A few of us watched the Yankee girls stretch and juggle in their professional-looking uniforms. The wind carried a few of the words they exchanged toward us, but I was too intimidated to understand a single one. So much for having a licenciatura.
Next to them, we looked just like what we were: a puzzle made up of mismatched pieces. Yesica and Mía didn’t even seem able to look at the girls who were both our competition and our goal. Instead they watched the path, desperate longing in their eyes as we waited. Would we have enough people?
Evelin and Abril joined us, and when a straggler appeared, my heart jumped. I looked up, hoping it would be Marisa. It wasn’t her, though. It was the green-eyed Royal, the one I’d seen by the river with her boyfriend. She beelined toward Coach Alicia and stood under her protection while we glared at her and whispered to one another.
“What’s she doing here?” Roxana asked.
Coach Alicia kissed the Royal girl on the cheek.
Since when was Coach so familiar with that girl? Coach barely nodded when we said hi to her. She’d never shown that kind of affection to us, and we’d walk through fire for her.
Together they walked in our direction, followed by Gabi. The American girls practiced shots on goal, kicking with the power of cannons.
Coach Alicia must have thought seeing this team would inspire us, but how were we supposed to compete with them? Without resources, inspiration and effort could only take us so far.
By the time Coach Alicia made her way to us, we were simmering with hostility.
“Ladies,” Coach said, and placed a hand on the green-eyed girl’s shoulder. “This is Rufina Scalani, and she’ll be joining us for the Sudamericano.” She paused, but no one would have dreamed of interrupting her in front of Rufina or, more importantly, Gabi, who watched us silently, no doubt ready to judge our reaction. “As you all know, Marisa had to step aside, which was a generous gesture on her part.”
“Generous?” Roxana’s question was the pebble. Murmurs rippled through the group.
Coach Alicia gave us two seconds to put ourselves together and then continued. “We only have a little more than three months to get ready for the tournament. Marisa has quite a few issues in her personal life, and it was generous of her to make this hard decision now and not when finding a replacement would be impossible, like in the middle of the competition.”
Understanding fell on me like a bucket of cold water. It splashed onto my teammates, too, who nodded.
“The league is behind us, and we’ll leave the rivalry there. Rufina may have played for the Royals last week, but now she’s one of us, and you’ll treat her as such.”
We all nodded again, even though Coach hadn’t given us a vote.
“Before we proceed with the scrimmage, let’s talk about the Sudamericano.”
She motioned for the parents behind us to approach the group. Then she took a stack of photocopied packets from her backpack. She handed half to me and the other half to Roxana. We passed them around to the players and the parents. Mr. Fong smiled at me when I handed him the papers covered in numbers.
“The tournament is taking place the second weekend in December,” Coach explained. “Mandatory practices will be twice a week with scrimmages on Saturdays. You must do conditioning on your own every day. We don’t have players to spare, and although I’m still aiming for a full roster of eighteen, every one of you is essential.”
Roxana and I exchanged a look. Our graduation was the second Saturday in December.
“What if Sofía has to miss a day of the competition?” a mom asked from behind the group. “Her cousin’s quinceañera is that weekend.”
Coach shrugged. “Then she can’t be part of the team. I have to make a FIFA file for each of the players by next week. I won’t be able to add anyone after that. This is the real thing, people. We wanted to play seriously, officially, and now here we are.”
I looked over my shoulder at the parents whispering amongst themselves. Luciano winked at me, and I smiled. Beyond us, a boy wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off and a baseball cap practiced shots in a netless goal.
Coach Alicia continued, going over the entrance fees, the practice schedule, and then the Sudamericano format. “There will be three games guaranteed in the first round. Only the best two teams in each group will go on to the knockout stage, then on to the semifinals and the final. Very standard. There will be teams from all of CONMEBOL, the South American Football Confederation, and the lottery will take place in November. We’re the only team from Rosario to qualify, and there are three more from Argentina in our age group, which is the oldest.” She looked at Lucrecia, our baby at fifteen. “The price will be high, but it’s only because the reward could be priceless.”
Coach cracked one of her rare smiles and added, “Now, this is my sister, Gabi Tapia. Mrs. Tapia, they call her in the States.” Gabi walked up to her. Side by side, the resemblance was uncanny.
She elbowed Coach playfully, and we all laughed. Roxana and I exchanged a look, and she raised her eyebrows.
Coach continued, “Gabi coaches at a club, Wasatch Rage FC, which is a pipeline for colleges and the National Women’s Soccer League program.”
The air turned electric with anticipation. She might as well have been talking about a secret passage to Narnia.
Gabi took the baton. “This is my U18 team,” she said, pointing to the Yankee players. “These girls are heading into their last year of high school, and most of them have been committed to universities for a while. They’re multi-state cup champions and three-time regional champions. Two of them are with the junior national team right now. We’ve been touring South America for two weeks, and we’re heading back home tomorrow. But I’ll be back in December for the Sudamericano. The current recruiting system—playing in college first—is hindering our professional program, so we’re looking for ways to inject younger players into the national league, bypassing university teams.
