Corozonada

Furious Fiction Australian Writers Centre - October 2024 submission

In training, Diego could hear his Abuela speaking to him with every touch, her raspy whisper echoing the movements of the ball. The rain was making him uncomfortable. Manchester was just about as opposite of Bogota as you could get.

‘Confía en tu instinto. Corozonada’

Corazonada.The heart feeling.

He sprinted to the by-line. His rhythm was good. He felt sharp as he danced against the wind, beating his opponent for pace. The ball stuck to his boots like glue as he feigned a sliding defender, ducking left and flicking back out to the right before taking a shot on the outside of his preferred left foot. It sailed high and wide. He groaned. His father told him never to shoot with the outside of his boot. Mason chuckled. Diego was ready for the incoming taunt.

‘TAXI,’ the others spilled out a laugh, falling in line with their captain.

‘Sorry,’ Diego muttered.

‘Better have your shooting boots on tomorrow, compadre,’ Mason said, as he tapped him on the shoulder. His dad would tell him it was a bad omen. That he had evil eyed him. Aojo.

Corazonada Diego. Trust yourself.

As usual, his padre Emilio was making the game about himself. His son, his prize, finally starting for the famous Manchester United. His social media was flooded with essays of pride, none of which reflected Diego’s disgust in the man he knew as a stranger. It was Abuela that got him here, not that man.

Old Trafford kept the rain on match night. The tunnel bore the famous banner he’d been waiting to see his whole life.

‘The Theatre of Dreams’

He felt his insides shrink. The crowd noise drenched him, as the bright lights pierced his eyes walking out onto the pitch. The stadium announcer loudly declared,

‘A record nine debutants for Manchester United tonight…’

His father stood nearby. Ever since he missed that penalty when he was nine, be never sat. Sitting cursed him that day he would say. Aojo.

The whistle blew, and the pace of the match almost took the wind out of Diego.

‘CUIDADO DIEGO,’ Emilio shouted from the south stand. Man on.

Diego didn’t have time to react. The ref blew his whistle as Diego felt the impact of mud and wet grass sear his left thigh. He was taken down by a wicked sliding tackle in the box.

The crowd jeered in unison ‘PENALTY’. And so it was. His to take.

Diego held his breath. He knew how disapproving Emilio would be if he took the shot like he wanted. He closed his eyes, and with the outside of his foot, just like in training, he hit it. High and wide and wild. It flew, but stayed low into the top corner. Goal.

The crowd roared, his teammates swarmed him in a huddle of glory. He looked at Emilio, shaking his head staring down at his phone. Diego didn’t care. All those people and all he could hear was his Abuela.

Corazonada.