León Sports Center.
The tunnel buzzed with a low, tense energy. The heavy smell of turf and rubber floated around them.
Their studs clacked lightly against the concrete as the América boys stood in rows, shoulders loose but minds locked in.
Santi stood in the middle of the group somewhere between Toro's hulking presence ahead and Solano's light chatter behind. He breathed in slowly.
The fabric of his jersey was fresh, clean, tight and clung slightly to his back.
The América badge sat heavy on his chest. It was real now. Every dream, every practice and every drop of sweat had led to this tunnel.
Toro nudged Santi lightly with his elbow.
"Ready?" Toro grinned, eyes flashing.
Santi smiled thinly. "More than ever."
They bumped fists as a small and silent promise. Ahead of them, a staff member gave the signal.
The metal doors at the mouth of the tunnel swung open and sunlight poured in.
The sound hit them next: the roar of the crowd, not deafening yet, but a swelling ocean of noise flowed into the tunnel like a wave. There were claps, cheers, horns and chants.
América flags waved furiously on one side. White-and-black Santos banners floated proudly on the other. The stands had started to fill properly now with families, scouts and fans who loved the game enough to show up at a youth final.
Santi's chest lifted a little higher. His steps grew longer. They walked out onto the pitch. The green of the grass seemed greener. The sky looked brighter and everything seemed sharper.
The América fans gave them a rising welcome: a wall of claps, yells and cries of "Vamos, América!" "Vamos, muchachos!"
Santi caught sight of a few waving signs of some homemade with glittery blue and yellow markers.
One banner had a giant golden eagle drawn in the center with its wings spread. It gave him chills.
They moved to their half of the pitch. Coaches and staff were already setting cones and handing out bibs. Herrera stood at the edge with his arms folded, watching everything like a general overseeing his troops.
The boys started light jogging first, casual at first, letting the nerves bleed out through motion.
Santi matched steps with Solano.
"Look at that crowd," Solano muttered, giving a low whistle.
Santi nodded. "And it's just starting."
Solano grinned wide, half nervous and half thrilled. "Imagine later when it's packed."
Santi shook his head, smiling to himself. He wasn't afraid of it. He was built for this. As they jogged and stretched, he could feel it, a rhythm growing inside him. His heart syncing with the noise, the light and the day.
A few minutes later, a stir ran through the crowd. Santos FC's players were arriving.
From the opposite tunnel, the Brazilians stepped onto the pitch in their white and black training tops. They looked sharp and relaxed. A few bouncing footballs casually on their way in.
Their fans erupted in cheers. A booming Brazilian chant floated across the stadium, rhythmic and wild, full of drums and claps.
Santi watched them from across the field as he jogged. The players looked tall and fast. Swagger in their steps.
But he didn't feel fear. He felt something tighter and sharper: focus.
Toro jogged alongside him again, lowering his voice as they ran.
"Those Santos boys think they're untouchable," Toro muttered, spitting lightly to the side. "We'll see."
Santi said nothing. He just kept jogging, letting the fire build quietly inside.
They shifted into dynamic stretches next. Across the line, each boy moved with purpose; hamstring kicks, lunges and side shuffles.
All around them, the complex buzzed louder. The players could hear individual voices now; parents yelling names, friends shouting encouragements and some fans banging drums.
Santi bent down into a long stretch. As he rose, he turned his head and caught a group of scouts in suits near the main stand, scribbling on notepads and chatting among themselves.
They're watching, Santi thought. Every move and every touch. He didn't feel pressure. He felt ready.
After stretching, they broke into passing drills. Short and sharp movements around cones, popping the ball back and forth with crisp touches.
"One touch, one touch!" Felipe called.
Santi and Solano worked together in one line. The ball zipped between them but they were clean, smart and fast.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Toro send a bullet pass that rattled Lucho's shins, causing a burst of laughter around them.
The boys laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. They all knew once this warm-up ended, it would be real.
They switched to shooting drills. They paired up for short passing combinations around a mannequin, then a quick shot on goal.
Santi's first shot curved perfectly into the bottom right. Felipe clapped once while Herrera gave a tiny approving nod.
The second shot was even better, a quick fake, a step and a lashing drive into the roof of the net.
The crowd around them cheered lightly whenever a goal was hit sweetly. América's fans were already picking favorites.
Santi felt the sweat forming at the base of his neck, the thud of his heart steady now. He turned for a sip of water, locking eyes for a brief second with one of the Santos players jogging near midfield.
The Brazilian boy smirked. Santi didn't blink. He simply set his water bottle down and rejoined the drill. No mind games today. Only football.
The rondos began next; tight circles, furious touches and playful nutmegs.
Toro went into the middle first after getting nutmegged by Solano, causing the boys to erupt into laughter. But even the jokes had a sharpness now, the presence of an undercurrent focus.
Santi's touches were clean. He didn't even look stressed, just smooth, controlling the ball like it was stitched to his boots.
Above them, more seats were filling now. There were flags, carves and banners waving wildly. This wasn't just a youth game anymore. It was a final.
And deep inside, Santi knew this was what he was born for.
The boys jogged off into a new drill; small-sided games, quick bursts across cones and short battles for the ball.
