We began the week with a Copa Argentina match against Comunicaciones, a third-division side. It was the perfect moment to rotate — nine changes, mostly experienced players who needed minutes and who could give the starters the rest their bodies were begging for. Giménez, the striker, caught my eye immediately. Sharp, hungry, moving like every touch mattered. We won 3–1, professional, controlled. We move on.

But San Lorenzo away, that is the real battle.
That has been my focus all week.

I keep questioning myself , not the system, never the system, but the team. Not their talent, not their heart, but my trust in them. I trust my starting XI. I trust the football we play when they are on the pitch. But my bench… the doubt lingers. The transfer window is closed and I’m fine with that. I dislike signings in the first window anyway. I want to learn the squad from the inside, suffer with them, understand who we are before we try to become something else.

This season is about foundations, about truth, even if the truth is painful.

I select my favourite XI for San Lorenzo.
A rivalry.
A cauldron.
I leave the youth at home, except for Ríos. He earns his spot on the bench, the boy has courage.

We arrive at the stadium and the welcome is exactly what I expected. A tunnel of noise, insults, hatred. Their fans bang on the bus like they’re trying to break through the metal itself. I smile. This is football. This is why we are here.

We kick off to a wall of sound.
We start well, calm, composed, brave.
They foul us early, foul us often, trying to break our rhythm.
We dominate in every phase: possession, territory, ideas.

But we lack the finish.
And I cannot help but think:
Do I expect too much?
I am Batigol — I would have buried these chances.
I must remind myself that expectation does not score goals. Execution does.

It becomes a tight, fierce derby, exactly the type of game where one mistake decides everything. We are the better team but have nothing on the scoreboard to show for it. The referee blows for halftime. My players look ready to go again. San Lorenzo look exhausted. One goal, that is all we need.

Then I remember Giménez.
He looked alive in the cup.
After 55 minutes, the decision is clear:
Sequeira off, Giménez on.

We need a spark.
A moment.
Someone fearless.

And then it happens — 60th minute — WALLER!
A masterpiece of collective football.
Pass, pass, pass, from back to front.
My philosophy breathing on the pitch.
1–0.

I remove Cabral for Alanís. A simple change, fresh legs.

But then the fear creeps in again. My players begin to tire. I look to my bench… but trust? Do they truly believe? Have they shown me that they can execute this system, this structure, this responsibility? So I make only one more change — Pérez off, Miljevic on. That’s it. That is all I can bring myself to risk in a match like this.

We dominate.
We suffocate them.
This is our game.

Eighty-five minutes of superiority.
And then one chance.
Just one.
They score. 1–1.
Clinical, brutal, undeserved.

The whistle blows.
A draw.
A point.
We deserved three.

But football doesn’t care what you deserve.
Football gives you what you can hold onto.

And tonight, I must ask myself again:
Should I trust more?
Would the other changes have prevented their equaliser?
Or would they have broken everything we worked so hard to control?

The truth?
My bench has shown me before that they haven’t fully bought in yet.

And until they do…
the suffering continues.

And so does the learning.