And We'll Walk from This Dark Room
by teafic
Cristiane carries her family in her wallet, little cut-out stickers of smiling faces that travel with her from São Paulo. She talks about them to journalists and FIFA's PR hacks as a nineteen year-old in Athens, full of wonder and delight.
She is the top female scorer in the Athens Olympics, and Brazil loses to the United States in the final. Cristiane is disappointed, but she isn't yet angry. She is young and hungry for success, burning with life, and the future seems endless.
Marta is quiet, and her eyes are brittle when she touches the silver medal, over and over, but she smiles as she carries their nation's flag. She is younger, even, and about to be called everything from the best female footballer to have ever lived to Pelés kusin -- Pelé's cousin.
They don't yet know this, only each other as footballers; enough to know that one day, they will need only instinct to understand the other.
Once upon a time, she was a gymnast. There are no regrets in change.
Today, she holds the runner-up medal for the Women's World Cup, and she is angry. Her teammates are arrayed around her in the hotel room, looking over Daniela's shoulders at a laptop borrowed from the coaching staff. Daniela types the letter as would a queen imposing her will onto an obdurate subject, and occasionally someone would reach around her to change entire phrases in uppercase to lowercase.
"They will say we are only greedy for money."
Cristiane brings her hand down, slamming it against her thigh. "Why shouldn't we? I'm not waiting for my grandchildren to collect what I'm owed."
"The federation is full of politicians who care only if we shame them," says Marta, unexpectedly. Her eyes are still slightly red and puffy, and her nails score the burnished wood of the dresser. "They're probably thinking: it's just a sign the girls carried, it's nothing, the girls won't do anything more."
Promises are bitter when seasoned with experience: three tournaments, two late payments, a budget cut that made the younger girls' faces grow thin with worry, and nothing for the better. Cristiane leans over and types: "PRECISAMOS DE APOIO."
We need support.
Late into the night, the letter sent off in a fax to the CBF, they sit out to watch the lights of Shanghai flicker like jewels strung across a woman's velvet dress. Simone and Kátia, newly united as teammates in Lyon, speak in an excited undertone about wresting the Championnat from Juvisy's hands. Everyone argues about how their favourite clubs will rise or fall next season and what they will eat at home, and what they will do if the letter makes a difference.
Cristiane wants to go home, at least for a while.
One by one, their teammates doze off, or make their excuses to leave. Marta and Cristiane lean against each other, fighting sleep, so close that Marta's lashes flutter against Cristiane's cheek.
"I'll go to bed if you sleep first," Marta says, finally.
Cristiane snorts. "You're such a bad loser."
She could never have been content with anything else.
Marta is a lightning flourish of skill where Cristiane is a show of imposing strength, or so the story goes. They both know that neat divisions of labour are generalities fostered by media clichés, and they trust in their knowledge of themselves. She has neither Cristiane's height nor raw power, but there is more to valor than the physical: Marta will never bend to fate, or allow herself to accept defeat with a shrug and a smile.
She will do anything to win.
Sweden is a long way from Brazil, yet after four years the cold and the language feel like a second home. There, Ramona looks to her on the field the way she remembers watching Rivaldo, and Marta has an estimated annual marketing value of US8 million for Umeå. Marta knows better than to treat money as if it is obscene, and knows she earns less than a man in her position.
Elaine, who arrives in Umeå a year after Roland Arnqvist convinces Marta to sign, brings her out dancing. They talk about missing their mothers as they wind their way back, and Elaine's bangles jingle to Marta's gestures. In Shanghai, Elaine makes the most suggestions for their letter, and runs her eye over the words for the certainty of their perfection.
In Bahia, not so many years ago, Elaine plays without a centavo paid to her name. She doesn't want to make that sacrifice again -- and refuses even to term it a sacrifice.
"There is nothing noble about it," she says. Elaine dances with abandon, safe for the first time in her life.
Cristiane calls to say she has signed for São José. "Can you believe it? Our own Copa Brasil. Maybe I'll see a women's league in Brazil before I die."
