What it means to play soccer as a woman in Argentina... Straight from the horse's mouth

Well, after a year and a half (a little more if we’re going to get all legalistic about it) of talking so much about myself, about my life, about my knee, about my rehab, about my musings and meditations, I’m tired of hearing about me, and I imagine you are thinking the same thing. So, today I’m blogging a little differently, I’m going to let some other voices speak, let them tell about what they see and what they live. If you’ve read past posts of mine, you most likely already know what I opine in regards to women’s soccer in Argentina, if not, I’ll provide a quick recap of my thoughts and observations.

Women’s soccer is a sport which is surprisingly underappreciated in a country where the men who play professionally receive so much recognition through wealth and fame. As children, in physical education classes, in recess, and even in their own backyards, the boys are always given a soccer ball and the girls... a doll. A girl who plays soccer is a rarity, an odd specimen among Argentine women. Often, when people find out you, as a “nice young lady,” play soccer, they are left momentarily speechless and stare at you with a look of surprise and astonishment, which takes a little while to fade.

 “But it’s such a violent sport!” they protest.

 “Aren’t you too feminine to be a soccer player?” they ask.

“I would never allow my daughter to play soccer. No, she’ll play a much more elegant and less manly sport, like field hockey,” they declare, as though you had asked for their opinion and as though field hockey were somehow non-violent when essentially it’s soccer played with wooden sticks and a solid plastic ball more than capable of breaking noses, to which my cousin can testify as a former victim of a field hockey ball.

During my short playing stint in Argentina, I’ve been able to observe how women’s soccer is a true counterculture. Despite cultural and social norms, players continue to fight against the current, not necessarily in search of recognition and acceptance but instead they fight for their own space where they can enjoy the sport they love and where more and more girls will also have the opportunity to participate in such an important aspect of Argentine culture.

photo courtesy of Guillermo Larroquete

A few days ago, it occurred to me that maybe I don’t know everything it means to be a woman playing soccer in Argentina (I know, crazy right? But even so, it did cross my mind...), and I began to ask myself... How can I better understand women’s soccer in Argentina and how can I transmit a clear and accurate representation of something which in many other countries just isn’t seen? That’s when I got the idea to consult the experts, the players themselves. Luckily, it wasn’t too hard to find my little guinea pigs, my (lovely) teammates at Club Atlético River Plate.

So, I asked them, “What does it mean to play soccer as a woman in Argentina?” I admit that my question was deceptively simple. Despite being composed of so few words, the answer required deeper reflection and consideration due to the ambiguity and open nature of the question, which left lots of room for interpretation. I like to think the underlying complexity of the question was what made some of my teammates take longer to respond, but I have a creeping suspicion that they were probably doing their best to ignore my inquiry as I have quite the reputation as the annoying girl who asks existential questions when all anyone really wants to talk about is what they ate for lunch.

photo courtesy of Guillermo Larroquete

Anyways, while I sit here sipping mate (see prior posts for an explanation of this highly-caffeinated traditional drink) trying to bring a piece of Argentina to Yanquilandia, the USA for those unaccustomed to the cultured Argentine vernacular,  I’ll share with you my translation of the varied responses, some longer than others but all incisive and perceptive, of my wise fellow “millonarias.” (Millonarios is the term used when referring to players or fans of River Plate due to the clubs original association with the Bourgeoisie of Buenos Aires. The nickname stuck throughout the years, however, despite its vast popularization and recent financial crises.)

Luana Muñoz (defender): Being a women’s soccer player in Argentina means giving a lot of effort, loving what we do, the word sacrifice stands out above everything else. Complete sacrifice, nobody gives you anything, on the contrary. Most of the time it’s fighting against the current, knowing that most likely nobody is going to recognize anything you do, but it doesn’t matter; pure perseverance, that’s what it’s about. Despite all the beatings (excessively) we face along the road, nobody nor nothing stops us, that’s the way it is here. We know we can grow, it’s purely and completely on us to do it, change starts from within.

Micaela Sandoval (forward): Playing women’s soccer in Argentina teaches you to fight for your dream, to overcome obstacles, and never to put your head down. I, as a women’s soccer player, have complete confidence that one day we will receive what we deserve. In women’s soccer, one can see the true love of the game, the passion for the ball, the exertion of pure heart, and the sacrifice down to the last breath. Honestly, I feel proud to play soccer and even more so to play in my country, Argentina.

Ludmila Manicler (forward): Love of the art. Sacrifice and, for many, leaving a ton of things behind. And even though it’s amateur, we play it like professionals.

Ayelen Lagos (forward): Love, sacrifice, happiness, and responsibility... giving everything for soccer and to be professionals, not for the money but to be faithful to this love.

Carolina Morcillo (defender): Women’s soccer in Argentina is breaking “assumptions that women can’t do things.” It’s sacrifice and passion.

