The nights in León were quiet but inside Santi's mind, the noise never stopped.
Lying on the thin mattress he shared with his younger sister, he would stare at the cracked ceiling of their small house, listening to the distant hum of motorcycles and the occasional barking dogs.
His parents slept in the next room. His father's deep and steady breathing echoed from the other side of the house.
But Santi? Santi was wide awake.
His body was exhausted from the day's work in the fields, his legs sore from carrying sacks of corn and his hands rough from pulling weeds but his mind was racing. Football.
It was all he could think about. His dreams weren't of harvests or money or escaping to some big city. His dreams were filled with stadiums, bright lights and roaring crowds.
He saw himself in the famous green jersey of the Mexican national soccer team gliding past defenders, scoring goals and lifting trophies. The crowd chanting his name.
"Cruz! Cruz! Cruz!"
But dreams were cheap in León.
And reality? Reality was his father's voice, rough and sharp, breaking through his fantasies like a hammer shattering glass.
"You waste too much time with that ball."
The reality was the fields, the sweat and the aching muscles from hours of work under the relentless Mexican sun.
Reality was waking up before sunrise to help his father, only to hear the same words every day.
"You think football will save you?" his father had once asked, shaking his head. "No one makes it from here."
But Santi had already made his choice. His father's world; the world of fields, of routine and of scraping by wasn't his world. He wasn't meant for quiet streets and forgotten dreams.
He was meant for something bigger. So every day, when the work was done, he ran. Through the alleys. Across the dirt roads. To the small and uneven football pitch where the other kids gathered. No coaches. No scouts. No shining jerseys.
Just a ball, a goal made from stacked bricks and the fire in his chest that told him; "One day, this won't just be a dream."
One day, he would prove them all wrong.
The neighborhood pitch wasn't much. It was dust and gravel, filled with rocks that could slice open your knee if you fell wrong. It had no goalposts, just two old tires marking the space where they pretended a net would be.
But to Santi? It was a stadium. It was the Azteca. It was where he belonged. No one there cared about where you came from or what your last name was.
The only thing that mattered was what you could do with a ball.
And Santi? He could do magic. Even with a ragged, half-deflated ball, he played like it was an extension of his body.
His feet moved with instinct, with rhythm. Like he was born for this. Like football wasn't just a game. It was his language. His escape. His future.
One evening, after a long day in the fields, Santi arrived at the pitch later than usual. The game had already started.
"¡Cruz, entra!" one of the older kids shouted, waving him over.
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead and jogged onto the dirt field. He was fast. He was skillful.
But that day? That day, the older kids taught him a lesson. They pushed him. They knocked him off the ball. They didn't give him space.
And when he fell hard on the gravel, scraping his elbow, they didn't stop. No one called a foul. No one helped him up. Santi gritted his teeth and got up himself.
Because this? This was football. No one gave you anything. You had to take it.
By the end of the match, he had dirt on his face, blood on his knee, and fire in his heart.
He walked home limping but he never felt more alive. Because today, he had learned something. Talent wasn't enough. If he wanted to truly be great then, he had to fight for it.
His father; Don Manuel never understood.
"A ball won't feed you, Santiago."
"People like us work. That's life."
"Dreams are for rich kids."
But his mother; Isabela, saw something different. She saw the light in his eyes when he talked about football. She saw the way he played, how the ball stayed glued to his feet, how he moved as if he were born to do this.
And she knew. Even if the world doubted him. Even if his father refused to believe. Santiago Cruz was meant for more.
So late at night, after everyone had gone to sleep, she whispered the words he needed to hear.
"Keep going, my boy."
"If you want it, don't stop."
And Santi never did. Because deep down, he knew. This was his way out. His way forward. His way to prove that León wasn't just a place to be forgotten but a place where legends could be born.
Every morning, he woke up before sunrise. Worked in the fields. Ran through the streets. Trained on the dirt pitch until his legs burned. Every night, he dreamed of stadiums. Of jerseys with his name on the back. Of a life beyond the dust and routine.
And soon, the world would know his name. But for now? For now, all he wanted was the touch of a football. And nothing in the world, not poverty, not doubt, not even his father's disapproval was going to stop him.
This is the story of a boy who had nothing and fought for everything. This is the story of Santiago Cruz. And it was only the beginning.