Ronaldinha

by Alejandra Baccino Uberti

Melina loved football. Mikka, as her family called her, had been in love with the sport ever since she had seen her father cry of happiness after his team won a major championship, the Copa Libertadores, where the best teams in Latin America competed against each other for glory. It was on her fourth birthday and even now, 20 years later, the emotions of that day remained with her. She could not explain how such a silly thing like 11 men running after a ball could cause so much happiness. She was too young to understand the politics and “honor” that would tarnish such pure sentiments. That day though, she celebrated with her dad, chanting all the fan songs, watching the replays (while her dad analyzed every sequence in detail) and wearing the Peñarol jersey every day for a week, until her mom made her change.

That day, she not only learned to love football, but also Peñarol. A kind of love that’s difficult to explain, but for those lucky enough to experience it, it’s the most pure, selfless and strongest type of love. As silly as it sounds, it becomes a part of your identity and once it’s there, you carry it in your heart everywhere you go; it’s perpetual and steady, it’s eternal like time, and it blossoms every spring.

Mikka started going to the stadium to support the team shortly after that, a show of persistence that impressed her own father. He had been blessed with three daughters, and even though he would have loved to have a boy to share his passion, he knew it was his duty to transmit that passion as seriously as his own father had transmitted it to him, and his grandfather to his dad, all the way down the line. Such a love does not care about gender.

Too many years had passed and most of the details of that first afternoon in the stadium were lost, while other memories got entangled with all the weekends of a similar routine that made up each Saturday or Sunday of the football season. Sundays were her favorites. The day would start with watching the English Premier League, followed by a Spanish or Italian game, due to the time differences. At around noon her grandfather would come and the whole family would have lunch together. It was usually pasta, to honor their Italian roots. The best Sundays of all were the 29th of each month, on which, according to Uruguayan tradition, gnocchi was the main dish, and each would place a bill under the warm plate to bring abundance. Melina really enjoyed family traditions and always welcomed an occasion to learn about her ancestors.

She loved her grandfather. Back then, her maternal grandmother would often join them as well. Unfortunately, she didn’t have many memories of her other grandparents.

After finishing their pasta, with an extra portion during the winter to prepare for the game, they would enjoy dessert, and the adults would sip coffee. The TV was playing in the background, broadcasting the pre-game and setting up the atmosphere. Luckily, they lived very close to the main stadium in the city, which was built to host the World Cup in 1930. Games usually kicked off at 4 p.m., so, at about 3:15, they would get ready and take the 15-minute walk to the entrance.

She doesn’t remember the teams they played against, or the results. However, she’d never forget the atmosphere of fraternity, expectation and love. A deep sentiment that was passed on from generation to generation, shared between friends, lovers, and mere acquaintances, a type of love that was ever present, supporting you in your endeavors and comforting you silently.

It was a sunny day in early May, but a pair of jeans and a light jacket was enough. Half of the leaves were still in the trees, and the other half created a carpet of vivid yellows, oranges and reds that covered the entire park where the stadium was located. The same park that was home to the monument of Olympians and the monument of the exodus, one of the most important events in Uruguayan history in its fight for independence.

A few years later, football became a bit of an obsession. She wasn’t just content with watching it on TV and going to the stadium. She wanted to dribble and apply all the moves she saw her idols make on the field in real life. During recess, she was often the only girl playing with the boys, but she never stopped to ask why: she was just happy to play. However, as she grew into her teenage years, she realized that boys did not want to play anymore, and, despite being very good, she was often the last one to be picked. She didn’t understand why, as she was actually better than many of them, but she started to feel more isolated.

It was almost spring, during a painfully boring History class, when her mind took a trip to fantasy land. It was either that or fall asleep right in front of the teacher’s face. At least by daydreaming she could pretend she was paying attention. Should the teacher ask her something… well, that would be a problem for the Mikka of the future. Now, it was time for kick-off… Peñarol against Real Madrid, for the Intercontinental Cup, and she was getting ready to take the field. Her teammates, who included Mia Hamm, the only other girl footballer she’d ever known, were all next to her discussing strategy. It was time to head out and, as the captain of the team, she had to give a few encouraging words. She gathered the players in a circle, took a deep breath, and said the words she had said so many times in the face of adversity: “This is Peñarol!” With that, they hit the ground running.

The wonderful thing about daydreaming is the liberties you can take. You can fast forward, rewind, repeat, or even change the narrative, and nobody can object. If they do, you just erase them from the dream. The following 30 minutes continued with Mikka imagining different plays, goals and acrobatic stunts that somehow always ended up in her scoring or saving a last-second goal against her team. This time, there was no press conference afterwards and no autograph signing, her mind woke up suddenly and she said aloud:

“There have gotta be others like me.”

