Two wins from two games.
It’s remarkable how quickly the air changes in football.

Since the torment of Colombia, everything feels different.
The players believe.
The fans believe.
The board believes.

And I believe in the system.
But belief alone does not win a season. I look at my starting XI: Galíndez 37, Pereyra 35, Paz 31, Gil 33. The average age? 28.36 years old. Experienced, yes. Intelligent, yes. Warriors, absolutely.

But can they sustain the demands I place on them over a long, brutal Argentine season?
I don’t know yet.
And that uncertainty gnaws at me.

I watched the reserves recently. Milton Ríos, 20 years old, shining like he’s been waiting for his moment all his life. Thiago Omar Pérez, 18, aggressive, fearless, playing with the kind of bite you can’t teach. And Martín Soto, 17, a striker who scores for fun, pressing like a madman, refusing to stop.

We have options. We will need them.
I plan to watch the Under-20s next week. My staff whisper about a golden crop of 15 and 16 year olds —future Hurricanes. But that is for tomorrow.

Today?
Today is Boca.

A Giant Comes to Our Door

After La Plata, the momentum continues. Another big game. Boca Juniors at our home. The stadium is vibrating, belief pouring from every corner, every flag, every song.

I name the same XI.
How could I not?
My warriors deserve the battlefield.

The stands are fuller than my first match. Something is shifting.

My assistant pulls me aside, a whisper:
“They changed their formation.”

Last week Boca played a narrow 4-2-2-2. Today? A wide 4-2-4.
Because of us?
Fear?
Trying to pin back De La Fuente and Ibañez?
Trying to stop the wings that tore open La Plata?

Let them try.
We adapt.

I scan their lineup. Cavani. Paredes. Champions. Winners. A proper test.

Kick-Off: A Different Kind of Battle

The whistle blows.
The fans erupt.

Boca sit deeper than expected. My wing-backs are man-marked, heavily, but Pérez is left unmarked, my metronome, my conductor. Boca’s mistake.

They do not foul us like Estudiantes. No cynical hits.
Instead, they sit.
They wait.
They probe.

We control the ball.
We create chance after chance.
Not all clear-cut, but pressure, constant pressure.

31 Minutes: The Repeat Symphony

Pérez finds space, drifts free and plays it out to Ibañez.
Ibañez doesn’t just run, he wins his duel with determination, not just pace. First-time low cross.

Near post.
Cabral.
Like clockwork.
Like destiny.

1–0 Huracán.

The stadium explodes.

Boca react immediately, switching back to the narrow 4-2-2-2.
Pérez is now marked, the spaces close, but we shift, we adapt, we grow.

Halftime arrives: 10 shots to 1. Only 1–0.
I remind the players:
“Well done—but stay alive. Stay sharp.”

I can see the fatigue creeping in. Experience is a gift, but tired legs do not lie.

Second Half: The Weight of Demands

The second half begins.
I send Wanchope to warm up. His experience will matter.

Gil is booked, late, tired. Ojeda warms up too.

Double substitution at 55 minutes.

At 60, De La Fuente and Bisanz are exhausted. My system drains both legs and mind. Guidara and Alanis enter.

Boca grow.
The tide shifts.

Wanchope gets fouled, badly. He limps.
My last sub hangs in the balance.

“I continue,” he tells me.
That is a warrior speaking.
But my system cannot carry passengers.

Perez. Waller. Ibañez. Cabral.
Barely running now. Exhausted.

So I act.
Cabral off. Urzi on.
Fresh legs. Fresh fire.

“Press. Press. Press.”
That is his only instruction.

Ojeda drops alongside Pérez, two defensive midfielders.
Ten minutes remain.
We protect what we have.

86 Minutes: The Decisive Blow

Pereyra heads clear.
Alanis gathers.
Wanchope, hobbling, waits near the halfway line.

A hopeful ball forward.
Hopeful, but purposeful.

Wanchope uses every ounce of his strength, holds off the defender, and spots Urzi alone.
A deep cross.

Control.
Strike.
2–0.

Boca players fall to the ground.
The comeback dies with that goal.

“Batigol! Batigol! Batigol!”
screams around the stadium.
The echo I’ve missed. The echo I’ll never forget.

90 Minutes: One Last Test

Fatigue again. A lapse. Boca counter and score.

2–1.
Silence.

I calm the players.
We keep the ball.
We refuse chaos.

Waller drops in.
Three defensive midfielders to close the gates.

The final whistle.
Explosion.
Relief.
Joy.
Belief.

3 wins from 3.
Huracán alive.

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But Even in Victory, Doubt Whispers

Tonight we celebrate, but inside me sits a quiet fear.
My veterans give everything, but how long can they survive this tempo, this pressing, this relentless system? Their minds are sharp, their hearts enormous, but the legs… the legs tell a truer story.

So tomorrow I will go again. Not to the first team pitch, but to the Under-20s.

To find youth.
To find energy.
To find the spirit that can carry Huracán through the long months ahead.

Because if this identity is to last, it must live not only in tired legs,
but in the next generation waiting to explode.