Was Your Match || Julián Álvarez

1

I received the ball in first touch, quickly charging it towards the opposition base. When a defender closed at me, I summoned every ounce of my speed, swiveling to the opposite direction in an attempt to trick them. When I have accomplished my position's task, I sent the ball to my teammate. I watched as he maneuvered ahead toward the penalty area, avoiding defenders. I ran towards the goalpost, whilst he distracted the defender. And just as planned, he successfully returned me the ball. I then faced the final opponent, the goalkeeper. The responsibility that now I hold conducts slight pressure rising into my feet. My heart's hammering increased it's paced when I pushed to strike the ball. I watched as it missed the goalkeeper's hand and conceded inside the net. We joyfully celebrated the winning goal and the triumph.

My name is Salhísa Ysacilla, I grew up in Calchín Cardoba Argentina. I have a childhood friend named Julián Alvárez—but most labels him as La Araña—who had now become a world-class player. In the ordinary of Argentina, football is the most cherished and celebrated sport – as it is in many parts of the world; a cultural play wildly countered in the streets.

With football, it became a bridge in connection for Julián and I, from sharing the same passion that had destined us to meet. Although, our first meeting had already started into rivalry – that's when a ball thumped upon my head, so out of temper I furiously kicked the ball back to its the owner but accidentally smashing into his face. My attempt to apologize halted when he added to more heat in both of our annoyances – he insulted me about playing football as a girl. So I backfired, saying that his football playing style was sloppy. The argument gradually shifted into play, competing who was better at one-on-one football match. We realized then that we'd met our parallel match. Throughout the course, it nurtured into a special bond, maintaining a close relationship and competitiveness.

When we've reached adolescence, I began to notice a few changes in the differences in our growth. I could no longer keep up with Julián's physics as he naturally grew more masculine than I did. Contrary to me, it had become impossible to conceal my femininity with the chest and curves involuntarily taking shape but allowed my hair to grow freely. Our gender had disrupted the fun out of a fair rivalry. Fortunately, however, those slight changes didn’t stop Julian and I from competing.

***

The sound of my shoe crunches against the ground where it's path were provided with cement and gravel. I'm one penalty kick away from arriving at my destination. I changed my lane on a sidewalk when I spotted a little rock where I gave in to this temptation of kicking and dribbling. Then I abandoned the short amusement when I noticed I've reached my destination. I strode towards the door that I so often confront.

I—at eleven and half years of age—knocked and waited for this boy to come out of his house. Finally, Julián appeared with a knowing smile, which usually means he was in his most agreeable to play. At almost every day, I would tirelessly come to his house whenever it would take him too long to come (and because he himself owned a ball).

As we strolled together down the sidewalk, he ranted about his recent practice – a dribbling move called the Elastico.

"They used it to trick defenders," Julián explained, "making them think the ball will head the other way, but it stays firmly on your foot and quickly turns the opposite direction to send them the wrong way."

"Oh, I've seen that move on television before," I replied.

"Yeah, it's so smooth. I like to try it myself," Julián said.

"But doesn't it seem a bit too Brazilian for us Argentinians?" I asked. Argentinians and Brazilians are always known for their long-time rivalry. May it be within the politics or the tournaments. Despite sharing a continent, they don't get along well.

Julián shook his head. "Not at all. Even the great Messi had drawn inspiration from Ronaldinho. They seemed happy with the exchange. I think it doesn't matter, though, as long as football keeps its spirit alive."

He's right. It shouldn't be based solely on a robotic strategy. A beautiful game is where a pure footballer plays freely with their heart out, enough that it's enjoying for the audience.

After the distance walk, we finally made it at our most precious ground. It is a place we affectionately called El Suelo Vacante. It was once an abandoned vacant lot, but then we had occupied it as our space where we could play. It wasn't long that we transformed it into a football pitch.

The local kids in Calchín had provided contributions in forming the pitch. It started with a white powdered lining, enough to know where the halfway and the goal line are. And then slowly it added to more upgrades, switching into permanent markings of white paint and constructing a stable goal post made out of wood. Only what's still missing was a net. We tend to the ground with care, pulling out weeds if it needs pulling and cleaning it if it needs cleaning. Our pitch might not have been perfect, but we treated it like home.

I settled on a boulder, keeping my attention on Julian's demonstration of his recent skill. He prompted me to defend against him, but I refused out of hesitation. Smartly declining the risk of harming my dignity without studying him first.

When more of our friends in the neighborhood arrived, we sorted ourselves in half and commenced our football match. The usual day in a spirit of both competitiveness and fun.

Julián then decided to use Elastico when he fought with a defender. Tricking their perception of the ball's direction, looking as if it were magnetized on his feet. Leaving the opponent bewildered and tumbling at the ground. We ruthlessly laughed at our friend Rafa, who had been a victim of the ankle break, and then showered Julián with praise.

***

"Where's your new football boots, Julián?" Caúrelle asked. "I haven't seen you wear it."

"I forgot it in my room," Julián replied.

While most of us didn't own a football boot as others wear regular shoes or even insist barefooted, we find it very strange that Julian doesn't make use of the opportunity of wearing that is perfectly made for a grassy field.

"You didn't forget it. You just didn't wanna wear it." I pointed out from simple deduction.

"Of course I didn't. I'm saving it for something special, and I don't like that it's already worn out."

"What something special?" I asked, raising my eyebrows, and snickered. "You think you could play in one of those youth clubs?"

"Could you?" He questioned in tone of a taunt.

"What does that mean?" I questioned back, glaring at him.

"Well, duh, stupid, obviously we're talking about a boys youth club. Where you madam... can't enroll," Julián spat.

"Oh, shut up. I'm not stupid. You're stupid like your stupid face!" I bickered, knowing fully well that this will turn back and forth. I've already gotten used to this type of argument where all the time he had to bring up about me being a girl.

"Then you're weird like your weird little face!" he retorted back.

"Well, you're just stupid and weird at the same time!"

"Nuh-uh I don't, you're—"

"Enough, will you two shut up?!" The spontaneous mother and captain‐like of our group called Amarelio shouts from annoyance.

The mocking ceased, putting an end to the same exchange of foul words. Only then replaced with a scornful exchange of glances, shooting daggers at the corner of our eyes.

At times, we get absolutely on each other's nerves, but deep down, it is impossible for us to harbor any genuine hatred. We can't stand not getting along in the end. We're too much alike, similarly and differently like each other's puzzle piece. In fact, our longest we ever ignored each other had only a record of 4 days.