“Pardon, Melina?” her teacher replied, surprised by the interruption. Usually the kids sat through her lessons as barely functioning beings.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Melina exclaimed, trying to divine what the teacher might have been saying. Something about the Guerra Grande… “I just meant that I can’t be the only one having a hard time understanding the Big War… and its implications,” she added, in a lame attempt to sound more serious and cultured.

“No worries…” the teacher replied suspiciously. Nobody had ever worried about the implications of the Big War.

As in the movies, Melina was saved by the bell. Considering the conversation closed, she quickly gathered her stuff and got up to meet with her friends and grab a snack, before the next class.

A middle child, Melina had learned to navigate the intricacies of social interaction from an early age, and she was quite successful at it. She could discuss many things, as her own interests ranged from football to sharks, from civil rights to the Spice Girls. More importantly though, her nature made those around her feel calm and at ease, so she was often surrounded by different kinds of kids.

When she sat down for lunch with her usual clique and discussed the latest events, she observed the whole class and divided her schoolmates into two groups: the ones who played sports and the ones who had brothers. She knew she wasn’t the only girl who liked football. Every time Uruguay played, the entire country was paralyzed, and if the game were during school hours, the teachers would show it on a huge screen for everyone to join and cheer. During those games, there were several girls who would show up in the team’s jersey and discuss players, moves, positions, and of course, the VAR and fouls that always favored the other team.

She thought about asking them if they were playing on an actual team, maybe she had just been oblivious to the existence of a whole underground life of girl’s football, but she doubted it.

During her next class, Mikka wrote down a list of every girl she could think of who might play or know about teams. At the following breaks, she went around asking each and every one of them: sadly, nobody had even seen or considered a girls’ team.

That afternoon, after doing her homework, she went out to the park to play with the ball. It was a warm sunny day, but it was still spring, so she would only have a couple of hours before the night chills set in.

She had been going to that park since she was a little girl. At first with her parents, and then, slowly, they allowed her to go alone or with friends. It was really close to her house in a fairly calm neighborhood, and most of the families in the area had lived there for many years. Having grown up together, Mikka knew many of the kids living there. On nice days like these, you could find most of them playing with a ball, going out for ice cream, along with parents entertaining a toddler at the recently renovated slide and swings. Overall it was a safe neighborhood, but, having grown up in a city, you were taught from a young age about ‘stranger-danger’ and how not to wander off in the park. Milena also watched the news with her parents and at every family gathering she would actively listen to the grown-ups talk about current events and how unsafe the city was becoming.

These neighborhood kids had been her playmates since she was little, and she had always been the only girl. That had never been a problem though, until the more recent years when they started pushing her out, not picking her to be on any team, and ignoring her. Some of the kindest would tell her that it was because they were now growing bigger and were afraid to hurt her, but she knew that was bullshit (“That’s bullshit!” was her exact reply), as she knew that talent and speed – and she had both – always beat big, slow and clumsy.

She had tried to stand her ground and force herself onto a team, but they wouldn’t even pass her the ball, and after a while it was so clear that they did not want her there, that she pretended to sprain her ankle and slowly walked back home. She was angry, frustrated, but most of all, she was confused. She could sense that this was more than just being left-out, but she did not have the life experience to understand the background to the whole story.

That night, she talked about it with her parents, but they didn’t seem very interested. They could see she was hurt, but they just figured she would get over it soon.

However, that only increased her wish to be seen and accepted for what she enjoyed doing the most. She could see that all the boys were going to the small football field on one side of the park. The youngest football divisions trained there, but she had never gone before. It was time to change that. Yes, she shouldn’t stray from the park, but she took a calculated risk – she would only go for a little bit and be back before sunset.

As she approached the field, she could see all the kids in their equipment warming up. She saw a few parents as well, drinking mate and chatting, and she saw the coach. She hadn’t seen him before, so that meant he wasn’t from around here.

After the kids finished warming up, they started doing some exercises with the ball. “Piece of cake,” Mika thought, “I can do that with my eyes closed.” Without even realizing it, she was right next to the field, looking intently at the different exercises and picturing herself scoring many goals. She was completely oblivious to the coach looking at her.

By that time, the exercises were over. She was debating whether to ask him about the possibility of any girls teams or to just head back home.

“Hey, kid!” the coach shouted, but Melina didn’t even listen, as she was focused on her inner argument of pros and cons. “Hey, you in the rayada,” as we commonly say in reference to the Peñarol jersey. “We are one player short, and you are about the right size. Do know how to play?”

