The Centro Deportivo León buzzed like it was alive. Drums pounded from both ends of the stands. Flags waved in a synchronized blur and Boca Juniors fans, mostly clad in deep blue and bright yellow, sang in perfect rhythm. América's fans, just as loud, held up scarves and signs, chanting Santi's name, Ochoa's, and even Toro's.
The roar from both sides created a storm in the air. In the tunnel, the players stood shoulder to shoulder. The names of the teams were announced one by one.
"CLUB AMÉRICA…!" Cheers erupted.
"BOCA JUNIORS…!" Another wall of sound.
Cameras clicked. Scouts leaned forward and former players lined the VIP row. The Copa del Futuro was more than a tournament. It was a battlefield disguised in bright lights and green grass.
The referee glanced at his watch. Then blew his whistle.
From the first touch, it was fire. Boca sent a long ball wide to test América's backline but Toro was ready. He rose above the forward and smashed a header away. Ríos cleared the second ball. Immediately, Boca's intent was clear fast, aggressive and physical.
But América didn't retreat. Solano commanded the middle like a general. His first pass was sharp. His second, even cleaner. Diego and Santi linked up quickly but Boca's midfield clamped down.
In the 3rd minute, Charlie got his first touch and tried to run at the left back only to get muscled off. Boca defenders were tall, sturdy and moved like machines. Still, América didn't panic.
In the 5th minute, the first real chance came in for Boca. A sharp cut-in and a shot from outside the box but it got fizzed wide. Alejandro never flinched.
The commentator's voice rang across the broadcast: "This is not a warm-up game. This is a fight. One mistake could end it."
And then came that mistake. Because a few minutes later, Boca's center back played a lazy pass across the backline. Diego was already lurking. He anticipated it perfectly and pounced like a hawk.
He intercepted, darted forward and with one glance, saw Ochoa sprinting into space on the left. He curled in a low, driven cross. Ochoa received and chopped the ball inside, sending the defender sliding past him with one touch. Then a second. He opened up his body and slotted it past the keeper with calm venom.
"OH MY WORD!" the commentator yelled. "What a finish! Ochoa with the composure of a seasoned pro and Diego with a pickpocket straight from a thief's handbook!"
And just like that América took the lead. The scoreline read Boca Juniors 0-1 Club América.
The América bench exploded. The fans roared. Santi sprinted to celebrate, but he barely smiled. He was locked in.
If América thought they could breathe then they were wrong.
Because in the 14th minute, Boca came roaring forward with some clean and sharp passes just outside the box. Their star striker, the tournament's most hyped forward, touched it into space just behind the arc. Then, BOOM! A rocket, but it hit the crossbar!
The sound echoed across the pitch like a gunshot. Alejandro had dived but didn't touch it. The ball came back out like it hit the concrete. That shot was a warning.
Their striker stood still, shaking his head. Jaw clenched. He had nearly opened the door. But nearly wasn't enough.
18 minutes into the game, Boca increased the pressure. Their fullbacks pushed up. They started swarming the midfield but Solano absorbed the heat, distributing it quickly.
América didn't play scared. They played sharp with clean touches and simple passes.
Santi had been quiet, almost invisible. But he stayed high, waiting and reading. The storm wasn't his yet. Until the 21st.
He finally got his moment. Diego slipped a pass between two defenders. Santi caught it on the move. Immediately, Boca collapsed on him. But he didn't stop, a step-over, body feint and then he dragged his heel. The first defender froze. Santi blew past him.
The second tackled but he missed. The crowd roared. Now Santi was inside the box. He wound up like he was about to hit a knuckleball rocket…Defenders dove to block. Instead, he chipped it soft, perfect and floating. Straight to Ochoa. Who slammed it in. And just like that América took the lead to two.
Boca Juniors 0-2 Club América
"What trickery! Santi with the fake knuckleball draws two defenders and dishes it on a plate! Ochoa with the brace!"
Now América had their moment. And Chivas, somewhere watching, had been warned.
Down two goals, Boca's fire turned to desperation. They surged forward. Their midfield was overloaded. But Toro and Ríos? They were unbreakable. Every cross, they cleared. Every long ball, they rose.