Florencia Ferrero (forward): Playing soccer in Argentina is all sacrifice, it’s setting a ton of things aside. It’s giving so many other things away just because we love what we do. For us, it’s simply a passion. We don’t do it for money or for any other economic motive. We love what we do.

Mariana Larroquette (forward/midfielder): Sacrifice, the thrill of trying to achieve objectives in the few years we have to play since we aren’t professionals.

Florencia Salazar (defender): Well, for me, playing soccer in Argentina is beautiful and even more so at the club where I am, but it comes with its difficulties! Even though here they don’t see it like they do in other countries, one can tell that it’s growing! And that is thanks to the sacrifice and effort of the players and the coaching staff because they take it seriously! And they leave behind many things to be able to train and grow! I believe the true soccer can be seen in women, where there are no business interests! There is no money to get in the way because the women play with heart, leaving everything on the field, defending the club’s crest, and enjoying it, which is the best part!

Mercedes Pereyra (midfielder): And for me, I don’t know what it means, if I do it it’s because I love soccer and because I know I make my parents proud.

Karen Spiazzi (defender/midfielder): Women’s soccer in Argentina is completely amateur, which the girls do for the love of the game, dedicating their time, leaving many things behind, even leaving their families in many cases because they travel from the interior of the country to the capital to achieve their dream. It’s a big sacrifice, but it fills your soul.

Vicky Pinat (midfielder): For me, it’s playing for the love of art, it’s a passion in every way because it is played without receiving anything in return other than satisfaction and enjoyment; it’s really about what it’s worth to play the game, not for money but for what it makes you feel. It’s playing with heart.

Anonymous: Soccer is the reason why I sacrifice daily to improve as a player and as a person even though we have to leave many things behind despite it being an amateur sport.

Carla Brown (the best position combination... goalkeeper/forward): Sacrifice, passion, and exertion.

Eliana Figueroa (defender/midfielder): Being a women’s soccer player is part of a passion and at the same time a beautiful game I love to play with a team, where one participates in great experiences. One learns to wait, to overcome oneself, to be consistent, to persevere, to have good habits among other good things. Women’s soccer in Argentina is about personal sacrifice and the resulting benefits, which sometimes come in the form of a great game or the opportunity to play at another club, but always knowing that it’s from the heart, that we can’t live off of it but even so, day by day we go to sleep and wake up thinking about soccer. We enjoy it a lot, that’s what it’s all about.

photo courtesy of Guillermo Larroquete

Según ellas... lo que significa ser mujer y jugar al fútbol en Argentina

Bueno, después de un año y medio (o un poco más si vamos a ser bien preciso) de hablar tanto de mí, de mi vida, de mi rodilla, de mi rehabilitación, de mis meditaciones, ya me cansé, y me imagino que ustedes estarán pensando lo mismo. Entonces, hoy voy a escribir de otra manera, voy a dejar que hablen otras voces, que cuenten lo que ven y lo que viven. Si han leído otras publicaciones mías, ya sabrán lo que opino yo sobre el fútbol femenino en Argentina, si no, les doy un resumen breve de mis pensamientos y observaciones.

El fútbol femenino es un deporte poco apreciado en un país donde los hombres que practican profesionalmente el mismo deporte reciben reconocimientos en forma de plata y de fama. Cuando son jóvenes, en las clases de educación física, en los jardines infantiles y hasta en las mismas casas, a los nenes les dan una bocha (traducción del argentino: pelota de fútbol) y a las nenas, una muñeca. Una chica que juega a la pelota es una curiosidad, un espécimen raro de mujer argentina. Muchas veces te miran con una cara de sorpresa y estupefacción cuando se enteran que sos jugadora.

"¡Pero es un deporte demasiado violento!" protestan.
"¿No sos demasiado femenina para ser jugadora de fútbol?" preguntan.
"Yo jamás dejaría que mi hija juegue a al fútbol. No, ella jugará un deporte mucho más elegante y menos masculino, el hockey" declaran, como si les hubieras pedido su opinión y como si el hockey fuera pacífico cuando es básicamente el fútbol jugado con palos de madera y una pelota capaz de romper narices, como lo podría validar mi prima, una ex-víctima de la pelota de hockey.

En mi poco tiempo de jugadora en la Argentina, he podido ver que el fútbol femenino es una verdadera contracultura. A pesar de las normas sociales y culturales, las jugadoras siguen luchando, no necesariamente en búsqueda de reconocimiento o de aceptación sino que luchan por un espacio propio donde pueden disfrutar del deporte que aman y donde cada vez más chicas puedan también "ganar, golear y gustar".