“Teams from all over the world will be scouting at the Sudamericano, and the national league is sending me. I’ll have the chance to offer invitations for discovery slots. You must be eighteen by the time the transfer season opens, but other than that, it’ll be down to what the other coaches and I see on the pitch.” She gave out another form with NWSL deadlines. Their league started in April.
I’d be eighteen in January.
While we all read the paper, Coach Alicia stepped back in. “There’s a Women’s World Cup in two years. The Argentine federation is taking a team to qualifiers. The Sudamericano will be a showcase for all of you.”
Her words painted visions of glory in my mind. Every girl on my team was picturing herself wearing the Argentine jersey in a World Cup or the colors of a professional team.
It took so little for a spark of faith to ignite a fire. It took so little for that faith to turn into ambition. In that moment, each one of us stood a little taller.
Finally, Coach Alicia clapped her hands, ending our trance, and said, “But now, let’s go play. Start warming up. Gabi’s girls are ready.”
The group, including Rufina, started running. Roxana sent me a pointed look, but Coach Alicia waved me over.
“This is Camila Hassan, my discovery from last year,” she told her sister. “She speaks perfect English, too. She looked into attending college in the U.S., but you know how it is.”
“Impossible,” Mrs. Tapia said. Then she turned to me and said in English, “So, you’re the unpolished diamond. Alicia sent me a video of the championship game, and I was impressed.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound confident. I had picked up a few tricks for talking to recruiters from watching Pablo and my father. “That day, we were all magical. Everything went our way.” I hoped my American accent impressed Mrs. Tapia.
Alicia’s mouth curved in approval. Her sister studied me. After a second, I averted my eyes, wor
ried she’d be put off by my obvious desperation.
A few of the girls from my team slowed down to eavesdrop, and anything I could’ve said to make myself memorable turned to stones in my mouth. When we played, we were all the same. We were all one. English singled me out in an unwelcome way.
Coach Alicia placed an arm over my shoulder and the other over her sister’s and said, “In the beautiful game, words are redundant. Furia, go play, and tell my sister why you deserve a place on a professional team in our native language.”
I smiled and ran to the field to sing the wordless song of the captive women who roared in my blood. My ancestresses had been waiting to sing for generations.
I was their medium.
16
As if someone had flipped a switch, la Furia ate up her adversaries. Camila took second place. She sat back and observed, cross-armed, a smug smirk on her face.
The American girls complained that the ball was a little deflated and the pitch uneven, and under other circumstances, I might have been embarrassed. Not now. It was time to show them what we could do. La redonda, the ball, obeyed me. She followed me because I treated her well. I cherished her. I treasured her, and most importantly, I let her sing her own song. Energy flowed through my team, and although the game remained scoreless, the North Americans showed signs of fear. Still, I wouldn’t be able to play full steam for much longer. My team needed to score fast and then park the bus, play defense until the end.
Knowing I was showing off, I sent a rainbow over their number five in the midfield and muttered Ole! so only she could hear me. I ran, feeling her hot breath on the back of my neck, but she never caught me to take her revenge. I was too fast. I passed to Yael, but she was offsides.
The Yankee goalie sent the ball all the way to our half. Mabel was ready to block it with her chest.
I got a break and ran through their line of three defenders. Rufina was standing, unguarded, in the perfect spot. I crossed the ball to her, and with a first touch that belonged in a FIFA video game, she punted it across the goal line.
Rufina bellowed in victory.
My teammates joined with their raw voices in a cry that made the sparrows shoot from the trees.
“Grande, Camila!” Diego yelled from the sidelines.
My trance broke, and la Furia fled like a spooked cat.
I scanned the crowd gathered along the sidelines while I ran to the midfield for kickoff. Looking for Diego.
“Watch out!” Roxana yelled.
Too late. My left foot, the one with the magic touch, landed in a hole I’d been avoiding perfectly well until that moment. My ankle twisted in exquisite pain. As I fell to the ground, my visions of a future full of glory went out like a light.
Gasps and cries of sympathy rose from both teams in a mixture of English and Spanish, curse words and prayers. Then there was a smoldering silence.
Not now, I begged La Difunta. I’d leave her water—blessed water from the sanctuary, even—my heart on a platter, five years of my life for the miracle of not being injured.
Coach Alicia was beside me in seconds. “Don’t move your foot,” she commanded, rolling down my sock to take a look. Although her fingers were soft, my muscles spasmed with pain.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” she said, but she shook her head. “I’m going to have to take you out.”
Quietly, she helped me to the sideline. There wasn’t a bench, so I sat on the damp ground. My toe poked out of my busted cleats. I needed a new pair.
The North American players and my teammates regarded me with pity, but the scrimmage resumed. I looked at Roxana protecting the goal but couldn’t make out her expression.
Mrs. Tapia and Coach Alicia whispered to each other. I couldn’t hear what they said, but the disappointment was palpable.
This had been my chance, and it was ruined.
I looked over my shoulder for Diego, but I couldn’t find him.
My team’s concentration fractured, the Yankee girls scored once, twice, three times.
