Football doesn’t wait. Not for joy, not for nerves and certainly not for reflection. Within days of our opening victory, we were back in the fire, this time away to Estudiantes, one of Argentina’s grandes, a club whose history carries weight in every blade of grass at the Jorge Luis Hirschi Stadium.

A real test.
A real measure of who we are becoming.

I kept the same XI. Of course I did. You don’t touch poetry when it’s still echoing. But today, I needed to know if my players could pair that poetry with something far colder, far uglier: the fight required to face a bigger foe on their own turf.

The Cauldron of La Plata

When our bus pulled in, the noise hit us like a wall. Their stadium was full, overflowing with hostility, expectation, the kind of atmosphere that tests a man’s heartbeat. I saw the nerves in my players. The wide eyes. The swallowed breaths.

I told them simply:
“We are the underdogs. Good. Underdogs play without fear.”

Kick-off came. Estudiantes did what big clubs do when they feel threatened, they tried to bully us. Early fouls. Hard fouls. Little stamps on ankles, pushes in the back, cynical blocks to disrupt our rhythm.

My players stood up.
Took the hits.
Kept playing.
Warriors in white and red.

The game tightened. Both sides chasing control, neither finding it. We pressed, we snapped into duels, we refused to let them breathe. And when we had the ball, we remembered who we were, Menotti’s children, sculpting shape and rhythm even under fire.

They fouled us again and again, but pressure can’t dam creativity forever.

48 Minutes: The Moment We Break Them

De La Fuente, my tireless fullback, my soldier, won the ball out wide. Not with luck, but with desire. He surged forward, found the angle and whipped the cross in.

Cabral waited. He knew.
“Hit the space,” I told him last week.
He trusted me. He trusted the system.

1-0 Huracán. In La Plata.

Our fans roared. Theirs booed. And before the dust even settled

51 Minutes: The Strike of Conviction

De La Fuente again. Another tackle won, clean, sharp, decisive. A line-breaking pass sliced their structure open. Bisanz burst through the gap, every step a declaration of belief.

Strike.
2-0.

I barely celebrated. Belief was returning to them, my players didn’t need my joy, they needed my calm.

The Rise of Babino

Then the fatigue arrived.

This squad is still absorbing the demands, still adapting to the ideas. Legs grow heavy when the mind is learning. Waller’s were gone. He gave everything.

So I turned to the future.

Luca Babino.
Eighteen years old.
Found him in the youth ranks the week I arrived, dribbling, gliding, carrying the ball like it was an extension of his soul. Last week he made the bench. Today, under the lights of La Plata, he makes his debut.

I told him:
“Luca… it’s time.”
No fear in his eyes. Only fire.

My first youth debut at Huracán. His name now etched in the story we are writing.

63 Minutes: The Punch Back

Their pressure grew. We misplaced a pass, they snapped forward and in two touches it was suddenly 2–1. Clinical. Punishing. That’s what big clubs do when you show a crack.

More changes. More guidance. More grit.

80 Minutes: The Old Lion Still Roars

Babino wins the ball, yes, wins it, shows maturity beyond his years, feeds Gil.
Gil finds Bisanz.
Bisanz slips a through ball to a 35-year-old warrior: Wanchope Ábila, fresh off the bench.

GOAL.
3–1.

A goal carved from youth, experience, and everything in between.

87 Minutes: The Storm Arrives

We tried to control possession. We tried to slow the game. But Estudiantes pressed like wolves. They stole the ball, hit quick passes, and found a way through.

3–2.
The stadium erupted.
And suddenly the weight of their history pressed down on us again.

Six minutes of added time.

I dropped a midfielder into defensive midfield, one more shield. I told the team:
“Slow it. Strangle the rhythm. Stay calm.”

Every clearance felt heavier.
Every pass felt louder.
Their fans whistled, demanded, pleaded.

But I was only waiting for one whistle.

The referee’s.

And then, release.

Full-Time: A Statement Made

We did it.
Away.
Against giants.
With youth, with courage, with identity stitched into every movement.

Huracán sits atop the table:
Two games.
Two wins.

But more important than points is this,
Our identity is growing.

Not forced. Not pretended.
Growing.

With every duel won.
With every movement rehearsed.
With every young player who steps forward without fear.
With every moment the team chooses belief over doubt.

This is only the beginning.
But I can feel it
the soul of Huracán is waking up.