Soccer Boy

Santi had always known the weight of the earth.

It pressed against his shoulders in the early morning, when he carried baskets of maize through the fields. It settled into his fingers, rough and calloused from digging through dry soil. It seeped into his bones, reminding him that this was his life. This would always be his life.

And yet, there was something else inside him, something restless, something that wouldn't let him accept this fate.

"Santiago, faster." His father's voice broke through his thoughts.

Santi adjusted the woven basket on his back and picked up his pace. Don Manuel never allowed distractions, not even for a second.

They moved through the endless rows of maize, the heat already pressing down on them, even though the sun had barely risen. The land had been in their family for generations, passed down from fathers to sons. It was expected that one day, it would belong to Santi too.

Except he didn't want it. He wanted the ball. "Less thinking. More working," his father muttered, though Santi hadn't said a word.

But he knew what his father was really saying. Less dreaming.

By noon, their clothes were soaked in sweat, their hands caked in dust. The air smelled of sunbaked earth and dying crops.

His father finally stood straight, stretching his back. "That's enough." Santi let out a quiet breath, his muscles aching as he straightened.

They walked back toward the house in silence, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the dry and cracked ground.

Inside, Doña Rosa stood by the stove, stirring a pot of beans. The scent filled the room but there was little else on the wooden table.

Santi's six-year-old sister, Lupita, sat on the floor, drawing figures in the dirt with a stick.

Lupita looked up as Santi dropped the heavy basket near the door. "Are you a famous soccer player yet?" she asked, grinning. Santi smirked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Almost."

Lupita giggled, then went back to her drawings. She was the only one in the family who never told him to stop dreaming. Their mother sighed as she scooped beans onto a tortilla. "We need more maize. And salt."

Don Manuel pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. "Santiago, go to the market," he said. Then his eyes narrowed. "No wasting time."

Santi nodded, grabbing the pouch. But as he turned to leave, his heart pounded faster. Because he knew the market meant more than food. The market meant the game.

San Isidro wasn't much. A handful of houses, a single church and a few dusty roads that led to nowhere important.

The market was the heart of the village, a place where farmers, merchants, and travelers gathered. It was the one spot in town where there was movement, where voices filled the air and where life felt bigger than the quiet weight of the fields.

As Santi walked, he passed the usual sights. Old men sitting on crates, sipping black coffee and talking about droughts.

Mothers balancing baskets of laundry on their heads, their children trailing behind them.

He also passed other boys his age, some leading donkeys, some stacking firewood. They all had the same tired, resigned look in their eyes. Because they all knew the truth.

This was their future. This was all there was. Santi clenched his fists. No. Not for me. Then he heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a ball bouncing on dirt. His breath caught. The game had already started.

Santi's legs moved before his mind could catch up.

He weaved through the marketplace, past carts stacked with fresh tortillas, past stalls selling clay pots and colorful blankets.

Then he saw them. A group of boys had gathered in an open patch of dirt, playing between wooden crates and old sacks of grain. Their goalposts were made of stacked bricks and at the center of it all, was a real leather ball, scuffed but whole.

Santi ached to touch it. He should have turned around. His father was waiting. But he was already stepping forward.

"Need another player?" he asked.

The boy holding the ball, Mateo; a tough kid from the next village looked him up and down. "Think you can keep up, farmer boy?"

Santi didn't answer. He just smiled. The game began. The moment the ball touched his foot, everything else disappeared. The weight of the maize sack. The dry heat of the sun. The disappointment in his father's voice. Gone.

There was only the game. Mateo came at him fast, trying to steal the ball but too slow. Santi flicked it past him effortlessly. A second defender lunged a quick feint, a turn and gone.

He felt the ball like it was part of him. He didn't think. He just moved.

The crowd of boys shouted, the energy of the game growing with each touch. They played rough, shoving, kicking at ankles. But Santi was always one step ahead.

Then came the moment. The ball rolled perfectly into his path. Santi didn't hesitate. One strike.

The ball flew through the air, crashing against a wooden crate, the makeshift goal. For a moment, there was silence. Then, cheers.

"Damn, Cruz!" Mateo clapped him on the back. "Where'd you learn to play like that?" Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead, still breathless.

"The fields."

Santi didn't know how long he played. All he knew was the sun had shifted, hanging lower in the sky. The market crowd had started to thin.

The market was quieter now. Vendors packed up their carts, stacking crates and tying sacks of produce. The smell of roasting meat and fresh tortillas had faded, replaced by the dry scent of dust kicked up by the wind.

Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead, his pulse still racing from the game. He could stay there forever, at that moment, that was the only place where he felt alive.

Then, his stomach dropped. A familiar figure stood at the edge of the dirt patch, arms crossed, his face unreadable.

Don Manuel. Santi's breath caught in his throat. The boys around him kept laughing, patting each other on the back, still caught in the high of the match. They hadn't noticed the storm brewing in his father's eyes.

But Santi had. A heavy silence pressed against his chest. The game was over. And he had already lost.

Neither of them spoke as they walked. The dirt road stretched long and empty, winding past the fields and scattered homes, leading back to their small adobe house.

Santi's feet felt heavier with every step. His father didn't have to say anything. The silence was enough.

When they reached home, Don Manuel set the sack of maize on the table with a dull thud. His mother, Doña Rosa, looked up from the stove, her tired eyes flicking between them.

"Everything okay?" she asked cautiously.

Don Manuel didn't answer. He turned to Santi, his expression unreadable. "Outside." Santi swallowed hard and followed him.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the hills, casting long shadows over the fields. The air was thick with dust, the scent of dry earth filling Santi's lungs.

His father stood with his back to him, staring out at the land.

Finally, he spoke. "You disobeyed me."

Santi's fingers curled into fists. He knew this was coming.

"I finished my work," he said carefully. "I did what you asked."

His father turned. There was no anger on his face. Just something worse. Disappointment.

"You wasted time."

Santi's jaw tightened. It wasn't a waste. It never was. Don Manuel took a slow step forward. "You think this game will change your life?"

Santi held his ground. "Yes."

His father studied him, his face unreadable. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Then, finally, Don Manuel exhaled.

"You'll understand one day," he muttered. Santi's stomach twisted. Because he didn't want to understand.

He didn't want to wake up in twenty years, standing in these same fields, saying the same words to a son of his own.

He wanted more. But wanting more wasn't enough. He had to find a way out. And he would. No matter what it took.