La Furia retreated to the depths of my soul. Now I smelled the ammonia scent of my sweat and felt the burns the pitch had left on my skin. Every scratch and kick and elbow to the ribs throbbed. A stitch in my side made it hard to breathe, and when nausea made saliva pool in my mouth, I spat it out unceremoniously. A few minutes later, after another goal by the Yankee team, Coach blew the whistle, and the scrimmage ended.
A few of the North American girls celebrated, but soon the two teams were shaking hands and exchanging kisses on the cheek. Yael and Rufina spoke on the midfield, and Luciano joined them. The parents gathered their chairs and blankets from the sidelines as Coach Alicia went along, shaking everyone’s hands.
I clambered back to my feet, and when I started putting my things in my backpack, I saw Diego looking at me from the corner of the pitch, his brow creased with worry. Tears burned my eyes. I pressed my lips together hard so I wouldn’t start crying. The last thing I needed was to fall apart in front of everyone. In front of him.
He started walking in my direction, but at the sound of Coach and her sister approaching, I turned away from him.
“Are you okay, Camila?” Gabi asked. “Everything was going perfectly until that fall.”
“You got the goal on video, didn’t you?” Coach Alicia asked, standing between us. She sounded angry. I knew she wasn’t mad at me, but it was my fault I’d let myself be distracted.
“I got it,” she confirmed. “I can’t wait to see more of that in December, okay?”
I nodded, because there was no way I could speak without crying.
On the pitch, everyone was talking to each other despite the language barrier. Roxana and the Yankee goalie seemed to be exchanging contact information, and they took a selfie together.
“Let’s gather for a group picture!” Coach Alicia said, and a tall, Black American girl, number seven, helped me hobble to the edge of the group. One of the moms grabbed Coach’s phone and started snapping pictures. But I couldn’t even pretend to smile.
Mrs. Tapia came back over to me. “Sometimes things happen for a reason,” she said. “Now you must work to get over this injury.”
Coach Alicia handed me a cold Gatorade and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Gabi, la Furia will return stronger than ever if it’s the last thing I do.”
Her confidence grounded me.
“You have the kind of touch that can’t be taught,” Gabi said, squinting like she was trying to find the right words. “You have esa picardía . . . there’s not a word in English to describe it, but the flair, you know? That cleverness and spontaneity that I hardly ever encounter in the U.S. academies. You played like a female Neymar.”
“Neymar?”
At the sight of my wrinkled nose, she added quickly, “Neymar in his Santos years . . . you’re too young to remember, but he was magical. I saw some glimpses of that in you.”
“We just need you to be healthy,” Coach added. “Invincible. Unbreakable.”
Even if I were invincible and unbreakable, the world was full of talented players. Chances were that Gabi would meet other girls whose skills would outshine mine. How many times had I heard my father tell Pablo that being talented meant nothing without hard work? I would do everything I could to prove to Coach Alicia that her faith in me wasn’t unfounded.
“Thanks for coming to see us,” I said after I swallowed.
Gabi nodded solemnly. “It was my pleasure. I’m looking forward to December. Don’t lose faith. Now, I think someone’s waiting for you.” She squinted as if trying to make out who stood behind us. “Is that really . . . ?”
Finally, I looked back.
Diego was surrounded by girls from both teams, who were taking pictures with him and having him sign everything from notebooks to jerseys and even backpacks. Some of the families also approached. He wasn’t wearing his
fancy clothes, just a pair of Central shorts and a worn-out sweatshirt. His baseball cap couldn’t disguise his perfect face. I tried not to stare at his sculpted legs. He was pure muscle and strength. After everyone had a turn to meet him, Mrs. Tapia waved him over.
When he hesitated, Coach Alicia called, “Come chat with your fans, Titán!”
Diego made his way in our direction. If there were ever a time that I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me, it was then.
He had seen everything. He knew I played. He had seen me fall.
Mrs. Tapia whispered to herself, “Diego Ferrari, the next Messi, the next Dybala . . .” She sounded like a total fangirl.
“He’s better,” I said without thinking.
Coach, a rabid Messi fan, shook her head. “Messi already had a Ballon d’Or at nineteen. Diego’s just starting out.”
Messi had moved to Barcelona when he was thirteen, and at that age, Diego had just been adopted by Ana.
When he reached us, Diego shook Coach Alicia’s hand. “An honor to meet you in person, Coach. I’ve heard so much about what you’re doing for girls’ fútbol, especially in the barrios.” His eyes turned to me. “What an assist, Camila . . . I didn’t know you were on this team.” He looked at me like he’d never seen me before.
“It was an amazing play,” Gabi agreed. “How do you two know each other?”
“Childhood friends, I believe, right?” Coach Alicia gave me a look that made my mouth go dry. Although I had nothing to hide, I looked down at the ground. I couldn’t meet her eyes.
“A selfie, Titán?” Gabi asked, and then said, “Come, Alicia! Everyone will freak when they find out I met Diego Ferrari.”
While they posed for the picture, I sent Roxana one of the poisonous looks that were usually her specialty. She walked over and asked, “Are you okay?”
I knew she wasn’t asking only about my foot.
“How did he find me? Did you tell him?”
Roxana placed a hand on her chest, offended. “Never!”
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