They still use "man-girls" as a taunt, she knows. Marta entertains a brief dream in the white and black of the Corinthians, forcing open doors shut to her in childhood and slamming them into faces ugly with grudging tolerance.
"Daniela is coming home, too -- to Saad." Cristiane's grin filtered through the impish lilt in her voice. "How exciting."
"When you come to Sweden," Marta begins, and stops.
"If I come to Sweden," Cristiane continues, laughing, "I will play against you. And I will make you my mother's feijão com arroz, and they will wonder how such great enemies are friends."
São José does not play in the Copa do Brasil de Futebol Feminino, after all. To journalists Cristiane says, seriously, that the Cup is a good start for Brazilian women's football -- and is careful to mention her hopes for a strong women's league. She leaves again.
In-between the 2007 World Cup and the Beijing Olympics, Umeå loses the UEFA Women's Cup final for the second time in as many years, and Marta collects another runner-up medal.
Second chances and next times -- they only happen to those who fight.
Among the despondent faces of the Ghanaian players, her teammates' joy is the star that brings her home: she remembers (forever, forever) this is where she belongs, in Brazil, Sweden, anywhere and everywhere -- a pitch the colour of her nation's flag. And she will always fight -- has always fought -- to make it here.
"We're going to the Olympics!" Marta crows, throwing her arms wide open in delirious flight.
Cristiane swings her off her feet. Marta wishes for nothing to change, and is happy that everything does.
A seleção feminina.
Notes:
Cristiane carries her family in her wallet, little cut-out stickers of smiling faces that travel with her from São Paulo. She talks about them to journalists and FIFA's PR hacks as a nineteen year-old in Athens, full of wonder and delight.
She is the top female scorer in the Athens Olympics, and Brazil loses to the United States in the final. Cristiane is disappointed, but she isn't yet angry. She is young and hungry for success, burning with life, and the future seems endless.
Marta is quiet, and her eyes are brittle when she touches the silver medal, over and over, but she smiles as she carries their nation's flag. She is younger, even, and about to be called everything from the best female footballer to have ever lived to Pelés kusin -- Pelé's cousin.
They don't yet know this, only each other as footballers; enough to know that one day, they will need only instinct to understand the other.
Once upon a time, she was a gymnast. There are no regrets in change.
Today, she holds the runner-up medal for the Women's World Cup, and she is angry. Her teammates are arrayed around her in the hotel room, looking over Daniela's shoulders at a laptop borrowed from the coaching staff. Daniela types the letter as would a queen imposing her will onto an obdurate subject, and occasionally someone would reach around her to change entire phrases in uppercase to lowercase.
"They will say we are only greedy for money."
Cristiane brings her hand down, slamming it against her thigh. "Why shouldn't we? I'm not waiting for my grandchildren to collect what I'm owed."
"The federation is full of politicians who care only if we shame them," says Marta, unexpectedly. Her eyes are still slightly red and puffy, and her nails score the burnished wood of the dresser. "They're probably thinking: it's just a sign the girls carried, it's nothing, the girls won't do anything more."
Promises are bitter when seasoned with experience: three tournaments, two late payments, a budget cut that made the younger girls' faces grow thin with worry, and nothing for the better. Cristiane leans over and types: "PRECISAMOS DE APOIO."
We need support.
Late into the night, the letter sent off in a fax to the CBF, they sit out to watch the lights of Shanghai flicker like jewels strung across a woman's velvet dress. Simone and Kátia, newly united as teammates in Lyon, speak in an excited undertone about wresting the Championnat from Juvisy's hands. Everyone argues about how their favourite clubs will rise or fall next season and what they will eat at home, and what they will do if the letter makes a difference.
Cristiane wants to go home, at least for a while.
One by one, their teammates doze off, or make their excuses to leave. Marta and Cristiane lean against each other, fighting sleep, so close that Marta's lashes flutter against Cristiane's cheek.
