Furia

by Yamile Saied Méndez

  “And if we lose, then Tacna has to beat Praia, but we need to have a better goal differential.”

  All the way to the field, we speculated on possible results, which was the most useless way to pass the time. If I’d been a nail biter, I would’ve been chewing my elbows. Instead, I pulled on the red ribbon tied to my wrist, trying to coax some magic out of it.

  The atmosphere at Parque Balbin was completely different from the day before. There were several food stands with coal already smoking, vendors selling T-shirts and flags, manteros displaying everything from watches to purses to little made-in-China Monumento a la Bandera replicas. Players arrived by the busload and camped out in any shade they could find. I envied the little kids heading to the pool in their flip-flops and swimsuits, but my feet prickled with the desire to play. TV cameras were stationed under a white tent and on the sides of every field. I spotted Luisana with the same skinny camera guy in tow. She waved at me and then answered her phone.

  I followed Roxana to the meeting spot by field number seven. A cooler of bottled water and Gatorade served as the team beacon and meant that Coach was already here. Roxana’s mom placed a bag of energy bars next to it, and Rufina stepped in front of the cooler, protecting it until we really needed a drink.

  We high-fived each other as girls trickled in. Finally, Coach arrived with her sister and a Black woman whose shirt had the NWSL logo. Everyone fell silent. “Good morning, team,” Mrs. Tapia said. “This is Coach Jill Ryan. She’s a National Women’s discovery scout. Coach, these are the Eva María girls.”

  Coach Ryan smiled at us. “Hello, Eva María.” She had a slight accent I couldn’t place but spoke perfect Spanish. “I’m already impressed with what I’ve seen, and I’m eager to find some gems today and tomorrow. No matter what happens next, I expect to see excellent soccer.” We stood there in stunned silence.

  Mrs. Tapia winked at me, and a fire ignited inside my stomach. Roxana elbowed me excitedly, but Coach Alicia was speaking, and I didn’t want to miss a thing she said.

  “I hope you have all seen the game plan by now. Those who don’t have phones, I hope you’ve been updated so we can move on.”

  I, along with a couple of other phoneless girls, nodded, and she continued, “We need to win. Itapé is the toughest team in our group. They are great all over the field. Their back is solid, and they have a number nine who is fast as hell and strong as steel. You all know what to do.”

  We jumped to our feet and began to warm up. From the corner of my eye, I saw Luciano heading off to watch the game between Praia and Tacna. My belly squirmed with anticipation, but I had to push any distraction away.

  Coach approached me to hand me the captain band for the game. “We need you to be unstoppable. I know you can do it. More than that, though, I need you to be a leader. The girls are nervous, but if they see you’re collected, they’ll catch on to that. Claro?”

  “Like water,” I said, but I was anything but collected. Luckily, she couldn’t see me quivering inside. The Itapé girls in white and red looked like they could eat us for appetizers before moving on to the main course in the semifinals.

  The ref called the teams, and I won the coin toss. This time, the sun wouldn’t glare in Roxana’s eyes. I brushed my thumb along the red ribbon bracelet Diego had given me. I needed its power more than ever. Hopefully, it would work even if we weren’t together. Rufina’s boyfriend in the eternally horrible red-and-black jersey cheered for her. I remembered the championship game when she’d cried and he’d held her. I envied her so much.

  And then I heard her. My mom. “¡Vamos, Camila!” Her voice jolted my whole body like an electrical current.

  I looked at the crowd, and as if my very soul knew where to find her, I saw my mom waving a blue-and-silver flag. My eyes became cloudy. She was here.

  “¡Vamos, Furia!” she yelled again.

  The game started, and soon, number nine from Itapé, Natalia, made a shot that Roxana blocked. The first warning. Natalia wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  In a counterattack, Rufina and I formed a wall together with Agustina that reached all the way to the Paraguayan doorstep. But Rufina took too long to pass, and the defender stole the ball from her.