De Guillermo Larroquette (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Producciones-Fotograficas-Guillermo-Larroquette/594416983980730) 

Hace unos días, se me ocurrió que capaz no sé todo lo que implica ser jugadora de fútbol en Argentina—reconozco que es un pensamiento medio loco, pero igual me pasó por la cabeza—, y empecé a reflexionar... ¿Cómo podría no solo entender mejor el fútbol femenino argentino sino también trasmitir una representación clara y justa de algo que en muchos otros países ya no se vive? Me surgió la idea de consultar a los expertos, o, mejor dicho, a las expertas, las mismas jugadoras. Por suerte, no me costó mucho encontrar mis propias ratitas de laboratorio, mis (hermosas) compañeras de River Plate.

De Guillermo Larroquette (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Producciones-Fotograficas-Guillermo-Larroquette/594416983980730) 

Entonces, les pregunté ¿qué significa para vos ser jugadora de fútbol en Argentina? Admito que es una pregunta engañosamente simple. A pesar de ser compuesta de pocas palabras, la cuestión requiere una reflexión más profunda debido a su ambigüedad y su carácter abierto que deja mucho lugar para la interpretación, por lo cual algunas tardaron más en responderme que otras (prefiero pensar eso y no que me estaban ignorando, ya que tengo fama de ser medio pesada y de hacer preguntas existenciales cuando todo el mundo prefiere hablar de lo que se comió al mediodía).  

Así que mientras trato de traer un poco de Argentina a Yanquilandia, o los Estados Unidos para los que no están acostumbrados al lenguaje culto argentino, a través de unos mates con galletitas, comparto con ustedes las respuestas variadas, algunas más largas que otras pero todas perspicaces, de mis sabias compañeras millonarias:

Luana Muñoz (defensora): Ser jugadora de fútbol en Argentina implica mucho esfuerzo, significa amar lo que hacemos, resaltando la palabra sacrificio por sobre todas las cosas. Esfuerzo al máximo, nadie te regala nada, al contrario. La mayoría del tiempo es luchar contra la corriente sabiendo que lo más probable es que nadie te reconozca nada, no importa, perseverancia pura, de eso se trata. A pesar de todos los palos (en exceso) que se cruzan en el camino nadie ni nada nos para, así es acá. Sabemos que podemos crecer, está en nosotras pura y exclusivamente hacerlo, el cambio empieza desde adentro.

Micaela Sandoval (delantera): Ser jugadora de fútbol en Argentina te enseña a luchar por tu sueño, a superar obstáculos y a nunca bajar los brazos. Yo como jugadora argentina, tengo la fe intacta, de que algún día vamos a recibir lo que nos merecemos. En la jugadora argentina se puede ver el verdadero amor por el fútbol, la pasión por la pelota, el esfuerzo de puro corazón y el sacrificio a pulmón que hacemos cada una de nosotras. La verdad que me siento orgullosa de jugar al fútbol y más en mi país: Argentina.

Ludmila Manicler (delantera): Amor al arte. Sacrificio y dejar de lado un montón de cosas para muchas. Y aunque sea amateur lo jugamos como profesionales.

Ayelen Lagos (delantera): Amor, sacrificio, felicidad y responsabilidad... dejar todo por el fútbol y ser profesionales, no por el dinero sino por ser fieles a este amor.

Carolina Morcillo (defensora): El fútbol femenino en Argentina es romper con 'supuestos de que las mujeres no pueden hacer las cosas'. Es sacrificio y pasión.

Florencia Ferrero (delantera): Ser jugadora en argentina es todo sacrificio, dejar de lado muchas cosas. Es relegar tantas otras por el simple hecho de amar lo que hacemos. Para nosotras es simplemente una pasion. No lo hacemos ni por plata ni por nada económico. Amamos lo que hacemos.

Mariana Larroquette (delantera/volante): Sacrificio, y mucha ilusión por tratar de cumplir objetivos en los pocos años de carrera que se puede tener al no ser profesional.

Florencia Salazar (defensora): Bueno, para mí, ser jugadora de fútbol en Argentina es hermoso y más en el club que estoy, pero tiene sus dificultades! Aunque acá no lo vean como en otros países, se puede ver que está creciendo! Y eso es gracias a sacrificios y esfuerzos de las jugadoras y cuerpo técnico porque se lo toman con seriedad! Y dejan muchas cosas de lado para entrenar y crecer! Yo creo que el verdadero fútbol se lo puede ver en las mujeres, donde no hay negocios! No hay plata de por medio porque lo juegan con el corazón dejando todo en la cancha defiendo su camiseta y disfrutándolo, que es lo más lindo!

Mercedes Pereyra (volante): Y para mí, qué significa no sé, si lo hago es porque amo el fútbol y porque sé que para mis viejos, soy un orgullo.

Karen Spiazzi (defensora/volante): El fútbol en la Argentina es algo totalmente amateur, que las chicas lo hacen por amor al deporte, dedicando su tiempo, dejando muchas cosas de lado, hasta su familia en muchas ocasiones, puesto que viajan desde el interior del país para cumplir un sueño. Es un sacrificio muy grande, pero que te llena el alma.

