Furia(78)

The ref starts the game, and I unleash everything in me. After months of professional training and nutrition, I am faster than ever before. My stride has grown as if my legs have gotten longer. Or maybe it’s that I’ve stopped lying. No one can stop me but myself, and I’m never going to stop.

I fight for every ball, and although I don’t always win, no one can say I hold back. I leave my soul on the pitch. I relish what my body can do, appreciate its unorthodox beauty. The eyes of the crowd are on me, and I feel like a goddess.

With my assist, one of my teammates scores. We win the game. I laugh at the way the girls say Furia, over-rolling the r, but they try their best.

I try to memorize every moment so I can tell Roxana about it all during our nightly call.

When I finally leave the field and head to my car (my car!), two Latina girls run to me.

They must be around nine years old, dressed in pink versions of my team’s jersey, their hair braided and beribboned. There’s room in this beautiful game for girliness. That’s something I’ve learned here, and I’m grateful for this gift. I’ll never take it for granted.

“Can we get your autograph?” one of the girls asks.

“Of course, chiquita!” I sign their jerseys. “Always be proud to play like a girl,” I say, and they run off.

They join the man waiting for them. He high-fives them.

Their dad.

He waves at me, grateful, before taking their hands and walking away. They are so lucky.

“Bye, Camila!” Mrs. Tapia calls from her red convertible. “Good game.”

Just as I get in my car, my phone goes off. It’s the ringtone that takes me back home.

Un amor como el guerrero, no debe morir jamás . . .

I let the phone’s song die down, but it rings again insistently.

In a far corner of the parking lot, Nuria, my roommate from Spain, is talking to a girl who comes to see her play every game.

Finally, I rummage in my purse.

Diego smiles in his profile picture, but I don’t pick up. Two hours ago, when my head was fully in the upcoming game, he sent me a message, and I want to read it first. I take a deep breath and jump into the whirlpool.



Hola, Camila. I don’t know if you’ll see this, but weeks ago, I had a dream we were drinking mate and eating alfajores at El Buen Pastor. We were talking about fútbol—what else?— and at the end, you gave me a hug. It seemed so real. Mamana says sometimes our souls find our friends when we sleep. Above all, you and I were always friends first, and I’ve missed you.





Last night before I went to sleep, hoping to dream of you again, I saw your goal from last week in the highlights. You were glorious.





You made the right choice, and I’ll always regret how hard I made that decision for you. I’m sorry.





La Juve is coming to the States on tour in two weeks. We’re facing the MLS All-Stars in Utah, of all places. No offense, but we intend to obliterate them.





I know you’re in the middle of your season, but if you have some time, I’d love to see you. You still owe me some shots, after all. I think I can beat you to ten.





The ball is on your half, Furia.



Always yours,



Diego





No more lying, no more running. No more regretting things I never said.

I press Diego’s number on the screen. It rings once, then his voice travels over the ocean, the sorrow, the months apart.

“Camila?”

“The one and only,” I say, and he laughs.





Author’s Note



Furia isn’t an autobiographical story. However, like Camila, I come from a multicultural and multiracial family, was raised in barrio 7 de Septiembre, have always been obsessed and in love with fútbol, and my nickname has always been either Negra (because of the color of my skin, much darker than anyone else’s in my family) or Turca (because of my Syrian-Palestinian ancestry).

In Argentina, nicknames are given according to appearance, country of origin, or any other distinctive personal feature or attribute. Many times, the names (like Gorda, Negra, Chinita, etc.) would be considered offensive to an American, but the level of offensiveness to an Argentine can vary depending on the intention or tone of voice. So, while the nicknames can be endearments that wouldn’t be considered microaggressions, they can also be flung as insults.

I debated whether or not to write the more palatable version of how Camila would react to being called Negra or Negrita by eliminating the instances completely or having her call them out, and I ultimately decided that doing either one of these would have been unrealistic for her character. In a situation in which her life is at risk every day just for being a woman—a woman who wants to play fútbol professionally, no less—she wouldn’t have the emotional energy to notice or address the nickname, much less call it out. Sometimes, she would even use the words herself.

Argentina, my birthplace, my home even after all the time away from it, has a complicated relationship with race. From president Domingo Faustino Sarmiento (1868–1874), whose legacy was to replace the undesirable gaucho, Indigenous, and Black population with the more “desirable” Western European immigrants, to president Julio Argentino Roca (1898–1904), who commandeered la Campa?a del Desierto to eradicate Indigenous nations, the history of our country since its colonization has been riddled with struggle when it comes to race, education, and social class. The struggle continues to this day.