  With my mom’s cheering in my ears, I pushed to recover the ball. For several minutes, it was back and forth across the field, ours and theirs, both sets of midfielders struggling to create a strong wall. After a few minutes, Itapé’s number five sent a long shot to their number eleven, who was thankfully offsides.

  Itapé was testing the waters, but I felt my team stretching to cover each square centimeter of the field.

  Natalia broke away and kicked the ball with a killer curve, and this time, Roxana couldn’t deflect the shot. The goal was like a stab wound. We started hemorrhaging confidence and imagination.

  Now that Itapé had found the crack in our system, their pressure was so strong, my team couldn’t resist much longer. They scored twice more with almost identical plays, free kicks expertly sent at an angle not even Elastigirl could have caught.

  The whistle blew, and we plodded to Coach’s side, eyes downcast in humiliation. Down by three goals, our shot at winning the tournament was over.

  Coach Alicia looked lovingly at us. “We’re playing hard,” she said. “Winning is not the objective anymore, but what about having fun, huh? What about going out there and playing with joy? Do you think you can do that?”

  Back on the field, I muted everything else. The sounds, the white glare of the sun, the ache of this lost chance. What if this was Furia’s last moment to shine?

  I ran as if I were back in the clover fields with Diego. I played the kind of fantasy moves that made opponents go mad with frustration, that made boys mad, megging one defender, sending a rainbow over another. But when I kicked toward the goal, the shot was too high.

  Then Rufina got the ball and dragged half the defense after her, leaving me all alone with the goalie. This time, I didn’t miss. With a soft touch to the lower right, the ball crossed the line.

  Pandemonium exploded all around me. I screamed so loud it left my throat sore. When the other team kicked off, I was still flushed with ecstasy.

  Itapé was out to liquidate us, but Julia stole the ball, and in a tiki-taka worthy of Guardiola’s Barcelona, I chested it down and passed to Rufina. She shot, and the keeper blocked it with her open hands. I was ready for the rebound and sent the ball in with my shin.

  We didn’t waste time celebrating. Not yet. We were close to tying, and time was running out.

  For the next few minutes, we attacked and attacked, but an invisible force seemed to block the goal until finally, Rufina and I were once again in the box.

  Instinctively, I knew she’d run around the defenders to shake off her mark. But a voice in my head whispered that if I scored, I’d have a hat trick. My mom, Mrs. Tapia, Coach Ryan, the reporters, and an enormous crowd of people were watching.

  But then I saw Rufina all alone.

  If I took the shot and missed, she wouldn’t reach the ball in time for a rebound.

  The seconds were rushing away.

  I made my choice.

  Channeling my inner Alex Morgan, I crossed the ball through the wall of defenders. Rufina received it like it was a kiss and shot it with such force the keeper didn’t even see it coming.

  Now we celebrated.

  Rufina ran to a corner and kneeled down, screaming, “GOAAAAAAL!”

  Tied 3–3 with only two minutes to go, this was the moment of truth.

  While Itapé got ready to kick off, I looked around the crowd. I caught a glimpse of green from the Praia players, some of whom were hugging each other and watching the game while others prayed on their knees. They were praying for us to lose. Luciano yelled, “Get back in the game!”

  Itapé pulled back to defend, happy with a tie. Rufina, Cintia, Mabel, a
nd I sent shot after shot at them, but nothing cracked their armor. Until Natalia, number nine, made a run all the way to Roxana. I ran to defend, pumping my arms hard, my eyes always on her back. Yesica reached her first with a tackle that earned her a red card and gifted Itapé with a penalty kick.

  Roxana stood in the goal, her outstretched arms trying to shrink the space.

  My breath came in gasps.

  The Itapé player stepped back several feet and then ran up to get momentum. I closed my eyes and held my breath.

  And as the crowd moaned and cheered all at the same time, reflecting all the emotions of the human soul, I felt peace. I’d done all I could. I felt joy for being alive, playing a sport that a generation ago could have landed me in prison.