Vicky Pinat (volante): Para mí, es jugar por amor al arte, es una pasión con todas las letras porque se practica sin recibir nada a cambio mas que satisfacción y diversion, es realmente por lo que vale la pena jugar al fútbol no por la plata, por lo que te hace sentir. Es jugar con el corazón.

Anónima: El fútbol es la razón por la cual me esfuerzo cada día para mejorar como jugadora y como persona; a pesar de que tengamos que dejar muchas cosas de lado y que sea un deporte amateur.

Carla Brown (la mejor combinación de posiciones... arquera/delantera): Sacrificio, pasión y esfuerzo.

Eliana Figueroa (defensora/volante): Ser jugadora de fútbol es parte de una pasión y a la vez un lindo deporte que me gusta practicar junto a un equipo, donde se vivencian lindas experiencias. Se aprende a esperar, a superarse, a ser constante, perseverante, tener buenos hábitos... entre otras lindas cosas. El fútbol femenino en la Argentina se trata de tu esfuerzo propio y recompensas, algunas llegan, que es un lindo partido, oportunidad de jugar en otro club, pero siempre sabiendo que es de corazón, de él no podemos vivir pero aún así día a día nos acostamos y levantamos pensando en el fútbol... lo disfrutamos mucho, solo de eso se trata.

De Guillermo Larroquette (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Producciones-Fotograficas-Guillermo-Larroquette/594416983980730) 

It's a post-op life for me... Two weeks out from ACL surgery (Week 1)

Slight preamble: in the next posts, I will be talking quite a bit about my recovery process from ACL surgery, but I will also try to reflect some about other aspects of life since, thank God, life does not revolve around our physical struggles.

As of two weeks ago, I can say I'm an official member of an elite club I never wished to join, the "Jock Joint Surgery Club", (yes I just made that up, which explains why the name's not particularly clever...).

Thankfully, week two has been nothing like week one... My friends who had been through the same operation and rehab warned me about the highs and the lows of the whole process. One moment you're flying high—not from the painkillers (an alternating combination of narcotics and ibuprofen)—and the next you hit rock bottom. I just hadn't expected to feel all those emotions during the first week of post-op.

Day 1, while I was conscious at least, I felt great, thankful to be out of surgery, thankful for a successful procedure, thankful for the amazing care I received from all the medical staff at the Texas Institute for Surgery. After returning from the hospital, I was still under the power of the anesthesia and spent most of the day sleeping. If it hadn't been for my mother waking me up every hour and a half or so to do the exercises which had been prescribed by the physical therapist at the clinic, I would have slept all day and probably all night.

Speaking of my parents, I cannot thank them enough for how they took care of me when I was unable to care for myself, bringing me food, water, and making sure I took my medications at the right times. They made sure I followed the doctor and the PT's instructions regarding the use of a couple interesting post-op machines, the ice-machine, which I had to use constantly, and the continuous passive motion (CPM) machine, which I had to have on for a total of 8 hours a day, though I had a love-hate relationship with each, but mainly love with the ice... My parents, however, didn't love the ice machine as much as I did since every four hours or so they had to change the ice in order to ensure that the water which flowed into my ice pack around my knee was cold enough to actually make a difference, which included waking up every night around 4 a.m. not only to add more ice but also to release me from the CPM machine and give me more meds. (Needless to say, both my parents and I were thrilled to return the machines to the clinic once the first week of post-op was over).

Day 2 and day 3 I was slightly more active. Though I still spent most of the day in bed with my leg elevated, I was able to do more exercises and also could notice progress in my quadricep strength, extension, and flexion—granted, I followed the PT's instructions "to a T" and tried to do as many sessions of my exercises as possible throughout the day, which included straight leg raises (SLRs, quad tightening to improve extension and activate my quadricep muscles, ankle pumps for increasing blood flow through my lower extremities to prevent clotting, and heel slides to work on flexion).

I was very blessed to have had very little post-op pain, only during the afternoon on day 2 did the pain become more than a dull throb and only lasted about a half hour. The downside to the pain management medications was the constant fight with grogginess and the desire to sleep in the moments I was not doing my exercises. That tendency to doze off was highly frustrating as I'm not a huge fan of napping and had been hoping to use the down-time in order to catch up on some reading. Let's just say that in the first 3 days post op I only made it 20 pages in to Tolstoi's War and Peace, which, if I hope to finish the great novel before I reach middle age, is not a reasonable pace. (I'm happy to report that after last week my reading speed increased significantly and am now about 300 pages through Tolstoi's masterpiece, though I'm still struggling to keep all the princesses, princes, captains, counts, countesses, and other characters straight...)

