Soccer Boy

The Same Routine, The Same Life. Santiago Cruz woke up to the scent of warm earth and woodsmoke.

The heat had already settled in, pressing down on the small adobe house like a heavy hand. The air inside was thick, carrying the scent of damp corn, the remains of last night's tortillas and the faint sweetness of the charred guava leaves his mother burned to keep away mosquitoes.

Another day. Another morning where his body ached before he even stood up.

The floor beneath him was hard, the thin blanket barely enough to cushion his growing bones. He stretched, his muscles sore from yesterday's work in the fields and from the stolen moments of soccer in the alley behind the market.

Across the room, his mother was already awake, grinding maize for the day's tortillas. Her hands worked mechanically, the same way they had for years. His little sister, Lupita, was still curled up on the mat, breathing softly in sleep.

Outside, his father was waiting.

Santi sighed, rubbing his face. He had to go. He always had to go. There was no room for hesitation, no space for complaints. This was the rule of his world.

He pulled on his worn-out shirt, the fabric thin from years of washing and stepped out into the morning light.

The sun had barely risen, but the land was already awake. The rows of maize stood tall but weak, the leaves brittle from the relentless heat. The drought had lasted too long this year. If the rain didn't come soon, there wouldn't be enough to sell at the market.

Which meant there wouldn't be enough to eat. His father was already working, his machete slicing cleanly through the stalks. The familiar sound; swish, crack, swish filled the silence.

Santi didn't need instructions. He grabbed his basket and began his work, pulling weeds, checking the crops and gathering the good ears of corn.

His father spoke only when necessary. He didn't believe in wasting words. But Santi knew what he would say if he did speak.

This is your life, Santiago. This is what feeds you. The ball never will. Santi clenched his teeth and yanked a stubborn weed from the dry soil.

No. He wouldn't believe that. Couldn't believe that. Because if he did, his dream was already dead.

By noon, the heat had become unbearable. Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his fingers raw from gripping rough stalks.

His father straightened, stretching his back. "That's enough for now."

Santi let out a slow breath. His body ached, his hands burned but he wasn't done working. He had one more thing to do.

They walked back toward the house, their footsteps crunching on dry soil. As they neared Don Chuy's tienda, they saw a group of men gathered outside.

Santi didn't think much of it because people gathered there all the time to exchange news, complain about the drought or talk about fútbol.

Then he heard it. "…big youth tournament in León…" His pulse stopped. "…some scouts might be there, looking for talent…"

Santi's breath caught in his throat. A tournament. Scouts. A chance. For a second, he forgot about the heat, the fields, the exhaustion.

A chance to prove himself. A chance to be seen. A chance to leave.

His heart pounded in his ears. If he could get there if he could just show them what he could do maybe, just maybe, everything could change.

But before he could step closer, before he could ask for details. His father's voice shattered the moment. "Santiago."

Santi stiffened. Don Manuel had already walked ahead but he had stopped, waiting for him. Santi swallowed hard and forced his legs to move.

As he walked away, the voices behind him faded. But the words remained, echoing in his mind. A tournament. A chance. A way out. A seed had been planted.

And no matter what it took, he was going to find a way to make it grow.

By late afternoon, Santi had finished his chores. His mother was inside, making fresh tortillas. Lupita was napping in the corner, her tiny chest rising and falling.

His father was sitting in the shade, his hat pulled low over his face, his arms crossed over his chest. Santi knew this was his moment.

Before anyone could stop him, he ran toward the alley behind Don Chuy's store.

He could already hear them; the shouts, the laughter and the rhythmic thud of a ball against dirt.

The game had started. Tavo, Mateo, and the other boys from the nearby villages were already deep into it, their feet moving with practiced ease, barefooted and fearless.

Santi didn't have to ask. They knew what he wanted. They made space for him. The moment his foot touched the ball, he was alive again.

Gone was the exhaustion from the fields. Gone was the weight of his father's disappointment. Gone was the feeling of being trapped.

There was only the game. Only the ball. Mateo came at him, fast and aggressive, trying to steal possession. Too slow.

Santi shifted his weight, flicked the ball to the left and spun past him.

Another defender lunged. A quick feint, a touch forward and gone. Everything around him blurred. Because there, in that small alley, with nothing but dirt beneath his feet and broken bricks as goalposts, he was free.

The ball rolled into his path. He took his shot. One clean strike. The ball soared, crashing against the stack of crates.

"¡GOLAZO!"

The alley echoed with cheers, dust rising from the ground as Santi's teammates rushed toward him. Mateo shook his head, grinning.

"Cabrón, you play like you belong in a real team." Santi smirked, still catching his breath. "Maybe I do."

The boys laughed but for Santi, it wasn't a joke. Maybe he did belong somewhere else. Somewhere bigger. And now, for the first time, he had a chance to prove it.

The tournament in León; a city with real fields, real teams and real scouts. It wasn't just a game. It was a way out.

But as the sun dipped lower, a cold truth settled in his stomach. How was he supposed to get there? León was far. Too far to walk. His father would never allow it.

He had no money, no connections, nothing but a dream. Santi clenched his fists. Maybe he didn't need permission. Maybe for the first time in his life, he would have to take a risk.

Because time was running out. And if he didn't act soon, he would never leave San Isidro.

By the time Santi walked home, the sky was painted in shades of red and gold. The streets were quieter now. Vendors had packed up their carts, mothers were calling their children in for the night. Smoke from cooking fires curled into the air, carrying the scent of warm tortillas and roasted chiles.

But Santi wasn't thinking about food. He was thinking about León. About the tournament. About what would happen if he stayed here forever.

When he stepped inside the house, his father was waiting. Don Manuel sat at the small wooden table, arms crossed, eyes darkened. Santi didn't even have time to prepare himself.

"You were playing again," his father said. It wasn't a question. Santi's pulse pounded, but he met his father's gaze. "I finished my work."

Don Manuel exhaled sharply. That wasn't the point. It never was. "You waste time," he said. "Time that should be spent on something real."

Santi's jaw tightened. He wanted to fight back. To say that soccer was real. To tell his father about the tournament. To tell him that he wasn't wasting time, he was chasing something bigger.

But what was the point? His father wouldn't listen. Not now. Not ever.

"You think the ball will save you?" Don Manuel asked. "It won't. The land feeds us. The land keeps us alive. The ball is just…" He shook his head. "A child's game."

Santi's stomach twisted. To his father, it would never be more than that. He was trapped in a world where dreams were dangerous.

Where hoping for more only led to disappointment. Where the weight of the earth was too heavy to escape.

Unless Santi found a way to break free. And now, he had a plan.

That night, Santi couldn't sleep. Lupita snored softly beside him, her small body curled under the thin blanket. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the distant sound of dogs barking and the occasional murmur of voices from passing neighbors.

But Santi's mind wasn't in San Isidro anymore. It was in León. On a real field. Under stadium lights. With scouts watching. He could see it so clearly.

And that's when he knew. He had to go. Even if it meant sneaking away. Even if it meant lying to his father. Even if it meant leaving behind everything he had ever known.

Because if he didn't try… he would never forgive himself. He turned onto his side, staring at the wooden beams of the roof.