Furia(77)

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.

At the end of another escalator down to baggage claim, Mrs. Tapia waited for me. “Welcome, Furia.”





Epilogue





Seven months later



Sometimes I wake up, my throat parched, my arms tangled in a Juventus jersey after dreaming of a boy with swift feet and soft lips, and I wonder why the air is so dry, why the morning is so quiet. And then I remember, and all these months rush back to me in a tsunami of impossibility.

I left Rosario, but Rosario hasn’t left me.

Diego was right. It is possible to love two places with the same intensity. I love the majestic mountains covered with snow, but I miss the endless plains and the expansive river.

My team practices on a beautiful turf field. The girls here complain about it all the time, and I get why they do—my legs have the scars to prove how brutal turf can be. But when I remember the state of Parque Yrigoyen, I can’t help but feel I’m in paradise.

During the American national anthem, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Tapia on the jumbo screen. When she squints her eyes, she looks so much like Coach Alicia it takes my breath away.

I’m about to play against the Orlando Pride. I’m going up against Marta. My team warms up, but I can’t stop looking at her. When the announcer says my name, the stadium erupts in cheers. “The public loves you, Furia,” Mrs. Tapia yells. Little girls and boys wear my jersey. Men and women celebrate my goals.

Life is a wheel, I hear my mom say in my mind.

The sun shines brightly behind the Wasatch mountains as I jog to the center of the field to join my teammates.

In Rosario, Central is playing their opening game. On both Juventus and the national team, Diego’s still breaking records. The press has run out of adjectives to describe him. Now that he’s cut his hair short, he looks more like an avenging angel than a titan.

With a deep breath, I summon the spirits of my loved ones. Abuela Elena, the Andalusian with all the regrets and the broken heart. My Russian great-grandmother Isabel and her pillows embroidered with sayings. Matilde and her stubbornness. My mom and her newborn freedom. She’s opened her atelier and is living with Tía Graciela in an apartment downtown. My niece, Leyla, and her pure eyes. Roxana and our eternal friendship, even though we’re on different teams now. Eda and all the other missing and murdered girls, resting in love. Karen, growing in power. All the unnamed women in my family tree, even the ones forced into it against their will, those who didn’t ask to be my ancestors. I have their warrior fire inside me. I summon their speed, their resourcefulness, their hunger for life.