My first post-op week would not have been complete without a few mental breakdowns, which should be interpreted as depression accompanied by a river, or maybe more like a stream, of tears. After being so accustomed to independence and high activity levels, spending a week in bed completely reliant upon one's parents does not come without its frustrations. Walking around on crutches, verrryyyy slowlyyyy, transitioning to try to learn to walk normally again, the occasional twinge of extreme pain as one tries to move too quickly. At one point, I thought I had pulled my hamstring when I almost tripped on a chair, had to catch myself with my bad leg, and felt a nice little pop in the back side of my thigh. Looking back, it was probably more like the feeling the doctor had warned me about before surgery regarding a sharp pain in the hamstring which is nothing to be worried about as it is mainly the muscles trying to heal themselves around some of the post-op scarring, or something to that effect (since they used a hamstring graft).

My lowest moment actually came on the stationary bike around day 7, which, looking back, actually seems quite overdramatic and slightly comical. The frustration all started when I was trying to get on the bike, attempting to get the foot of my operating leg into the strap on the pedal, unable to control and bend my leg. Once I somehow managed to accommodate my foot, I began to try to pedal and was incapable of doing a complete revolution, something I never imagined I would go through. As I sat there, rocking the pedals back and forth, back and forth, reaching one extreme point of flexion and going back to the other, I began to cry, cursing everything that had happened, questioning why I had to get injured, why I had to be so far from my boyfriend for so long, why the dumb rehab process had to be so long... Luckily, no one walked in during my breakdown, and I was able to recover slightly before running into any family members (I say running figuratively, obviously, as I will not be allowed to run until 3 months after surgery). I am happy to report first that my feelings of uselessness and frustration have subsided since that moment and second that as of day 12, I have been able to do complete revolutions on the bike, both forwards and backwards.

I won't bore you with the details of the rest of week 1 as each day was fairly similar to the one preceding it, with only slight increases in activity and improvements in my knee's mobility. Week 2 was much better as I had my first follow-up with the doctor, who was very pleased with my progress as far as my extension and flexion were concerned (according to the PT, week 1 is essential for regaining complete extension, more important even than flexion which can be improved later on, but if the patient does not achieve complete extension in this period, it is very likely he will never be able to completely straighten his knee again and may even require a second surgery) and had my first two in-clinic physical therapy sessions.

Since this post is quickly becoming very long, I will leave details regarding week 2 for another post and end with some photos... Also, if you've been through ACL surgery and rehab, I'd love to hear about your experiences...

Right outside the clinic, not-so-bright but very early, I was the first patient of the day at 5:45 a.m.

Waiting to be anesthetized even though I'm so tired I already look drugged...

Post-op chillin' with the CPM and ice-machines

Not sure if I knew where I was when this photo was taken...

Hanging out with my buddy Charlie after surgery

Working on flexion with heel slides on day 3 (happy to report that I am already past 90 degrees)

CPMing, Mate-ing, and trying to read War and Peace

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IMAGES ARE SLIGHTLY GRAPHIC...

Changing my dressing for the first time after surgery, since then all the stitches have been removed, except the ones from the longer incision which will dissolve eventually. (got some nice swelling going on there...)

Day 5 post-op, even more swollen and got some nice bruising going on in the shin area.

"Mi Buenos Aires Querido" (versión en español)

A veces la página en blanco te da miedo. Se queda ahí, mirándote fijamente, desafiándote a llenarla con tus palabras y tus pensamientos, pero no te viene nada. Capaz en esta edad de computadoras y smartphones y tablets la página en blanco se ha hecho más fuerte, más brillante, más poderosa, o capaz estoy sufriendo de un caso de bloqueo de escritor y estoy tratando de encontrar algo concreto a lo cual echar culpa. No es que no tenga nada en mi mente, al contrario, no paro de pensar, de repensar, de reflexionar, de imaginar, de meditar, de filosofar (bueno, por ahí sería mucho decir que realmente filosofo...) sobre la vida, el amor, la familia, los amigos, el trabajo (o el no tener trabajo), el fútbol, la salud, mi cirugía, la soledad, el propósito, la falta de propósito, la riqueza, la pobreza, la alegría, la tristeza, pero mi problema es: ¿cómo hago para expresarlo todo con la palabra escrita? ¿O debería aún escribirlo?

Escribir me da miedo. La mejor escritura abre la puerta del alma de una persona, pero no es fácil dejarse tan expuesto. ¿Qué pasa si la gente te rechaza? ¿Qué pasa si lo mejor de vos no alcanza? ¿Qué pasa si tus luchas personales son insignificantes y patéticas y tus sentimientos son impotentes y superficiales? ¿Qué pasa si tus preocupaciones más profundas son tontas e irracionales? ¿Qué pasa si todo este asunto de hacerte adulto no es para nada como lo habías imaginado y a los 24 años te encontrás de nuevo viviendo en la casa de tus padres? ¿Qué pasa si tenés un dolor constante, sofocante que empieza en tu pecho y sube hasta tu garganta cuando pensás en tu amor, tu mejor amigo, que está a miles de kilómetros porque sabés que no lo vas a ver durante más de dos meses y a pesar de las nuevas tecnologías asombrosas que te dejan comunicar virtualmente, no es lo mismo?

