Furia(73)

All I wanted was water. I couldn’t drink enough.

“Are you okay to keep going?” Luciano asked me.

I nodded, and he made a note in his book.

Then Coach Alicia said, “We’re going to defend and counterattack.”

Nobody contradicted her. Now that I had the chance to look, I noticed a solitary TV camera with a skinny, tall boy at the helm and Luisana, the reporter, standing under the shade of a paradise tree.

From us players to the coaches to the families and reporters, we were all part of something that went beyond the white lines of the pitch. We were all making history.

“You’re going to play wingback, Furia. Ready?” Luciano asked before I headed back out for the second half.

For the rest of the game, my job was to protect the goal and Roxana. I was much shorter than the Praia Grande strikers, but I was strong and fast, and no one crossed over my line.

Time slipped by, the sun glaring into my eyes, but the game remained scoreless. My blue-and-silver jersey stuck to my skin. A little tightness in the back of my thigh warned me to play smart.

When the ref marked the end of the game, the Brazilian girls looked at us with a little more respect, and my team walked off the field a little taller. Tying against the favorites was a feat, but I remained hungry for more.

“Why the long faces? We tied!” Luciano said. “A tie is one point. And it’s especially impressive against this team.”

He passed out water and Gatorade, and I gulped mine down so fast I didn’t even know which I had drunk. Now that the adrenaline had stopped pumping through my body, I smelled my sweat and the smoke of choripán cooking on a makeshift grill. The cicadas screamed, and nearby, graduating students chanted and celebrated.

On the way to meet Coach Alicia under the shade of a mora tree, I caught conversations in Spanish, Portuguese, and English. I recognized the official-looking men and women with clipboards, but there was no sign of Coach’s sister, Gabi Tapia.

“This isn’t the ideal result,” Coach Alicia said. “But like Luciano said, we got a point. This is historic. Not only is Praia the defending champion, they have a direct pipeline to several professional teams, and you, chicas, held them back.”

The parents who had crowded around to hear Coach’s speech applauded proudly. I looked back, just in case, but my mom wasn’t there.

So much hung on the results of our games. But like Coach had told me months ago, no one had any expectations of me. Not even Diego had really believed I could make this a career. We didn’t have to win. We didn’t have to score. We just had to show that we were something.

“Now,” Coach continued, “drink plenty of water and eat a good lunch. Rest. Don’t go too far. We warm up in four hours. Meet me beside field number seven.”

Without being told twice, my teammates and I followed the scent of food. Choripán in hand, most of us watched other teams, marveling at the beauty of their style in some cases and laughing at their blunders in others. Some of these girls had never been trained, and it showed. But they still played with heart and grit, which was nothing to underestimate.

Finally, after one last shared lemon popsicle, Roxana and I headed back to meet Coach. Field number seven was right next to the bathrooms. The temperature had climbed into the low thirties, and sweat ran down my back just from doing basic stretches. I felt a pull in the back of my leg. “Not now,” I muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Roxana asked next to me.

I grimaced. “The leg . . . it’s tight.”

“Let me help you.” She walked over and helped me stretch my leg. “I hate to say this, but if it gets worse, you know you have to tell Coach.”

I knew. At the same time, if I told Coach my leg was tender, she’d bench me. I couldn’t let that happen.

Our next game started. Tacna wasn’t as disciplined a team as Praia, but they had a tougher style that disrupted our rhythm. Every few seconds, one of our players was sprawled on the ground, but soon the ref stopped calling fouls in our favor. Tacna took control of the game, and we ran in every direction, our lines in disarray. For the first fifteen minutes, we couldn’t seem to find our legs. Then, taking advantage of a blunder in their defense, I passed wide and far to Rufina. She kicked, and the ball crossed the line in a perfect arc.

For a second, we were all too stunned to celebrate, but someone on the sidelines broke the silence, and we all ran to Rufina and jumped on her. She clasped my hands in hers. “I’m winning, Furia.” She winked, and I laughed. The competition between us felt silly and small now. We all won, or we all went home.

The minutes went by in a rush. Mabel scored a free kick, and Rufina passed me a beautiful heel. All I had to do was softly push the ball with the tip of my foot. The ball kissed the goal line, and I pointed my fingers toward heaven, thanking the angel on call.

I had scored at an international tournament. Scoring a goal is almost like kissing. The more you do it, the more you want. I wanted to keep scoring until it hurt.

Rufina hugged me.

After that, we knocked and knocked on Tacna’s goal, but the keeper was like a spider, blocking every single shot. With seconds to go, Julia made a run from the back. She shot a cannonball that no human could stop, but it bounced off the crossbar.

The ref blew the whistle. Roxana remained undefeated on the goal. Our team danced and sang in celebration. We had four points. Day one had been a success.