Furia(75)

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, and 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.