Todavía no respondí a mi problema inicial: ¿Cómo hace uno para escribir sobre estos temas? Por lo menos lo intentaré:

Estoy de nuevo en los EEUU, en Dallas, Texas si vamos a ser precisos, sufriendo de un shock cultural, un poco de depresión y de un calor de más de 38 grados todo al mismo tiempo. Mi familia y yo, asimismo con el cuerpo técnico y médico de River Plate Fútbol Femenino, estuvimos de acuerdo que volver a EEUU para mi operación del ligamento cruzado anterior y la primera parte de mi rehabilitación de 6 meses sería lo mejor para mí. Honestamente, no fue fácil convencerme de dejar Buenos Aires, tenía toda la confianza en los médicos del club que me iban a operar ya que son los mismos que han operado a muchos jugadores de primera, y no sólo a los de River. La logística postoperatoria, sin embargo, fue lo que me empujó decididamente hacia volver al país de los yanquis para la cirugía.

Durante el mes y medio entre mi lesión y mi viaje a los EEUU, tiempo que pasé luchando contra la atrofia muscular en mi pierna lesionada y trabajando para recuperar la movilidad completa en mi rodilla, intentando ir y volver de kinesiología sin auto fue bastante complicado. Le médica de fútbol femenino en River, además de mi mamá paranoica (y amorosa), me prohibieron usar transporte público ya que una rodilla inestable más colectiveros locos hacen una combinación peligrosa y tendría el riesgo de lesionarme aún más. Entonces, tuve que depender de amigos con autos que, por razones obvias, no siempre me podían llevar y traer a kinesiología en el club, que queda en la otra punta de la ciudad de donde vivo yo en Buenos Aires, y en esos momentos tuve que gastar como 25 veces más en taxi que lo que hubiera gastado en colectivo.

Y voilá, acá estoy nuevamente en Texas, pero esta vez no por mi propia voluntad. A pesar de que estoy agradecida por la oportunidad de pasar más tiempo con mi familia y de ver a amigos que no veo desde hace más que un año y medio en algunos casos, es imposible no extrañar a Buenos Aires en toda su locura gloriosa. Es como si hubiera sido arrancada de la tierra y plantada en un universo paralelo, pero mis raíces fueron dejadas atrás; mi cuerpo está en Dallas, pero mi corazón y mis pensamientos se quedaron en Argentina con mi equipo, mis estudios, y mi Cris.

El martes a la mañana me reuní con el traumatólogo que me va a operar. Un hombre alto y grandote con años y años de experiencia y cientos de cirugías de rodilla en su haber, me aseguró que todo iba a salir bien y que saldría como nueva—con la estipulación de que siga exactamente y fielmente sus instrucciones a lo largo de mi recuperación. Después de explicarme los detalles de la operación, que tipo de injerto recomendaba para el reemplazo del ligamento (para los que están interesados, usará un tejido semi-tendinoso del músculo izquiotibial), como será la rehabilitación durante los próximos 6 meses, y otra información que ya olvidé al otro día, la enfermera entró y, durante lo que me pareció como sólo 5 minutos, me dio un millón de instrucciones sobre lo que tendría que hacer inmediatamente antes de la operación y en las semanas siguientes. Traté de prestar atención, pero sentí que mi mente se iba deambulando y me encontré preguntando por qué tenía que pasar por esto. ¿Por qué la pelota en esa jugada no habrá pasado por arriba del travesaño ? Si hubiera sabido que iba a ocurrir todo esto, capaz debería simplemente haber dejado entrar la pelota al arco. Pero no puedo volver al pasado—aunque quizás lo deseara.

Algo que he estado repitiendo a mi misma y a los otros que tratan de expresar su simpatía por mi lesión (pero principalmente para mi misma) es "todo pasa por un motivo" aunque no creo que entienda todavía cuál es la razón en este momento.

La operación fue programada para el lunes, y estoy ansiosa por comenzar el proceso de mi rehabilitación para poder estar nuevamente en la cancha, haciendo lo que amo.

Este fin de semana, sin embargo, mi mente no estará pensando en mi cirugía sino en mi equipo ya que nos tenemos que enfrentar con nuestro rival, Boca Jrs., en el Superclásico del fútbol femenino. Este año está todo en juego, con 2 ex-jugadoras de River (que no se fueron de forma muy amistosa) entre las titulares de Boca y el campeonato que se debe ganar. Ojalá pudiera estar ahí para verlo en persona, aún más ojalá pudiera jugar en el partido (es el segundo Superclásico que pierdo por culpa de una lesión), pero me tendré que conformar con alentar desde lejos—y a través de Whatsapp.

 Dale River Carajooooo!!!!

