Chapter 35
“I’LL BE IN AHMED and Nguyen’s room,” P é rez says, walking toward the door of our hotel room. “Want to just come over when you’re ready and we’ll go down to the lobby together?”
“Yeah. Sounds good.”
I wait for him to leave before moving, slowly getting dressed, taking time to put on each part of my uniform besides my gloves.
I’ll grab those on the way out. And then I start setting up.
A Croc goes on the nightstand to help my phone stand up, the chair gets brought up front and center, I make sure the lighting’s as good as it’s going to be, pull up the camera, set it to video, press Record, sit down, and then all that’s left is to talk.
I stare at myself on the screen for a moment. The light green kit I’m wearing for the very last time this season. The person wearing it; someone who feels like a completely different Gabriel Pi n a than the one who put this on for the first time in August.
And, for a really brief moment, I see a future me: an LAFC kit on, an El Tri kit on, twenty-three, twenty-five, thirty.
Not going to lie, I look good in those kits.
I see a captain’s band on my arm, blue and purple and pink.
I see my potential and the possibilities.
I see my dream take shape. All I’ve got to do is bring myself—my whole self—to the pitch every game.
I’m ready.
“Hi. I’m Gabriel Pi n a, a footballer and goalkeeper for the first ranked team in the NCAA, the Texas A&M–Corpus Christi Islanders.
I’m a freshman there and eighteen years old.
I’m a Mathematics major, and I’m getting my teaching and coaching certifications too.
I’m a first-generation Texan with Mexican blood running through my veins.
I hold the record for longest shutout in the Border Conference, I’m this year’s Conference Freshman and Player of the Year, and I’m about to play my very last game of the season.
I’ve played football for almost as long as I’ve known how to walk. And I … I’m bisexual.
“I—I don’t want this to be a coming-out video.
It’s a bringing in. One of my friends told me to call it that, and I think it’s pretty fitting.
I’m bringing you into my world. I’m sharing with you something about me not because I feel like I have to, but because I’m ready to let people know who I am.
Every single part. And, yeah, it’s scary.
This isn’t how I imagined doing it, or how I wanted to do it, for that matter.
I know there are going to be a lot of people out there who aren’t ready for someone like me.
Being Mexican, Latino, it comes with different standards.
This game is life for so many of us. The way an athlete lives and acts—especially men—there are expectations attached.
And in football, in my community, queerphobia exists.
Homophobia, biphobia. Machismo is seen as the ideal.
That’s not the world I want to live in. And I’m tired of waiting for the world to change.
I’m going to help change it myself. I’m going to be a presence that people can’t ignore.
I’m going to be too good for you to ignore.
I’m apologizing to myself for every moment I thought there was no way I could have it all.
For all those times when I put myself second because that was the only way I thought at least some version of me could come out of this in first. I don’t want some version .
I want me. All of me. And that’s what I’m going to give from here on out.
That’s what I deserve. Because I’m good at what I do. Because I’m the future.
“I don’t expect it to stop being scary overnight.
I don’t expect the culture to change overnight.
But I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got a lot of game left to play.
And I’m not leaving my bi-ness, my bisexuality, off the pitch.
I think … I hope that, if anything, the kids who look like me, who have an accent like mine, who’ve been kicking a ball around since the day they were born like me, and who, at some point in their lives, realize that maybe they aren’t as straight they thought they were, like me, will find the courage to be themselves, to play the game they love, and be great.
That, maybe, when things get tough, they’ll think of Gabriel Pi n a and remember they’ve got someone to look up to.
That they’ve got someone in their corner, always.
“Anyway, I’ve got a game to go win. Thanks for watching.
And I—I’m just really happy to finally feel like I’m not trying to hide any part of myself anymore just to make someone else feel more comfortable.
Just because they aren’t ready for someone like me.
I’ve had way too many people I care about tell me that they’ve always been ready, and I’m going to listen to them.
So, for y’all, ready or not, I’m here. And I’m going to be around for a long while. All of me. I promise you that.”