Alejandro barked orders. "Santi drop!" "Mark 10!" "Ríos shift!" They moved as one. The scouts scribbled notes furiously. One had already circled three names.
In the 28th minute, Lucho stuck a leg out too far. Boca won a free kick just a few yards outside the box. Their striker stepped up again.
This time he hit it low, aiming for the corner but Alejandro dove and saved it. He punched it away with both fists, sliding on his side. The pitch erupted again but this time for defense.
"WHAT. A. SAVE!" the announcer yelled. "Alejandro Ramirez, remember the name!"
Minutes later, they started making errors. Misplaced passes. Long balls. Fouls. Their coach screamed from the touchline, red-faced and gesturing wildly. Still, América didn't relax. They hunted for the next goal.
35th minute, Santi again. He picked it near midfield and dribbled past two Boca players. The crowd rose to its feet. He shifted left, cut inside and then back out. He found Charlie on the wing. A pass to Charlie who hit it low and hard but it was punched away! The ball deflected for a corner.
Santi jogged over with calm. He raised his hand. Then crossed it in curling. Toro timed it.
Then, bang! He rose and jumped above everyone heading the ball into the net.
0-3.
What a goal that was. América was making a statement as he sprinted to the sideline kissing the América badge in front of the cameras. Herrera smirked on the sideline.
"Are you watching, Chivas?" the commentator shouted. "Because Club América just made it personal."
Boca pushed again. But the rhythm was broken. They weren't creating, they were swinging. Every ball was cleared by the América defenders.
43rd minute: Midfield clash. Ríos slid in and won the ball, but hard. Too hard. He received the first card of the day, a yellow card.
The Boca's striker, Raúl González went in for another free kick. This one looked better. Clang, it hit the crossbar again. The Boca coach dropped his clipboard in frustration.
A few minutes later, the referee blew his whistle for halftime.
América walked off with fire in their veins. Boca followed with their heads low as their striker kicking grass as he passed the tunnel's shadow.
In the stands, América fans roared.
"¡Sí se puede!"
"¡Vamos América!"
The scoreboard didn't lie.
Boca Juniors 0–3 Club América. But the game wasn't over.
In the locker room, Herrera had more to say. So did Boca's coach.
And Santi? He wasn't done yet.
Inside the tiled walls of the América locker room, the energy was different from anything they'd felt all season. Not loud. Not wild. But solid and confident.
Herrera stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. He scanned their faces. He didn't speak right away. He didn't need to.
The scoreboard did the talking: 0–3. The only words he offered came low, firm, and direct.
"We play for the badge. We protect what we've built. Nothing more." Not a single tactic. No over-coaching. The players nodded. The fire was already burning.
Toro sipped water in silence. Solano stretched his calf and Santi sat with his eyes closed, breathing steady and replaying every run he'd made, every touch, every second of space he had manipulated in the first half.
No jokes. No talk of what's next. Only now.
The other side of the tunnel was different. Their coach slammed his palm on the tactics board. "Three goals. Three. In 45 minutes."
The players stared ahead, some breathing heavily and some wiping sweat from their necks. Their top striker sat motionless as his jaw clenched.
"Do you want to go home?! You're Boca! You fight. You claw. You turn this thing around." He redrew the attack pattern, pointed at the wings.
"We press. We score early. One goal, and they panic. Get it." But behind the fury was fear. And they all felt it.
The teams returned to the pitch after twelve minutes. The sun was still high, the pitch baking slightly under the heat. Water had been sprayed, but it was dry again. The crowd was even louder now. Word had spread. Scouts filled the first rows and phones were out.
Chants echoed: "¡Vamos América!"
"¡Boca, despierta!"
"Santi! Santi!"
"Ochoa, hat-trick! Ochoa, hat-trick!"
The ref looked at both keepers and then blew the whistle.
In the first three minutes, Boca came out flying with short passes and fast movements. Their striker dropped deep and linked play. América tried to adjust, but Boca's speed was different now. Like they were fighting not for glory but pride.
In the 50th minute, their midfielder found space and whipped in a curling ball to the back post. The striker, Raúl rose between Toro and Ríos like a harmer. But this time he made no mistake, he headed the ball with all his might. The ball found its way into the net.