"Mi Buenos Aires Querido", homesick in Dallas

Sometimes the blank page is scary. It sits there staring back at you, challenging you to fill it with your words and thoughts, but nothing comes. Maybe in this age of computers and smartphones and tablets the blank page has gotten stronger, brighter, more powerful, or maybe I'm just suffering from a mild case of writers' block and am trying to find something concrete to blame. It's not that I have nothing on my mind, quite to the contrary, I can't stop thinking, reflecting, brewing, stewing, pondering, wondering, thundering (wait, that doesn't quite work...) about life, love, family, friends, jobs, soccer, health, surgery, loneliness, purpose, lack of purpose, wealth, poverty, joy, sadness, but my problem is how the heck do I write it all down? Or should I even write it down?

Writing is scary. The best writing opens the door to one's very soul, but it's not easy leaving one's self so exposed. What if people reject you? What if your best isn't good enough? What if your struggles are insignificant and pathetic and your feelings impotent and shallow? What if your deepest worries are foolish and irrational? What if this whole becoming-an-adult thing is not at all as you had imagined it and at 24 years old you find yourself once again living with your parents? What if you have a constant, suffocating pain which starts in your chest and goes up to your throat when you think about your love, your best friend, who is thousands of miles away because you know you won't see him for more than two months and despite the amazing new technologies which allow you to communicate virtually, it's not the same?

I still haven't answered my initial problem: how does one write about such things? I'm at least going to try:

I'm back in the US, in Dallas, Texas to be more precise, and suffering from culture shock, slight depression, and 100 degree heat all at once. My family and I, along with the coaching and medical staff of River Plate women's soccer, all agreed that returning to the US for ACL surgery and the initial part of the 6-month rehab process would be best for me. Honestly, it took quite a bit of convincing to get me to agree to leave Buenos Aires, I had complete confidence in the club doctors who would have operated on me as they are the same ones who have performed the same surgery numerous times on first division and youth Argentine professional players. The post-op logistics, however, were what pushed me decisively toward heading back stateside for surgery.

In the month and a half between my injury and my trip to the US, time which was spent fighting against muscle atrophy in my injured leg and working to regain complete mobility in my knee, trying to get to and from rehab without a car was complicated. The team doctor, as well as my own mother, forbade me to take public transport, as an unstable knee and crazy bus drivers make for a bad combination and would put me at risk for further injury. I was forced to depend upon friends with cars who, for obvious reasons, were not always available to take me to and from physical therapy at the club, which is on the other side of the city from where I live in Buenos Aires, and in those cases I had to spend about 25 times the bus fare for the same trip to take a taxi.

Et voilà, here I am, in Texas once again, but this time not voluntarily. Although I'm thankful to be able to spend more time with my family and to see close friends after more than a year in some cases, it's impossible not to miss Buenos Aires in all its hectic glory. It's as though I have been torn out of the ground and planted in a parallel universe, but my roots were left behind; my body is in Dallas, but my heart and thoughts remain in Argentina with my team, my school, and my Cris.

Yesterday morning I met with the orthopedic surgeon who will operate on me. A tall, heavyset man with years and years of experience and hundreds of knee surgeries under his belt, he assured me I would be fine and come out of this as good as new—with the stipulation that I faithfully follow his instructions throughout my recovery. After he explained the details of the procedure, which kind of graft he recommended for the ligament replacement (for those interested he will be using a hamstring graft), what the recovery will look like over the course of 6 months, and other information I've already forgotten just a day later, the nurse came in and in what seemed like only 5 minutes gave me a million instructions of what I would need to do immediately before the procedure and in the weeks following. I tried to pay attention, but I felt my mind wandering and wondering why I had to go through all this in the first place. Why couldn't I just have tipped the ball all the way over the crossbar? Had I known that this was going to happen, maybe I should have just let it in. But I can't go back in time—though I wish I could.

Something I've been repeating to myself and to others who express their sympathy for my injury (but mainly for myself) is "everything happens for a reason" though I'm not sure yet what the reason is right now.

The surgery has been set for Monday, and I'm anxious to start the rehab process to get closer to being able to do what I love once again.

This weekend, though, my mind will not be on my surgery but on my team as we have to face our biggest rival, Boca Jrs., in the Superclásico of women's soccer. This year the stakes are as high as ever, with 2 former River players (who didn't leave on particularly friendly terms) featured in Boca's starting line-up and the league championship on the line. I wish I could be there to watch in person, even more so I wish I could be playing (this is the second Superclásico I'll miss due to injury), but I'll have to settle for cheering from a distance and through Whatsapp.

Dale River Carajoooooooo!!!!