Everywhere Santi looked, life was happening. From the stands, the stadium announcer's voice crackled suddenly over the loudspeakers, sharp and cheerful:
"Good morning, soccer friends! Welcome to the León Sports Center for the grand U-19 final! Club América against Santos FC! Get ready for a great show!"
The crowd answered with a swelling roar, horns blaring and flags swinging harder.
Santi turned slightly as he jogged, seeing the scoreboard light up: América vs. Santos. It was real and it was official.
Near the halfway line, the Santos players huddled loosely, jogging in pairs and flicking passes around with that easy, samba-style swagger.
You could see their flair even in warm-ups, elastic touches and cheeky little tricks.
Their coach, a tall man with a sharp goatee and dark shades, watched them calmly from the sideline. He spoke into a small radio clipped to his jacket, giving instructions quietly to his assistants.
No shouting and no craziness. Just a silent, burning intensity.
Santi noticed him. Serious guy, he thought. This team didn't come here to lose. Toro came jogging up beside him again, slightly puffing from the drills.
"You see that coach? Dude looks like he's about to rob a bank," Toro joked. Santi cracked a grin.
"And their number nine," Toro added, jerking his chin towards a Santos player doing crazy stepovers during warm-up, "he thinks he's Neymar."
Solano jogged past, overhearing.
"As long as he doesn't play like Neymar," Solano said, laughing. The América boys chuckled, easing some of the tightness from their bodies.
But when they turned back toward their side of the field, the seriousness returned. Felipe was setting cones for final quick transitions; explosive sprints and short passing sequences under pressure.
Every step now had to be sharp. As they jogged back to start the drill, the announcer crackled again:
"Today, two of the best academies on the continent face each other... Santos FC, directly from Brazil, and Club América, Mexico's pride..." More cheers erupted. Some booing from rival fans made the blood thrum in Santi's veins.
He shifted his gaze to the sidelines. There were more scouts now. Men in polo shirts with their clipboards in hand and pens scribbling.
A few wore jackets with famous club logos of Tigres, León and even an agent rumored to work with European teams.
Santi wiped his hands on his shorts. He didn't feel small. He felt bigger, fueled by the eyes, the pressure and the dreams.
Next to him, Lucho punched his arm lightly. "Bro," Lucho said, voice low. "It's today. You're gonna show them." Santi didn't reply. He just nodded once, firmly.
Across the field, the Santos players shifted into small rondos. They were quick, casual and confident. Their number ten , a tall and thin player with quick feet nutmegged a teammate while the Brazilian fans screamed and laughed from the stands.
But the América boys didn't care. Santi could feel the invisible wall building them against the world.
The coaches called them over. Herrera stood in the center, Felipe next to him and the assistants behind him. Herrera's hands were on his hips as his sunglasses reflected the sky. He didn't yell. He spoke calmly and firmly.
"Today is the time," he said. "There are no excuses. There are no nerves. Everything you need is already here."
He pointed at his heart."Confidence, work and heart."
The boys gathered tighter. Even the ballboys and water carriers were nodding along. Herrera continued.
"Play with your head. With hot blood and a cold mind. Don't forget: this is America!" The boys clapped in a rising beat, clapping and clapping, boom-boom-boom, building energy.
Toro, fiery as always, shouted out: "Vamos, carajo!"
The boys roared back.
Herrera finished quietly, almost a whisper meant just for them: "We fight for the badge."
They broke the huddle with a final booming shout: "Américaaaaa!"
The sound echoed around the Centro Deportivo León like a crack of thunder.
Santi breathed it in. It was bigger than him now that he was part of something massive. The team lined up single file, preparing to head back down the tunnel for final kit checks.
Across the field, Santos was doing the same. Their coach clapped his players on the back, speaking rapidly in Portuguese, moving through them with sharp and decisive energy.
The boys stared across at each other, they were rivals now and ready to clash.
Santi flexed his fingers. The gloves of pressure slid off his mind. He felt light and ready.
As they turned toward the tunnel again, the final burst of noise erupted from the stands: Drums, trumpets and chants of "Vamos América" and "Vai Santos!"
The sun beat down and the grass gleamed. It was almost time. And Santi Cruz knew that moment he had waited for his entire young life was just ahead.
The locker room buzzed low, like a pressure cooker about to blow. Boots thudded against the floor. Jerseys rustled and velcro straps snapped into place.
Santi sat at his locker, slowly tying his boots, making sure each lace was perfect. No second thoughts and no mistakes.
The white and yellow jersey with the América crest felt heavier today like it carried all of San Isidro with it.
He could almost see Tavo's face and the old dirty street field. He pulled out the little blue ribbon Tavo had given him. It was still knotted and slightly frayed at the edges.
Without thinking, he tied it tightly around his left wrist, tucking it under the sleeve. He was ready. Toro clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by, full of fire.
"Today we make history, hermanito," Toro said, grinning fiercely.
Solano tightened his shin pads beside him with his head bowed in focus. Charlie joked with Lucho across the room, trying to keep it loose.
But there was a tension underneath everything, buzzing like electricity in the walls. Herrera stood near the door with his hands behind his back, staring at them and waiting for the right moment.