  A hand fell on my shoulder. I looked up at Rufina; her face was red from exertion and sunburn. Tears ran down her cheeks. The ref whistled to signal the end of the game, and the capitana in me took over, collecting my girls. I picked them up one by one as Praia Grande celebrated around us. I led Eva María to congratulate every Itapé player.

  “You have pasta of campeona, number seven,” Natalia told me when we shook hands. “I know we’ll play again.”

  Coach Alicia wouldn’t let us wallow. “Give yourself time to rest and heal, but remember, no days off,” she said.

  All around me, brokenhearted teammates lamented our lost chance. I kept my cool until I saw my mom, and then everything around me disappeared as I ran into her arms and sobbed on her shoulder, my tears mixing with her sweat.

  “You are incredible,” she said, crying too. “I’m la yeta. I made you lose.”

  I pulled away to look at her eyes and said, “Mamita, without you, I wouldn’t even have played.”

  A little farther away, César waved timidly at me.

  Soon, strangers and family alike showered us with congratulations. Coach Alicia’s praise echoed around us.

  “That was an amazing game. You almost had it,” said a man with a thin mustache.

  By the time Mrs. Tapia found me drinking a Gatorade, I’d run out of tears, but the disappointment lingered. Coach Ryan was talking to a group of Praia Grande girls, and I tried not to look jealous.

  I must not have done a good job, because she ruffled my hair and said, “What you did in the last goal was heroic. To sacrifice personal glory for the team is something to be proud of. Not a lot of players would do that, but you did.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She wasn’t done. “There are rumors that the federation is putting together a seleccionado for Copa América and the World Cup in France in a couple of years. Keep playing hard, and I’ll do what I can so you have more chances. This won’t be the last time we talk, Furia. I promise you that.”

  33

  The next morning, instead of going to Parque Balbin to network with coaches and watch other girls live my dreams, I stayed home with my mom.

  While she worked on yet another dress, I watched cartoons with Nico. Coach had said no days off, but after a short run to the soy fields and back, I allowed myself the luxury of laziness.

  Soon, I fell into a routine. The days stretched into a week, and one afternoon, when my mom went out to meet with Marisol and her mother to plan the baby shower, I realized the commentators on TV were talking about Diego.

  They sounded like kids on Christmas.

  “AFA has just released the list of World Cup qualifiers,” the man said. “The one newcomer is Diego Ferrari, Juventus’s wonder boy.”

  His female companion added, “Diego had previously played well, but after missing that game against Roma, he came back and had a hat trick and two assists out of a FIFA video game. The boy is on fire! We can’t wait to see what he does next to Dybala, Messi, and company.”

  I turned the TV off.

  Weeks later, my mom gave me a laptop as an early Christmas present, and I used it to pore over tryout schedules for women’s teams. Urquiza and Boca Juniors in Buenos Aires had put calls out for players. Roxana and I would head there in January.

  Rufina was still deciding if she’d accept an offer from Praia Grande, who had defended their title and won another Sudamericano. They were going pro, and they wanted her.

  An incoming message chimed, and I opened the email. It was the file I’d asked Luisana to send me. For the next ten minutes, I watched the video version of Furia she’d edited together. It was mesmerizing. I saw the joy, the sparkle in the championship game, the bits and pieces of practices, and the Sudamericano tournament.

  Luisana had made me look like a player any team would want, and before I chickened out, I sent the video to Mrs. Tapia.

  What could I lose?

  Christmas came and went. Pablo and Marisol spent the holiday with her family, so my mom and I headed over to her sister’s, my tía Graciela, whom I hadn’t seen in years. Now that she was free of my father, Mamá had plans to open an atelier downtown. Her sister was helping her find a locale.

  My eighteenth birthday was on Three Kings Day, January sixth. Of course, I wasn’t expecting presents. But just as I was coming back from my run with Yael, the home phone rang.

  “Camila? Is that you?” Gabi Tapia asked.

  At the sound of her voice, I had to sit down.

  When I recovered enough to speak, I said, “Yes, Gabi—I mean, Mrs. Tapia.”