“Me?” Melina replied, looking around.

“Yes, you!” the coach replied, a bit exasperated. He was not a man of much patience.

“Coach! Come on! She’s a girl!” one of the boys shouted, followed by timid nods from some of the others.

“I’m the coach, and if you all are as good as you think you are, then what’s the problem?” The coach replied. There were no flaws in his thinking.

Melina didn’t have the best shoes, but she would have played barefoot, if necessary. She quickly ran onto the field and introduced herself. Some welcomed her and some just ignored her, but she didn’t mind.

About 45 minutes later, which felt like 5 minutes, practice was over. She had scored, dribbled by a few opponents, created fouls… all of it! She had celebrated with her teammates and for a while she had completely forgotten that she didn’t really belong there.

When the whistle announced the end of the game, she stayed a bit longer, pretending to stretch and gathering the courage to go and speak with the coach. She knew she was better than many of the other kids and she was convinced she had proven that in today’s practice.

Suddenly, she realized that it was already dark, and she had told her mom she’d be in the park for just a few hours. She got her ball and, as she started to run towards her house, the coach yelled, “Kid, we practice here on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9 p.m.. Come with your folks next week!”

Milena’s mind was running faster than her feet could carry her, and she was running fast because, one, she feared her mom, two, she was going to play football! On a team! She couldn’t wait until next week. It seemed so far ahead!

“Milena! Where were you!” her mom shouted at her as soon as she entered the house. “How many times have I told you to be back on time or call! You are gonna give me a heart attack one of these days!” she added for an extra dose of drama.

“I’m so, so, so sorry! I completely lost track of time. I found a team! I found a team to play football! The coach invited me to join them because they were short one player, and I played, and I was so much better than the others, and the coach told me to come back!” Milena explained, without stopping for breath.

“That’s amazing!” her dad exclaimed, as he entered the room. “I didn’t know there were girls teams. About time!”

“Well… I don’t think there are…” Milena replied.

“What do you mean?” her dad probed, already knowing the answer.

“It’s the team that trains at the park. All boys. But I was so much better than them, and the coach told me to come, and for one of you to be there next week,” Milena said as she gauged her parents’ reaction. She had not thought this could be an impediment until now, and she was afraid of their answer. “I swear this is the only thing I’ll ever ask, and I’ll be good, and I’ll help out in the house, and I’ll take the dog out, and anything else! Please.”

Her mom began laughing, “I’ve heard that before, and guess who is still the one taking the dog out every morning?” She wasn’t making fun of Milena, but it always amazed her how her kid could say the exact same thing every time she wanted something and still forget all about it two days later.

“Go take a shower. You smell. And the pizza will be here any minute,” her mom said, cutting off any additional argument. She knew that if all went well, from now on, her Tuesday and Thursday evenings would be at the park, but she didn’t want to get Mikka’s hopes up too soon. Despite being in a country where football was more important than any religion, it was not friendly towards female athletes. She had heard too many dismissive and aggressive comments about women enjoying sports, either playing or just watching, and this engrained sexism in society was the main reason women’s sports in general, football included, was so far behind their male counterparts.

The following week, as Milena got ready to play, her mom got ready to fight. She was prepared to fight any parent who thought that having a girl on the team would hinder their kid’s opportunity to become the next Luis Suarez. New generations had Marta, Rapinoe and the Matildas to look up to as well; the change had started, and she was going to make damn sure that by the end of the season, they all knew Milena too. She had seen her daughter play, her skills and her competitiveness, and she was certain she would show that on the field. Hopefully, that would be enough.

To their surprise, all went fairly smoothly. Many parents ignored her, while others thought she’d be out in a month. Most kids were fine with the situation, although some were a bit jealous. Nothing Milena couldn’t handle, however.

With the passing of the weeks, it became clear that she was there to stay. But she also wanted to play in the official tournament. “What’s the point of training if not to win real matches?” she would ask her dad every day, after finding out it was likely that she wouldn’t be allowed to participate.

That was the first blow. Rules. The official rules of the boy’s tournament. It wasn’t explicitly stated that girls were not allowed, but the whole legal jargon talked only about boys, boys, boys. She was so upset and so frustrated she started failing in school. She couldn’t focus on anything other than daydreaming about competing in and winning the cup – showing everybody that girls can play too!

Her parents, the coach, and the parents of the other kids signed and submitted a letter to the official bodies explaining why Milena should be allowed to play. At first, they were ignored, but a few weeks later, the whole situation reached the ears of a former athlete who had faced this sexism before and quickly set up a nationwide campaign to support this new ‘initiative’ by founding the ‘Ahead of Their Time’ football organization. The official bodies were being forced to concede.

