Chapter 3
Natalia
Holland Callow and I can’t agree on a single thing. The girls on the team are starting to watch us like a tennis match: head to one side when I talk, to the other when she talks, and back again.
“You’re not teaching them to take risks, only not to lose the ball. That’s not how you play soccer,” I argue beside her during one of the drills.
“At these ages, just not losing the ball gives you a huge advantage,” she counters.
“That’s crap. At eleven I was already nutmegging boys twice my size on dirt fields,” I grumble.
“Right. And look how you ended up, in a community service program. I’m not trying to make them pros, I want them to have fun and get some exercise.”
I swallow the “go to hell, asshole” only because there are minors present, and because, deep down, she isn’t entirely wrong. This particular group isn’t chasing a league title; that’s what the more advanced groups are for. Still, the comment stings.
And that’s how it’s gone for almost two weeks. Tuesday we argued about whether the girls should always play the same position or rotate. Thursday, about whether it’s okay for them to celebrate goals in their teammates’ faces during practice.
I learned to play in S?o Paulo, on fields where if you couldn’t pull off something nobody else could do, you didn’t touch the ball again all afternoon. I learned to stand out to survive; when they knocked you down or kicked you in the shin, you got up stronger. And again, and again.
Holland has other goals. She never even played soccer professionally, and I don’t know if she played at any decent level at all.
I’m not saying she’s wrong, but she isn’t giving them a chance either.
The problem is neither of us gives an inch.
And the girls, caught in the middle, pay more attention to our arguments than to playing soccer.
It’s a disaster. I know it. But right now all I can think about is these weeks of this stupid clause ending as fast as possible, so I don’t have to see this woman anymore.
Even so, I have to admit she does a good job with the girls. She’s always first to arrive. By the time I show up, the goals are set and the pinnies sorted by color, with a logic I hate to admit works.
She knows every name. All forty. And not just the names. To a lot of them she’s almost a second mother, and most of them adore her. They respect me. Her, they love.
I always had a hard time letting people in; sometimes I get called antisocial, but my life has been a back-and-forth between teams, cities, and countries. I’ve lived like this for years and it isn’t going to change. Next season I’ll probably be in another city, playing for another club.
There’s one girl in particular who runs like her cleats are tied together.
Deep down it makes me sad; in my world, the one who doesn’t learn quits, and that’s that.
At the end of every practice Holland takes her to a separate goal and rolls her soft balls for ten minutes, until the kid scores and laughs.
Ten extra minutes of her time for a girl who’s never going to be a soccer player.
And it always pulls a small smile out of me.
“Holland!” someone shouts to my right. “Ugh, you still here suffering with the rugrats? What a saint you are, boss lady. By my third afternoon I wanted to sell all of them.”
“Please tell me I don’t have to take you on as an assistant too, because I quit,” she protests, though I think deep down she’s glad to see her.
“No, boss lady, no, they haven’t suspended me yet this year, I’m just here to see how you’re doing with Brazil. Well, and because I was bored, but if you want me to stay, I’ll help, obviously.”
Holland rolls her eyes, because practice is pointless now. The kids have quit their drills and run to swarm Iris, who pulls a stack of signed photos out of her bag and takes selfies with them, even with a couple of the moms.
“One for each of you, I don’t want any crying. You already have one, right? Whatever, take another. And you. Hey, no shoving, there’s enough for everybody, I’m super generous, it’s my biggest flaw.”
When she hands out the last photo and the selfies are done, she looks at me, looks at Holland, and looks back at me.
“Huh,” she says.
Just that. And she leaves, waving without even turning around.
Later, when the girls are gone and only the cones scattered across the field remain, Holland walks toward me, slow but with purpose.
“We need to talk,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest in a stance that’s a little aggressive.
“That sounds terrible when you put it like that.”
I try to lighten the mood, but I don’t think she finds it funny at all.
“This can’t go on. We can’t keep arguing in front of them all the time. It doesn’t matter who’s right, what they’re seeing is two adults who can’t stand each other, and that’s not something I teach any kid.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t just say okay to say something,” she protests, raising her voice a little.
“If you can’t work with me, talk to Drummond and have her send you to another team.
Honestly, you could give a lot more to a more advanced group, we have very competitive teams that would benefit from everything you know about soccer.
This team is different. I’ve spent six years with kids like these and I’m not going to change how I treat them because a star shows up who’s bored by my practices. ”
What she doesn’t know is that I can’t change.
Hades was very clear in her office: if this fails, there are headlines, and I’ve already given enough headlines for a whole lifetime.
And I don’t really know why they put me with a group of girls who only want to have fun, when we have very competitive young squads, but I’m not going to ask for a switch.
So I stay where I’m not wanted, which is something I have plenty of experience with.
“Your practices don’t bore me. Fear bores me, and you teach them not to make mistakes. I want to teach them to dare, to mess up, because that way they learn more and have more fun.”
“Iris said the same thing last season,” she grumbles.
“And I’d say those girls adore Iris. I think she left them a great memory, judging by how they abandoned the field to go take photos with her.”
She opens her mouth a couple of times, like she’s trying to say something, but the words don’t quite make it out of her throat.
“Look, I admit you know a lot more about soccer than I do, that’s crystal clear, you’re a pro player for a reason, but the girls don’t come here to watch fights.
I’m willing to take your suggestions as long as it’s in private.
We talk them through, I adapt whatever I think could help them, and in practice they hear one voice, mine. No arguing.”
“Fine, one voice,” I admit, letting out a long breath. “Even if it’s yours.”