My favorite place in Guayaquil

se llama La Santería. There you will find everything you could hope for: three canchas de fútbol bien grandes, an attractive patio, enormous TV screens that broadcast the most popular sports channels (mundial—no te dudes), and a super ambient bar walled by islandy bamboo stalks fit for a tropical paradise dream and lit by those super trendy paper star lights.

My second favorite place in Guayaquil is an alley that borders the school half a block from my house, next to an eccentric residence whose menacing cement walls are adorned by such signs as “Inmobilia Civescia—Sociedad Anonima” and “Bonsai Store.” The path is not elegant or well tended, but it is long, seguro, and secluded from traffic (although cuidado at the ends of the block where it opens out into the street), and that is enough for me.

En La Santería there is glory—I play for the women’s world cup-esque tournament that the Fútbol Club organizes, pursuing with my orange-jerseyed teammates world domination (we have already taken, for example, Argentina 2-0). My modest alleyway knows nothing like that; it is host only to the amused chatter of the ice-cream truck men (except they are not actually trucks, but red bicycles) and maybe a few catcalling schoolboys. But I do not see them at all, my eyes glued to the ball as I run drills and pass al pared, as the seasonally inappropriate rain mixes with the sweat on my forehead.

Through el balón, this is how I am experiencing Ecuador.

And like any good plato de comida típica, my fútbol experience consists of diverse components para ser completa and quintessentially Ecuatoriana.

They told me later that when I had accepted their invitation to play, no one believed that I actually would. But, uncertain and inexperienced, there I stood on the field after that night’s rehearsal (mira, ves: an orchestra of musicians who love to play sports—this is my world) for the first of many Tuesday’s experiencing what would become the highlight of my week, each time surprising them with something I could not do the time before.

The Tuesday nights on the small field of the Sociedad Italiana Garibaldi, to which the chamber orchestra that I am conducting belongs, are all about defying the boys. Saturated with their—would I call them prejudices?—the beliefs de su cultura (but who isn't?), exemplified by their insistence in paying for me the first day despite my vigorous and indignant objections (since everyone has to pay to play on the field, but girls do not pay for things ever), los muchachos were tickled to find out that I was not afraid to kick or be kicked, to fight them for the ball, to fall, making sure, as I was instructed, nunca caer sólo. And the first time that I jumped to block a goal kick with my chest, the shouts of ‘Que bestia!’ (my new favorite frase), resounded throughout the land.

The girl's tournament is casi el opuesto. Their game is characterized by the fuerza and confident security that comes of knowing they have nothing to prove, and the transformation from attractive, professional receptionist, carefully made-up, clothed gracefully in a flowing blouse with neatly arranged hair and high high-heels, to an athlete that can truly ¡Bótala! is mindblowing, jawdropping—inspirational, to say the least. The girls play smart, they play hard, and they do not preocupar that you are a delicate woman: when the crowd shouts ‘Pégala!’ they are not afraid to do so. Playing with them is much more intimidating than playing with the boys, and I would be lying to say that I was not relieved to be a benchwarmer (sin bench) for the first game. After two of our players got red/double yellow-carded, however, notwithstanding my defensively-oriented protestations, I was ordered to play midfield, where I tried my best to interpret and execute everything that Ana yelled to me from the sidelines, never dejando running and doing my best to channel all that is Kaká. Ana’s assurances “estás perfecto,” as much as I doubted their veracity, meant more to me than most things could.

The alley is a place of allure and mystery, where, always unsure of how seriously to take my friends’ cautions about not walking the streets, I am not sure if I am as safe as on the Davis greenbelt or at risk of getting assaulted at any moment. Lined by a cement barricade, from doors in which people sometimes enigmatically come and go, it is both comfortingly secure and menacingly aloof. And, of course, there is nothing like losing the ball over the roof (Sandlot, anyone?), pressing el timbre, and explaining to the household staff that your ball está en el pecho—I mean, techo (look it up)—and asking would they please see if they could find it for you, to make you feel like part of a community.

But the real magic happens late at night, atrás, sóla, dancing with the ball on the typically Latin-American patio, under a sole light bulb that can only touch a tiny piece of the dark, velvety sky, caressed by a gentle breeze in the soft, lightly humid, dulcemente warm and refreshing Ecuadorian climate, que huele a la perfuma nocturna del Caballero de la noche (jazmín)— this is fútbol, this is Sudamérica, this is how you fall in love.