I take a minute to edit out the parts of me just sitting and staring at my phone and watch it through one time to make sure I didn’t stumble too hard while talking from the heart on the fly. And, when it looks good, it goes on my Instagram for the entire world to see.
My thumb shakes a little pressing that Post button. What if this is the end? What if I don’t get acceptance? What if, after all that talk, I realize that there really isn’t a place for me in this game after today?
No. No regrets. Whatever happens, happens. Whatever life I have after today, it’s going to be great, whether on or off a pitch.
But I really hope it’s on.
I copy the link to the post and go into my texts, finding Vale, pasting it and sending it his way.
I don’t expect you to watch this. It’s totally fine if you never do.
I just want you to know that I finally found the courage to fight for myself, and I’m not looking back.
And I’m really grateful for you and everything you’ve done for me. I always will be.
I stare at the text message, letting out a sigh.
This isn’t enough. There’s so much I actually want to tell him.
So I don’t fight my thumb as it goes to the Record button, and I send a voice text.
“I’m so fucking thankful for you, ba— Vale.
You changed my life for the better. I … I’m never not going to love you.
And I think … you’re right. We don’t have to be endgame.
We don’t have to have a happily ever after.
It might be a little too early to start imagining that.
But, also—and this might be so shitty of me to be doing this on a voice text, but—maybe we could?
Maybe we could find out, if you’d be up for giving me another chance.
If you’re up for this life, I’ve got you.
My heart is yours, if you still want it. ”
And then I go to another convo, seeing at the bottom Pops’s text from not even half an hour ago: Whatever happens today, I’m proud of you, boy. Y te quiero. échale ganas. See you when you get home.
I hope that he’ll still be proud of me after this. That he’ll still love me. That he’ll still see me as his son. That, after I send him this link, I’ll still have a home to go to.
I have to let faith take the wheel here.
“I love you too, Pops. Always.”
I’m going to watch footage of that block later and still not believe I did that.
These Indiana boys managed to get me farther out than I should’ve been, perfectly setting themselves up for a goal attempt, a beautiful kick, high and heading for the top center of the goal.
I rush back, my body reacting before my brain, jumping as high as I can and then kicking my right leg up, forcing my body to follow it.
The other ninety-nine times I’ve tried this, just casually, I’ve fallen on my ass, my foot kicking nothing but air.
This time, as it feels like I’m backflipping in slow motion, my toes tap the top pole of the post pretty hard.
And the ball hits the side of my foot, flying through the air, ending up near the touchline and, better, two of my teammates, who take it back to the other side of the pitch while I land Spider-Man style, my heart nearly beating right out of my chest. And it’s only when my feet and gloves touch the grass that I realize my throat hurts a little and I was screaming the entire time.
“Holy— there you go, Pi n a! There you go! ” P é rez calls out, standing nearby with a couple of my other teammates. “That was sexy, papi!”
And I scream again, just to get out the rest of the adrenaline. Ibekwe yells with me, and so much of the audience is yelling with us too. And I don’t feel alone at all. I feel like I belong.
“We got our keeper back,” he says with a big smile, patting my back. “You got to show me how to do that when we get home, yeah?”
I nod, catching my breath. “You got it, Cap,” I tell him, before he starts running toward the other side of the pitch, ready to help us get another point on the board in the last few minutes we have.
My focus switches between the game and the clock.
Minutes turn into seconds. Another attempt by my boys gets blocked by their keeper.
They take the ball my way, only to get met with some South Texas, Gulf Coast defense, Nguyen at the front of the line.
In the final moments of the game, one of the Indiana boys makes an attempt from his spot pretty far down the pitch, not seeing any way closer.
It lands right in my arms, and, ball in my hands, the game ends.
One point, Indiana. Two points, Texas A&M–Corpus Christi.
A team that had never made it past its own conference championships is leaving this stadium as the NCAA Division I National Champions. I’m leaving this stadium as a National Champion.
And, minutes later, I find out that I’m also leaving as the College Cup Defensive Most Outstanding Player.
I’m blocking Ahmed’s nut check, unserious motherfucker, when I hear my name, loud and echoing through WakeMed Soccer Park.
