game started fast, aggressive and raw. No referees, no rules just instinct and hunger.

Santi moved differently from the others. While they relied on strength, he relied on touch. He danced past defenders, using feints and quick turns, feeling the ball as if it was part of him.

It wasn't just a game to him. It was everything. And then, the moment came.

The ball bounced toward him. A defender lunged too late. Santi took one touch, then another, setting himself up.

Then, he struck. The ball soared past the keeper, crashing against the bricks. Goal! The alley exploded with cheers. Tavo tackled him, the others shouting his name. Santi grinned, breathless, heart pounding. This was it. This was where he belonged.

"One day, you're gonna play for Mexico, Santi!" Tavo shouted.

The words filled his chest with warmth. But then, just as quickly, doubt crept in. Boys like him didn't make it. Boys like him worked the fields until their backs broke. And yet, he still believed. He had to.

As the sun set, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, Santi walked home slowly with his toes still tingling from the game.

When he stepped inside, his father was waiting. Don Manuel didn't say anything at first. Just stared. Santi braced himself.

Finally, his father spoke. "You were playing again." It wasn't a question. Santi's throat tightened but he held his father's gaze. He wouldn't lie.

Don Manuel exhaled sharply and shook his head. Not in anger. In disappointment. Santi didn't flinch under his father's stare but inside, his chest felt tight.

"I finished my work," he said, keeping his voice steady.

Don Manuel sighed, rubbing a rough hand over his face. "That's not the point, Santiago."

"What is the point, then?" Santi asked, the frustration slipping through before he could stop it. "I did my part in the fields. Why does it matter what I do after?"

His father's eyes darkened. "Because it's foolish." Santi clenched his fists. He wanted to yell, to tell him that soccer wasn't just a game to him. That it was the only thing that made him feel alive. That he dreamed of more than this village, more than the fields and more than breaking his back for a life that wasn't even his choice.

Instead, he bit his tongue. He knew what would come next. "You think you're different?" Don Manuel said, his voice low. "You think you're special?" Santi stayed silent.

"I've seen boys like you before. Chasing dreams that don't belong to them." His father stepped closer. "Do you know what happens to them?" Santi swallowed hard.

"They come back." Don Manuel's expression was unreadable. "When the dream fails, they come back and the land is still here. The work is still waiting. But by then, they've wasted years believing in something that was never meant for them."

The words cut deep. Like a final whistle, blowing before the game was over. Don Manuel turned away. "Wake up early. We're working before the sun rises."

Santi stood there, unmoving, his father's words echoing in his head. The worst part wasn't that he disagreed. The worst part was that, for a moment, he was afraid his father might be right.