When every boy was seated, silent now, breathing together like one beast, Herrera finally stepped forward.
He didn't yell. His voice was deep, quiet and heavy with meaning.
"Listen to me well," he said. "You have all fought for this. Every early morning, every sprint and every sacrifice you made, today, it is for this." He paced slowly in front of them.
"Remember something: finals are not won by magic. Finals are won by hunger and by the heart." He paused, making eye contact with each boy.
Santi swallowed hard when Herrera's eyes landed on him, he was full of belief.
"You don't have to be perfect today," Herrera said. "You just have to be brave." A silence thick as smoke filled the room.
The boys stood up, chairs scraping slightly against the tiled floor. Jerseys were pulled over heads, socks pulled tight and shin guards tapped into place like old rituals.
Solano tied his laces with slow and practiced care, feeling the captain's armband tightened around his left arm. Herrera's voice boomed again: "Vamos, muchachos! It's time. Play with your heart!"
The locker room exploded into motion. Santi fell in behind Toro and Solano as they formed two neat lines near the door.
Out in the tunnel, the roar was already seeping in as a low and hungry rumble vibrated up through the concrete floor. It was like standing at the mouth of a living, breathing beast.
They stepped into the tunnel. The sound hit harder now.
Chants echoed through the space as América fans led a wall of songs and shouts. Flags waved madly in the stands just visible at the end of the tunnel. Trumpets blared and someone started banging a drum, the deep thump-thump matching the pounding in Santi's chest.
Ahead, the Santos players gathered as their white and green kits flashed under the lights.
Lucas Silva stood near the front, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet with his head down, he was totally focused. Their coach, tall and severe, clapped his hands once, issuing final and sharp commands in Portuguese.
The officials gave a nod that it was time.
A loud crackle snapped from the facility speakers and then the announcer's voice boomed across the field:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the 2024 Copa Del Futuro Final at Centro Deportivo León!
Today's match: Club América versus Santos Football Club!" The crowd erupted. Waves of cheers and whistles rained down the pitch.
The blue and cream of América jerseys flooded the stands behind one goal, drums pounding in rhythm.
Across from them, the Santos fans shouted in Portuguese, waving green and white scarves, clapping overhead in fast and tight bursts.
Vamos América!
¡Sí se puede!
Oleeee Santos!
The air buzzed and vibrated as an unstoppable energy wrapped around everything.
Santi exhaled hard, shaking out his arms, trying to drink it all in without drowning. His heart raced, but his mind was sharp. Focused.
The cameras leaned in, capturing every step. A TV commentator's voice, clearer now, floated down from the press box:
"All eyes today on Santiago Cruz, the heartbeat of this América youth side. The creator and fighter of América's U-19 side. A natural leader, a relentless motor… and the soul of this team."
"And for Santos," another voice added, "Lucas Silva, the elegant playmaker, already rumored to be on the radar of big clubs across Europe. This is a clash of future stars."
The players moved forward. Stepping out of the tunnel and onto the pitch was like entering another world. The sunlight hit them full-on as the grass looked almost too green to be real.
The noise smashed into them in waves; kids shrieking, old men blowing horns, entire families bouncing up and down and singing their lungs out. It was a beautiful chaos.
Santi looked to his right, Toro was nodding to the beat of the drum corps in their section. To his left, Solano muttered something under his breath, a prayer maybe. Behind him, Charlie whispered:
"Man… this is what it's all about."
Santi nodded without turning, feeling it deep in his bones.
At midfield, they lined up for the anthems. Santi sang low under his breath, feeling every word as his eyes burned with emotion. His medal from the semifinal win flashed briefly in his mind, it was tucked safely back at the hotel, but this was bigger. This was everything.
When the referee blew his whistle, Solano walked forward to meet Lucas Silva at midfield. They shook hands, firm and professional. A slight nod of respect passed between them.
"Fair match, boys," the ref said. "Give it your all."
The ref flipped a coin to choose a side for the kick-off. The coin spun high into the blue León sky, glittering for a moment before it landed with a faint thud into the referee's palm.
Heads. Solano had called it right. The referee showed them the coin, nodding. "You have made your choice," he said in Spanish.
Without hesitation, Solano had pointed toward the side backed by the massive sea of América supporters, their drums already rumbling like a heartbeat.
He wanted their energy at their backs in the first half and wanted to attack with them roaring behind. Lucas Silva simply nodded, calm and unreadable, as Santos took the other end.
Another handshake. Firmer this time with no smiles.
They chose to kick off toward the bigger stand, the side where most América fans were seated. The final formalities wrapped up fast with handshakes, brief nods and a few exchanged words between the players.
Santi caught Lucas's eye for half a second with a respectful nod. No fear and no trash talk, just two warriors about to clash.
The boys jogged to their positions, Santi dropped into a slight crouch at midfield, he was more focused than ever.
Around him, his teammates spread out, calling little words of encouragement and pumping each other up.
Across the pitch, Santos buzzed with their own energy, Lucas dropping deep to orchestrate the first move.
The place rose in a swell of noise. This was it. The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
And the final… began.