The following month, the verdict was in: Milena would be allowed to play.

A few months later, other girls started joining her team and other neighborhood teams.

In the years that followed, it became mandatory for all youth football teams to accept girls.

Years later, some girls teams were created, along with several divisions.

Around 2011, FIFA made it mandatory for all youth professional sports leagues to have a women’s division.

Many years later, it was Milena’s debut in Division One. She would remember that feeling her entire life. The road hadn’t been easy. Fighting the system, the crappy fields, the bigotry of the people in the stands, the lack of resources, of proper training equipment, physicians, coaches. But it was easier now, and it made her happy to feel she had contributed to that in some way.

She hadn’t been able to sleep the night before while thinking about everything that had happened and how it was all culminating in this moment. She had to fight back tears as she carefully put Peñarol’s jersey on. She remembered her grandfather buying her garrapiñada at the stadium, her mom’s unwavering conviction and support, her dad’s meal planning for optimal performance… she also remembered the training, her injuries, the obstacles, and, occasionally, the self-doubt. She was grateful for Peñarol and the strength it gave her whenever she felt she couldn’t run any more or when she thought about quitting physical therapy. It was her ever-present silent companion that had pulled her through all her hardships, as well as a bond that connected her with her family and all the fans around the world, especially those who still dreamed about seeing their team one more time. This was her chance to return a little bit of everything that had been given to her.

*    *    *

Milena woke up to the smell of disinfectant and felt like puking.

She opened her eyes, but she must have done it wrong, as she couldn’t see anything. She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry she felt like knives were cutting through her lips. She moved her arms and felt things connected to her. Someone’s hand was on her shoulder. She waited.

“Milena, I’m a nurse. You are in the hospital. Breathe slowly, and do not speak. I’ll bring you some water and tell your parents to come in.”

“Can you please turn on the lights? I can’t see your face. I can’t see anything,” Milena replied.

“I’ll be right back,” the nurse said, already dialing the physician on call. Milena hadn’t seemed to sustain any physical or neurological injury, but the lights were shining bright, and she couldn’t see them.

The news about her eyesight hit her with the force of the concrete wall the car smashed into that night. She was slowly trying to remember the accident. There had been a big storm, and she had lost control of the vehicle – luckily without hurting anybody else.

When the physician explained her situation, she felt as if she could no longer enjoy life anymore. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to continue living and could not picture any outcome where she would be happy.

Goodbye football, goodbye career, goodbye her old self. She depended on others for everything now, and she hated that.

Her family struggled to help her, as she did not want to help herself. Anything they tried was met with an impassive face and silence.

Sometimes, though, we are rescued from a tragedy by a stranger.

Melina’s savior was her former Peñarol idol who had lost his leg in a car accident years before. Despite the anger and frustration, he had overcome his loss and seized the opportunity to still live, diving into new sports and hobbies. Maybe it was their love for their team or their love for their sport, but he was the only person Melina allowed to get close to her, and he had been able to guide her out of the locked room she had barricaded herself in.

The road was far from easy, and she still missed her old life, but she was fighting for something even bigger now. She knew this would be her biggest fight, and she still had a lot of fight in her.

*    *    *

As she breathes in the familiar smells of freshly cut grass, she opens her eyes. Everything is pitch black, as it was the day before, and many days before that, since the accident. She is ready for this. Her foot feels the ball as she moves it from one side to the other, internalizing, once again, its shape, weight and size. She hears the now familiar whistles as she carries the ball to the middle of the pitch. In the background, she can feel the enthusiasm of the fans who are settling in: she knows she’ll start hearing the songs soon.

Her passion and strength run deep. As she has done since time immemorial, she touches the emblem engraved on her jersey and smiles. She may not be able to see the colors anymore, but that doesn’t matter, because they run in her veins and in her soul.

*    *    *

Milena’s desire to play had brought a small country into the twenty-first century and allowed thousands of girls of all ages to enjoy the game. You can see now, on every field, girls and women of all ages, dribbling, passing, scoring, laughing. You also hear them cursing – it’s a competition after all. But there is one common denominator – they all play with their heart. None of these women ever thought about being professionals, and now, that opportunity, though difficult, exists. We are still light-years behind other countries, and the disparity between male and female sports in general is still too great to accept, but we are closing in, and once that happens, any boy or girl will be able to play any sport they like, or choose any hobby they enjoy, without having to adjust to old-fashioned societal rules.

To all the Milenes, Martinas, Serenas, Simones, Casters, to name but a few: Thank You. To all the girls and women around the world taking up space: You got this!