"He's done it! The star man pulls one back and Boca breathes again!"
Toro punched the turf. He was furious.
Solano barked: "Composure! It's still ours!"
They regrouped at midfield. No panic. But the pressure was now real.
Boca was gaining momentum but América was not ready for concessions. They came to make a statement.
At minute 55, Solano calm as ever slipped the ball to Valdez on the left wing. Valdez twisted past his marker, and cut in. A quick inside pass to Charlie at the edge of the box.
Suddenly, CRASH! A late, reckless tackle took him out. Charlie went down hard. The referee pointed to the spot immediately.
A yellow card flashed and Boca's defender protested in vain. Charlie stood up slowly and dusted his knees.
No one else even asked. He was taking it. Santi watched from the edge of the box with arms on hips. Charlie stepped forward.
Stutter, delay and tap. Panenka. Down the middle. Keeper dove early.
GOAL. Boca 1–4 América.
"What a cheeky finish! Charlie with the calmest chip in León! That's ice in the veins!"
Santi laughed. "I haven't seen that in a long time."
The team embraced him. Charlie pointed to the crowd. "Vacation dreams alive!"
In the 65th, the midfield became a war zone. Ríos and Lucho were colliding with Boca's number 8 and 6 at every turn. Fouls. Shoves. No cards, but the tension was rising.
Solano kept everyone calm.
"Play with your head." he kept saying.
70th minute, Santi picked up the ball deep in midfield. One touch. Then, lifted. He chipped it over the pressing midfielder like a magician pulling silk from his sleeve.
Then came the Croqueta ball shifting fast from right to left between both feet slicing through two defenders.
He broke into the box. Everyone expected the shot. Instead, he went for a backheel. Right into Ochoa's path who smashed it in the net.
A hat-trick, Ochoa just stated his name on the score sheet. 5-1
"Oh my GOD. SANTI CRUZ. Three assists. One playmaker. One magician. And Ochoa with the perfect finish."
The América bench cleared. They ran to celebrate. Felipe jumped, arms flailing. "That's my boy! That's my boy!" Even Herrera cracked a smile.
The scoreboard now wasn't just a lead. It was a statement. Boca 1-5 América.
10 minutes to stoppage time, Boca fought. One shot from a distance but wide. Their corners were cleared.
Another cross but punched out by Alejandro. The striker still ran. Still believed. But his team was fading.
85th minute, a corner again. Their tall center-back jumped. But Toro rose higher. Thumped it out. The crowd chanted again.
"TORO! TORO!"
89th minute, Santi again. In the middle of the pitch. He turned, dribbled and accelerated.
One man, gone. Two, gone. Three, shoulder shake. Gone. Four, spun around. He reached the box and laid it off to Charlie, a perfect angle.
"Charlie shoots… but it's wide!"
He dropped to his knees. "¡Nooo!"
Santi jogged over and pulled him up, smiling. "No worries," he said. "We're dancing."
In the final minutes, Boca pressed once more. A low-driven ball from the wing. Their striker turned and shot! But Alejandro saved it. Clean and confident.
"MIRACLE? Denied." The ref signaled two minutes. Santi tried one last wonder with a knuckleball from 25 yards. But it was punched out.
The whistle blew a few seconds later. And the field exploded. Players jumped and tackled each other. Fans screamed. América's section went into full-party mode.
Some América players turned to the cameras, calling out: "Where you at, Chivas? We're waiting!"
"We're coming."
Ochoa held up three fingers for his hat-trick. Charlie danced and Toro waved the team flag. Santi didn't yell, he just knelt and looked up smiling.
Inside, music blasted. Towels flew and Herrera let the boys enjoy. Charlie did a fake Panenka walk in the middle of the room, reenacting the penalty. Lucho laughed till he fell off the bench.
Santi sat near his locker. Felipe walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You weren't just playing football," he said. "You were conducting a symphony."
Minutes later, a Copa staff member entered the locker room.
"Santiago Cruz. MVP of the match." The room exploded. Ochoa hugged him from behind. "You owe me dinner for those assists," he shouted.
Santi held the small trophy in his hands with clear glass and etched gold. First major award. First youth tournament. First time feeling truly seen. He didn't cry, but he felt it.