"I'll go to bed if you sleep first," Marta says, finally.
Cristiane snorts. "You're such a bad loser."
She could never have been content with anything else.
Marta is a lightning flourish of skill where Cristiane is a show of imposing strength, or so the story goes. They both know that neat divisions of labour are generalities fostered by media clichés, and they trust in their knowledge of themselves. She has neither Cristiane's height nor raw power, but there is more to valor than the physical: Marta will never bend to fate, or allow herself to accept defeat with a shrug and a smile.
She will do anything to win.
Sweden is a long way from Brazil, yet after four years the cold and the language feel like a second home. There, Ramona looks to her on the field the way she remembers watching Rivaldo, and Marta has an estimated annual marketing value of US8 million for Umeå. Marta knows better than to treat money as if it is obscene, and knows she earns less than a man in her position.
Elaine, who arrives in Umeå a year after Roland Arnqvist convinces Marta to sign, brings her out dancing. They talk about missing their mothers as they wind their way back, and Elaine's bangles jingle to Marta's gestures. In Shanghai, Elaine makes the most suggestions for their letter, and runs her eye over the words for the certainty of their perfection.
In Bahia, not so many years ago, Elaine plays without a centavo paid to her name. She doesn't want to make that sacrifice again -- and refuses even to term it a sacrifice.
"There is nothing noble about it," she says. Elaine dances with abandon, safe for the first time in her life.
Cristiane calls to say she has signed for São José. "Can you believe it? Our own Copa Brasil. Maybe I'll see a women's league in Brazil before I die."
They still use "man-girls" as a taunt, she knows. Marta entertains a brief dream in the white and black of the Corinthians, forcing open doors shut to her in childhood and slamming them into faces ugly with grudging tolerance.
"Daniela is coming home, too -- to Saad." Cristiane's grin filtered through the impish lilt in her voice. "How exciting."
"When you come to Sweden," Marta begins, and stops.
"If I come to Sweden," Cristiane continues, laughing, "I will play against you. And I will make you my mother's feijão com arroz, and they will wonder how such great enemies are friends."
São José does not play in the Copa do Brasil de Futebol Feminino, after all. To journalists Cristiane says, seriously, that the Cup is a good start for Brazilian women's football -- and is careful to mention her hopes for a strong women's league. She leaves again.
In-between the 2007 World Cup and the Beijing Olympics, Umeå loses the UEFA Women's Cup final for the second time in as many years, and Marta collects another runner-up medal.
Second chances and next times -- they only happen to those who fight.
Among the despondent faces of the Ghanaian players, her teammates' joy is the star that brings her home: she remembers (forever, forever) this is where she belongs, in Brazil, Sweden, anywhere and everywhere -- a pitch the colour of her nation's flag. And she will always fight -- has always fought -- to make it here.
"We're going to the Olympics!" Marta crows, throwing her arms wide open in delirious flight.
Cristiane swings her off her feet. Marta wishes for nothing to change, and is happy that everything does.
A seleção feminina.
Notes:
- For an introduction to the current Brazilian women's team, this post is a good place to start.
- This Observer interview with Marta and posts at The Global Game were my starting point for this story. The official FIFA website also has a wealth of information and interviews with Cristiane and Marta. I used:
- After the 2007 Women's World Cup, the team faxed a letter to the Brazilian Football Confederation, demanding that it makes good on its long overdue promises. During the awards ceremony of WWC'07, the team carried a sign saying "we need support" as they walked up to the podium for their medals and posed for a team photograph.
- Cristiane transferred to Linköpings in February 2008, and she has a contract until the summer Olympics.
- Ramona is Ramona Bachmann, an 18 year-old Swiss forward who plays with Marta in Umeå IK. She lists Marta as one of her favourite footballers.
- Brazil was the last women's team to qualify for the Beijing Olympics.
- The last picture is actually one from an Olympics quarter-final match just prior to the publication of Issue 3. It seemed only appropriate.