At first I think it’s because they saw us playing grab ass and we’re about to get in trouble in front of every important person in the NCAA.
But then I hear a bunch of “ Pi n a! Go! What are you standing there for?!”
And when I realize what’s happening, I almost faint. No way this is real life.
It takes my entire team pushing me forward for me to finally move, and when I take the trophy, holding it up, crying like a pinche baby, they’re crowding me, chanting my name, chanting “Islanders , ” singing “We Are the Champions.”
This is real life. This is me taking control of my life. This is my dream becoming reality.
“You know, I was wondering if you and Vale were secretly getting it on,” Ahmed says, his smile going into a smirk. “He wanted your dick bad , Pi n a. Respectfully.”
“And he gave it to him. Respectfully and maybe even a little disrespectfully,” P é rez says, going in for a high five that I only shake my head at as I try my best to keep down a laugh.
Hours after the game, back in our hotel, Ahmed, Nguyen, P é rez, and I are lying on my bed, all of us full on the nicest dinner any of us have ever had in our entire lives, in just our chonies because we all continue to be way too comfortable with one another.
There’s a lot back in Texas waiting for me.
So many uncertainties. But right now, with my boys, soaking in this win, I’m okay. As good as I can hope to be.
“You love him?” Nguyen asks, his head on a pillow, having mostly ignored us until now.
“I … yeah. I do.”
“Then whatever you need, okay? Just let us know.”
I smile, grabbing Nguyen’s shin and shaking it. “Thanks, bro.”
“Okay, enough about that right now,” Ahmed nearly yells, his voice excited and rushed, holding up his phone.
“We can come back to that in a second, but first, ESPN headline: Gabriel Pi n a: the Future of Soccer. ‘The freshman goalkeeper ended his first college season breaking a shutout record, taking home a respectable number of awards, and, as of earlier today via a post from his personal Instagram account, as one of the first—if not the first—openly bi, male, Mexican soccer players in the game. Maybe an oversight on their part, he’s not in the running for the MAC Hermann trophy this year, but it stands to reason that he’ll have at least one by the time he graduates.
Remember his name, because, like he tells us in his Instagram video, I’m here.
And I’m going to be around for a long while. All of me. I promise you that .’ ”
“What’s it like being famous, papi?” P é rez asks, his arm thrown around the back of my shoulders, shaking me.
“Like I have a lot to live up to. Worried I might’ve hit my peak too soon.”
“Nah, you’ve got a lot more ahead,” Ahmed says before letting out a yawn. “And we’re going to be right there with you, doing great things too. All of us.”
“And I’m grateful for that. But still terrified, honestly.”
“We see you, papi,” P é rez adds. “Out there giving ten, twenty, a hundred times more effort than anyone else when it comes to something you love. If tomorrow the world hasn’t figured out how to give you back that effort, don’t put yourself down for it, all right?
For people like us, us brown-skinned boys trying to make our moms and dads proud, most of the time, we aren’t going to get back what we put in.
That doesn’t make it not worth it. It doesn’t mean you’re not worth it.
You always are, Chivo. You always have been. ”
“P é rez coming in with the anime monologue.”
“You like that, Nguyen?”
“Shut up.”
“Had me tearing up, for real,” Ahmed says, playfully pushing P é rez’s head.
“Oh.” P é rez sits up on his knees, grabs his phone, and pulls up his camera. “Ven pa’ca, putos. Come on. Get in here with me for a sec. We need to memorialize this moment. One day, we’ll look back on today and think about how far we’ve come.”
And, this time, we listen. Even Nguyen, after an eye roll, sits up, huddling in close to all of us, arms draped over shoulders. My boys. A semester older. A semester better.
He hits Record, making sure all four of us get in the screen, bare-chested, probably going to have this video taken down for all the nipples. “I wouldn’t want to be playing this game, on this team, with anyone else,” he says. “Let’s do a ‘?Fantastic Four por vida!’ on three. No. On four. Alright?”
We nod and “Yeah” back, waiting on his count. One last time.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”