Brasil decime qué se siente... Argentina returns to the World Cup final

The streets are silent. Not even the occasional bus speeding past the apartment interrupts the vacuum of sound. The only cars on the street have been parked long before in anticipation. It feels like Sunday afternoon at the end of a holiday weekend, except it's Wednesday evening. For almost 3 solid hours, the silence would persist, only once was a half-hearted shout for goal heard which was subsequently quenched by an offsides whistle. The entire nation's attention was held captive, mostly by choice, by Argentina taking on the Netherlands in the World Cup semi-final in the neighboring country of Brazil (the term "neighbor" is not to be mistaken for friend, however, which, if ever in doubt, was clearly evidenced by the 7 shouts for goal which echoed throughout Buenos Aires during Brazil's own semi-final match, or rather fiasco, against European-powerhouse Germany).

For 3 hours, international conflicts, financial instability (25% inflation and falling national reserves), unreasonably high crime rates, family issues, health problems (ACL tears and upcoming surgeries...), opposing ideologies, any non-fútbol related concerns were put on hold, which is not to say there were no arguments or shouts of frustration or joy during the game, as in any major sporting event, it was quite to the contrary...

"Sabella! What the heck are you doing? You're seriously making a double substitution right now? And you're taking off the two guys who were just involved in our only goal scoring opportunity in the last 20 minutes? He actually wants us to lose. Oh, and now you're putting on a guy who's in the twilight years of his career? Great, just great..."

"Calm down, the guy knows what he's doing. He's the national team coach for a reason, isn't he?"

"Of course he's there for a reason. The same reason anybody gets to be anywhere in AFA. He's friends with the rest of the football mafia-types."

"Just shut up and enjoy the game! We can still win this! Even though the Dutch are looking a bit more dangerous than us right now..."

"Penalties? Are you kidding me? My heart can't handle this anymore!" (Which was true for the 2 Argentine men who died from cardiac arrest while watching the match)

Some prayed quietly to themselves, some crossed themselves incessantly, others turned the other direction or covered their eyes while peeking through their fingers, but everybody went silent as the first Dutch player stepped forward to take the first kick. All of a sudden even the Argentine goalkeeper's (Sergio "Chiquito" Romero) harshest critics went silent and began to cheer him on in their hearts then out loud and uncontrollably after he made the brilliant save on the Dutch center-back's poorly taken penalty attempt. Screams and shouts of joy echoed against the walls of the apartment buildings lining the streets of Buenos Aires, but as Argentina's star, hope, "Messi"as, walked from half-field to the penalty spot, silence once again reigned supreme and each person resumed what they had been doing before the first kick. Despite the Dutch Ken-doll goalkeeper's attempts to intimidate little Lio, he took his penalty decisively, sending the young blond diving in the wrong direction. The celebrations resumed where they had left off after Romero's save until the next Dutch player prepared to take his shot, and so forth until Argentina's Maxi Rodriguez scored Argentina's fourth and decisive penalty sending the "Albiceleste" to the World Cup finals for the first time in 24 years, since Maradona had led the team to the ultimate stage in Italy only to lose to the same rival this 2014 team will have to overcome on Sunday.

I'm getting ahead of myself though, nobody in Argentina was even thinking about Sunday's final on Wednesday night. As the rest of the Argentine team sprinted toward Romero and Maxi Rodriguez to celebrate the win, all of Buenos Aires headed to its windows and balconies to do the same, singing and yelling and cheering. Within minutes the streets began to repopulate as cars and pedestrians alike made their way toward different meeting points in the city, the Plaza de la República, the Plaza de Mayo, and other important intersections. In a chorus of honking horns and hoarsely screamed songs, the country joined together in celebration. My parents, my sister, and I couldn't help but join in. We sang along as well as we could, making up the parts of the songs we didn't know and screaming along with the parts we did know, which as the night went along became more extensive. Flags and jerseys waved and swirled overhead, arms flailed, guys and girls alike ran arm in arm (some even skipped along) while cheering and singing, it was the closest I've even been to witnessing so much joy together. All the main avenues of the city were blocked off to automobile traffic and were turned into pedestrian walkways. For the first time ever, the chaos of cars and people didn't lead to cursing and fighting. When pedestrians would cut in front of slowly moving cars, instead of being insulted and threatened as would happen in normal circumstances, the drivers would respond by honking the horn in tune with whatever song the crowd was singing at the time, and the passengers would join in with the cheers while hanging out of the windows and out of the sunroof. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen.

We finally made our way along with the crowd to the Obelisco where already thousands of people had gathered. We stayed for a little while to enjoy the celebrations, but after a little while decided to head back home before things got too rowdy (my injured knee would have made it difficult to run in case a fight or another sort of disturbance were to break out...). As we walked back, the crowds kept coming, an eternal parade of bliss made up babies in strollers, children on shoulders, teens and young adults, middle-aged men and women, and even elderly folks from all different social backgrounds joined together, if just for a couple hours, to relish in the excitement of Argentina's return to the World Cup finals.

(In an upcoming post I'll talk a little bit about why the World Cup and soccer can inspire such a celebration in Argentina)