  “I got your video.”

  “You did?” I probably should have been speaking English, but I was so nervous I could hardly remember my own name.

  “First of all, you’re eighteen today, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Happy birthday. Do you have a passport?”

  My father had made all of us get passports when Pablo signed with Central, in the event the call came to move across the world. “Yes,” I said.

  Mrs. Tapia sighed in relief. “The national league is expanding. I’ve been offered the position of assistant coach on a new team, the Utah Royals. I want you as a discovery player. I hope you haven’t already signed with another team?”

  I shook my head, and then, realizing she couldn’t see me, I said, “I was going to try out for Urquiza and Boca next week . . .”

  “What do you think about giving us a chance? I know you have to talk to your parents, look at the details. It’s not an offer for a contract yet, but the lead coach wants to see you in person. Can you be here next week?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  With the money I’d saved from El Buen Pastor and my mom’s help, I could afford a ticket, even if it was the kind that stopped in every time zone.

  “I know you will have many questions. I can talk to your parents.”

  “My mom,” I said. “She’s my agent.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Tapia said, “I’ll talk to her in more detail about where you’ll stay and the paperwork you’ll need. But for now, do you have any questions?”

  The first thing that came to mind was, “What are their colors?”

  Mrs. Tapia laughed and laughed. “Navy blue and yellow, just like Central.”

  While I was packing, I found the estampita of La Difunta Correa in my nightstand drawer. Roxana and I made it to the shrine on the highway to Córdoba the evening before my flight. I placed a bottle of water next to the others that covered the altar, along with a brand-new number five ball.

  I’d asked Deolinda for a miracle, and this was my life now. My best friend by my side, my mother finally free, the chance to play on a team in the States. But a part of me still longed for more. I put that old yellow lollipop next to the ball.

  Roxana and I walked back to the house, savoring the heat and humidity. Around me, my city glowed green with life.

  At El Buen Pastor, I placed my stack of old, loved books in Karen’s hands.

  “They’re all for me?” she asked.

  “All for you, Karen.”

  The
pure words of Laura, Alma, María Elena, and Elsa, the fantasy kingdoms of Liliana’s books, the poetry of Alfonsina, and even the romances of Florencia’s colonial heroines had shaped my world. They had shown me that I could do impossible things.

  The sense of wonder and possibility—that I owed to the Argentine women who had fought for freedom before the universe conspired and the stars aligned to make me. Pieces of little Camila’s soul were in those books. I hoped they would guide Karen toward her own impossible dreams.

  I couldn’t figure out how to capture the smell of ripe green grapes growing in the vacant lot. Or the sight of the barrio kids pretending a donkey was a noble steed. Or the sound the next morning when the whole monoblock gathered along the staircase to see me off with cheers and applause, as if I were going to the moon. The neighbor played Gustavo Cerati’s Adiós.

  I wanted to gather the stars so when I was in my apartment, I could paste the Southern Cross on the ceiling. That way I’d never be lost. Still, I tried to pack everything in my heart.

  The small Fisherton airport was almost empty. Posters of missing girls plastered the wall next to the bathrooms. Young, innocent, small faces. I saw them. I read every one of their names.

  My mom, Roxana, Karen, Mrs. Fong, and Coach Alicia kissed me on the cheek, and it felt like a blessing. My mom took a picture of me and posted it online with the caption, Furia la Futbolera.

  “Call me every night,” she said, and swallowed. “Te quiero.”

  “Te quiero, Ma.”

  I grabbed my luggage and headed to the gate. Everyone waved as I went up the escalator.

  On the airplane from Buenos Aires to Miami, there was a Mormon missionary boy going back home to Utah. When he heard I was from Rosario, he showed me his Central jersey and said, “I got it signed by Pablo Hassan and Diego Ferrari! They were playing in a field like two little kids. Have you ever met them?”

  I shook my head because I couldn’t speak. At immigration, the officer hesitated for a second when he saw my Arabic last name. In the end, the visa and the letter from the club were enough, and he let me through.