“Man, can you believe American schools? I could get used to playing here.” Emiliano snaps out of his reverie and follows Paco’s eyes to the lush green grass under their feet. “No wonder the Rio Grande is a trickle of warm piss. All the water’s used for this field.”
Emiliano taps the ground with the point of his shoe. It is a big difference from the patch of dirt where the Pumas practice.
“And look at the shoes on those guys.” Paco points at a player retrieving a ball. “That’s one year of my father’s salary right there.” He looks at Emiliano suddenly. “Hey, are you going to tell me what you’re up to? What’s with the Mercedes?”
“I told you. I had to take the car to the dealer’s for a friend, and it got late. I have your money in my pants. I’ll give it to you after the game.”
“Come on, man, it’s me, remember? My parents are all like, What is going on with Emiliano? You park a fancy car in our backyard at night and then you drive it out at five this morning. You have to admit it’s a little suspicious. And, by the way, you got my loafers all muddy.”
“That’s from your mom’s flower beds when I was putting the key under the Virgen.”
Paco shakes his head. “She waters those flowers every day as soon as the sun starts to go down. So how was the birthday party? Did you make the big-shot impression you wanted to make with the car? This is all about Perla Rubi, isn’t it? God, you’re so unbelievably stupid.”
“Leave it alone, man.”
Paco takes a step closer to Emiliano, faces him. “Leave it alone? Since when? You don’t think I can tell when you’re doing something bad? Whenever you’re bad or thinking about doing something bad, your eyes go left and right, up and down like they did just now. First time I saw your eyes do that was when you threw a marble at my head and gave me this scar.” Paco lifts the hair on his forehead. Emiliano looks at the scar and then looks away. “You drive a Mercedes to impress a rich girl who, when the chips are down, is going to dump you. Come on, talk to me.”
Emiliano should feel anger, but he doesn’t. What comes up is sadness at this breach between him and his best friend. He could close the separation, he knows. All he has to do is tell him the truth. But Paco would not like the truth.
They both turn when they hear Brother Patricio’s whistle. Paco walks toward Brother Patricio. Emiliano waits a moment and then follows. The Pumas gather around and bow their heads.
“Okay, before we pray, a reminder,” Brother Patricio says. “This is a friendly game where we hone our skills. It took me a long time to get a school in El Paso to agree to play with us. So keep it clean and let’s play them with the respect they deserve. Let’s pray. Lord, keep us and our opponents safe. Help us to be humble in victory and grateful in defeat. May this contest be an opportunity to increase our courage and our desire to do all we do for your greater glory. May all our actions on and off the field show that we love God with all our soul, heart, and strength, and our neighbor, including our opponents, as ourselves. We ask this in the name of your son, Jesus Christ.”
“Amen,” respond the Pumas as they cross themselves—all of them except Emiliano.
It is the exact same prayer that Brother Patricio repeats before every game. Emiliano doesn’t mind people praying. Mami and Sara pray. Colegio México is, after all, a Catholic school, run by Salesian Brothers like Brother Patricio. But today the words grateful in defeat annoy him. Why should anyone be grateful for losing? Losing feels bad and winning feels good. It’s a natural thing to want to feel good, and God, if there is a God, shouldn’t have any problem with that.
Emiliano waits for Brother Patricio’s last-minute coaching instructions, which also never vary. Defense, defense, defense. Don’t let anyone get through and then wait for the right moment to counterattack. Only this time, his instructions are different. “Let’s concentrate on execution of plays and not on scoring,” Brother Patricio says. “They are the best team in the city of El Paso, so maybe we can learn a few things from them.”
“We’re the best team in the state of Chihuahua,” Pepe says, “so maybe they can learn a few things from us.”
Laughter and cheers. Pepe is the goalie and, besides Paco, Emiliano’s favorite teammate.
“Yes,” Brother Patricio says, “they will undoubtedly learn some things from us as well. This is a great opportunity to … rectify some misconceptions that Americans have about people from Juárez. So just have fun.” Then he looks directly at Emiliano. “I’m counting on you as the captain and midfielder to control the energy level. Keep it nice and smooth. Even tempered. No need for the usual high intensity today.”
“Yes, Brother. Nice and easy today. Let them win,” Emiliano echoes sarcastically.
Brother Patricio pauses. “I didn’t say that, necessarily. ‘Don’t concentrate on scoring’ is not the same as letting them win.”
“Yes. I understand,” Emiliano says. He tries not to sound angry, but there is anger in his voice.
Brother Patricio notices his tone, because he takes Emiliano aside and says, “Emiliano, don’t turn this game into a personal vendetta.”
Emiliano looks at Brother Patricio for a few moments. What vendetta is Brother Patricio talking about? Then it comes to him: the conversations they’ve had where he expressed anger at his father for staying in the United States. Does Brother Patricio think he blames the United States for his parents’ divorce, for his father never returning? He’s wrong. The United States didn’t force his father to stay there, to abandon his family. That was all his father’s decision.
“No vendetta here,” Emiliano answers, then walks away before Brother Patricio can say anything else.
Where is all this anger coming from? He wishes he hadn’t read that letter last night, inviting his father’s voice to enter his head after all his work getting it out. But he also knows that the whole team will ignore Brother Patricio’s instructions. The soccer field is the one place where they can shine and be admired, the one place where they are rich—not with money, like all the other teams they play, but with skills and courage. It’s the one place where anger, properly managed, is permitted.
Nevertheless, throughout the first half, Emiliano does his best to ignore the gnawing in his stomach urging him to go all out. He plays relaxed and without urgency, and the rest of the Pumas follow his example. His passes to Paco from midfield are off-mark and easily intercepted. Paco’s few shots on the opposing goal dribble meekly into the goalie’s hands. The Conquistadors score an easy goal. The locker room is quiet at halftime.
Then in the second period, a shot from the top of the box rolls lazily into the corner of the Pumas’ goal. Emiliano notices that the Conquistadors are all laughing, and the crowd in the stands begins to chant: “USA! USA! USA!”
That’s not so bad. People have the right to cheer for their team.
But then the chant changes and the crowd shouts: “NAR-COS! NAR-COS! NAR-COS!”
That, on the other hand, is the wrong cheer. It is the wrong cheer any day, but today it loosens a fury in Emiliano. The gnawing in the pit of his stomach turns to a simmering fire and then it starts to boil.