Soccer Boy

Santi had never felt time slipping away like this before. Every second, every breath and every step felt like a countdown.

The youth tournament in León was in just two days. And he still had no way to get there.

He had spent the entire night thinking, staring at the ceiling of their small adobe house, his mind racing with possibilities.

Could he run away? No, León was too far, with too many roads and too many people who would stop him, ask questions.

Could he ask Tavo for help? Maybe, but Tavo's family didn't have money to spare. Could he steal from his father? The thought made his stomach twist. No. Never.

The only option left was telling his parents the truth. For the first time, he had to face them.

The sun had barely begun to rise when Santi sat at the small wooden table in their kitchen.

His mother, Doña Rosa, was making tortillas over the open fire, her hands moving rhythmically, pressing and flipping the dough with practiced ease. The scent of warm maize filled the room.

Lupita sat nearby, swinging her legs, humming a song to herself as she drew pictures in the dirt with a stick.

Outside, his father was sharpening his machete. The scraping sound filled the silence. Santi swallowed hard. His hands trembled slightly.

He had practiced what he was going to say all night. But now that the moment was here, his throat felt dry. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke.

"I want to play in the tournament." The sound of the machete scraping outside stopped for half a second, then continued.

Doña Rosa paused mid-movement, her hands frozen over the tortilla she was pressing. Lupita kept humming.

The room felt too small. Then, his mother slowly turned to look at him. Her expression was unreadable.

"What tournament?" she asked quietly.

Santi exhaled. "The youth tournament in León. Scouts are going to be there. It's a chance to be seen. A chance to play for a real team."

She studied him for a long time. Santi held her gaze, willing her to understand. That this wasn't just a game. That it was his dream.

"How do you plan to get there?" she asked softly. Santi hesitated. "I… I don't know yet," he admitted. "But I'll find a way."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. There was worry in her eyes, but also something else.

Something like… understanding. Before she could say anything, his father stepped inside.

Don Manuel wiped the sweat from his forehead and set his machete down by the door. His dark eyes flicked between Santi and Doña Rosa.

"What were you saying?" he asked. Santi forced himself to stand tall.

"I want to go to León," he said. "For the tournament." Silence.

Then, his father laughed. A short and dry chuckle. "You want to go to León?" Don Manuel repeated, shaking his head. "And how do you plan to do that? Walk?"

Santi's jaw tightened. "I'll figure it out." His father sighed and sat down at the table. "And what happens after you play in this tournament?"

Santi clenched his fists. "Maybe I'll get noticed. Maybe a scout will see me." Don Manuel scoffed. "Maybe. Maybe." He leaned forward, his eyes sharp and cold.

"And if no one notices?" he said. "Then what? You come back here? Back to the fields? With nothing?" Santi felt something inside him snap. Why couldn't his father see it? Why couldn't he believe in him?

"Papá," Santi said, his voice firm. "I'm good." His father leaned back in his chair. "So what?"

Santi blinked. "What?"

"So what if you're good?" Don Manuel repeated. "Do you know how many 'good' players there are? Boys just like you? Boys who run faster, kick harder, play smarter?"

Santi gritted his teeth. "I can be better."

His father shook his head. "You think this game will save you?" He gestured around the small house, at the walls that had stood for generations.

"This is real. This is what we have." His voice was quieter now. "The land puts food on our table. The ball does not." Santi's chest tightened.

"I don't want the land!" he shouted before he could stop himself. His mother gasped softly.

His father's face darkened. "What did you say?" Santi didn't back down.

"I don't want to spend my life breaking my back for nothing. I don't want to be stuck here forever!" His voice was shaking now but he didn't stop.

"I want more than this, Papá! I need more than this!" His father stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then, his father sighed. Not in anger. In disappointment.

"You sound just like your uncle," he muttered. Santi frowned. "What?"

His father looked away, shaking his head. "He was like you. Thought he was better than this place. Thought he could escape."

Santi had never met his uncle, his mother's brother. But he had heard stories. He had left San Isidro as a young man, chasing a dream in the city.

No one ever talked about what happened after. Santi felt a lump in his throat.

"Where is he now?" he asked. His father didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed his machete.

"This conversation is over."

Santi's whole body felt numb as his father walked out the door. He sat down slowly, staring at the wooden table.

His mother was still watching him, her face unreadable. Finally, after a long silence, she spoke. "Do you believe this is your chance?"

Santi lifted his head. And this time, there was no hesitation. "Yes." His mother sighed. She reached across the table, placing her hand over his.

Her touch was warm, familiar and safe. "I don't know if I believe in fútbol," she admitted. "But I believe in you."

Santi felt his chest tighten. For the first time, someone in his family was on his side. "Your father won't change his mind," she continued. "He's afraid." Santi frowned. "Afraid of what?"

She gave him a small, sad smile. "Of losing you." Santi swallowed hard.

"But he already has, hasn't he?" she whispered. "You're not like him, Santiago. You never were."

Santi looked down at their hands. She squeezed his fingers gently.

"I can't stop you," she said. "And I won't."

Tears burned at the back of Santi's eyes, but he blinked them away. Because now, he had something stronger than permission. He had his mother's blessing. And that meant he was going. No matter what.