After a brief stop on Circunvalación, I felt something touch my leg—a card with a picture of La Difunta Correa, the patron saint of impossible things. The paper was yellowing, and a corner was bent. I looked up to see the flash of a young boy’s crooked smile as he walked the length of the bus giving out estampitas, saint cards, hoping for small donations.
In spite of attending a Catholic school since third grade, I’d never been particularly religious, but I recognized La Difunta. The image of a dead mother still breastfeeding her baby in a beam of divine sunshine had always mesmerized me. Sometime during the chaotic postcolonial years in the mid-1800s, the army had taken La Difunta’s husband to fatten up its ranks. Heartbroken, she’d carried their infant son and followed her husband through the sierras and the desert until she died of thirst. When two drovers found her body, her child was still alive, suckling from her breast. Ever since, miracles have been attributed to her. She isn’t officially a saint, but shrines to La Difunta dot Argentina’s roads, encircled by bottles of water, the offering and payment for her favors.
My conscience reminded me of all my lies, of the miracle my team would need to win the championship today. The sadness in the boy’s hunched shoulders pricked my heart. I rummaged in my pocket for some money. There wasn’t much he could get with fifty pesos, but it was all I had.
“Gracias,” he said, “May La Difunta bless you.”
I held up the estampita and asked, “Will this really work?”
He shrugged, but when he smiled, a dimple pocked his cheek. “What can you lose, eh?” He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he was already old.
No one else took an estampita or gave him money, and he sent me another smile before he stepped off the bus.
The engine’s roar couldn’t drown out the frantic muttering in my head: today might be the last day I played with my team. No legs would be fast enough to give us victory. We needed a miracle.
I glanced down at the estampita and sent La Difunta a silent prayer for a future in which I could play fútbol and be free. What could I lose, eh?
2
The bus arrived in Barrio General José de San Martín just as my watch pointed at three fifteen. I was late. I ran the rest of the way to Parque Yrigoyen field. Central Córdoba’s stadium loomed right behind it, but our girls’ league had no access there.
When I arrived, a referee in antiquated black—a guy—was checking my team’s shin guards.
Roxana, our goalie and my best friend, sent me a killer glare as I peeled out of my sweatpants and sweater to reveal the blue and silver of my uniform. I took the last place in line and knocked on my shins to prove I was protected.
The rest of the girls dispersed, and I laced my boots, Pablo’s hand-me-downs, which were falling apart and smelled like an animal had died and decomposed in them.
“You’re late, Hassan,” Coach said. A lifetime of squinting and playing tough in a man’s world had left a map of lines on her face, which said I’d better apologize or I wouldn’t like my destination.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again. I could lie to my mom, but to Coach Alicia? Absolutely not.
On the opposite side of the field, the Royals in purple and gold warmed up, doing jumping jacks and stretches.
“Today is a big day,” Coach Alicia muttered like she was talking to herself, but I recognized the hope blazing in her words. If we won, we’d go to the Sudamericano women’s tournament in December, and that would bring us all kinds of things that were impossible right now. Exposure. Opportunities. Respect.
I was a dreamer, but Coach Alicia was one of the most ambitious people I knew. She wanted so much for us.
“If we win, a pro team might finally notice you . . . I had hoped Gabi would be here today, but in December? By then there’ll be no hiding your talents, Hassan.”
Coach’s sister, Gabi, worked with a super successful team somewhere up north. The rebellious futboleras like us couldn’t go pro in Argentina. In the States, though, it was a different story. Every time Coach talked about some of us girls going pro, I wanted to believe her. But to hide my ridiculous dreams, I laughed dismissively.
Coach Alicia pierced me with her falcon eyes. “Don’t laugh. You might not be playing at El Gigante yet, but you have more talent than your brother. You’ll go further than he will. Mark my words.”
Pablo would be richer for sure. I only wanted the chance to play, but even that was like wishing for the moon.
Coach Alicia half smiled. “You have something Pablo doesn’t.”
“What?”
“Freedom from society’s expectations.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Now, don’t give me that look.” She placed an arm over my shoulder in an almost-hug. “Pablo’s a professional now. If he doesn’t perform, the press slays him. You don’t have that pressure, except from me. I want nothing but the best from you today. ¿Está claro?”
“Like water,” I replied, still wounded.
She winked at me and handed me a captain band. She walked away before I could explain that she was asking too much, that I was just a girl with strong legs and a stubborn streak.
There was no time for drama, though. I wrapped the band around my arm and did a quick warm-up on my own. Too soon, Coach called us in for a huddle.
Sandwiched between Roxana and Cintia, I gazed at my teammates’ faces as Coach Alicia urged us to leave everything we had on the pitch.
Cintia was the oldest player at nineteen. Lucrecia, la Flaca, was the youngest at fifteen, and her confidence had bloomed in the last few months. Sofía and Yesica had never played before trying out for Coach Alicia, and now they were the best two defenders in our league. Mabel and Evelin were unstoppable in the middle. Mía had played in the United States as a kid before her family came back to Argentina, and what she lacked in skill she made up for in determination. Abril, Yael, and Gisela joined us after their barrio’s futsal team disbanded. Absent from the huddle was Marisa, our best striker. Marisa’s two-year-old daughter, Micaela, was our unofficial team mascot. I’d miss her tiny voice cheering for us today.
“We’ve all made sacrifices to be here,” Coach Alicia said. “Remember that your families support you. Fight for your compañeras, especially the ones who aren’t here today, and treat the ball with the respect it deserves.”
Without Marisa, there was only one sub, but after Coach’s words, there was no room for fear.
We cheered, “Eva María!”
It sounded like an invocation.
The ref blew the whistle for the captains to join him in the middle of the field. Roxana clapped her gloved hands and trotted to my side. Even with a thick headband on, Roxana’s hair was too fine to stay put. Tiny wisps stuck out from the black braid dangling down her back.
“Hard time getting out today?” she asked. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. With Marisa gone . . .” She shuddered. The possibility of having two missing players was too horrific to consider.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Tell your mom my mom says hi.”
Roxana laughed. “Tell her yourself. She’s over there with the whole family.”