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“So how’d you end up at ULA?” I queried.
“Scholarship.”
“Oh yeah?”
She nodded. “Yeah. ULA offered me the biggest scholarship, so I took it. I could’ve gone to a school with a better soccer ranking, but… you know how it is.”
“I do,” I replied, more of my history contained in those two little words than you could imagine.
Something must have propelled her to say more, because she opened her mouth and offered additional details.
“My family,” she began, “we’re not rich. Well, actually, we’re dirt poor. Like, Appalachian backwoods poor.”
“What’s Appalachia?” I asked, feeling stupid.
She smiled. “Oh, right — British. It’s like the American cluster of white trash. Which made it pretty hard growing up half-black.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing it wasn’t enough. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”
“It’s okay. I got stronger because of the racist bullshit. I think it made me a tougher competitor.” She paused, then asked, “Where’d you grow up?”
I replied truthfully, “In a place that doesn’t sound much different from that, save that it’s the big city version.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
She sounded surprised. “I never would’ve thought.”
“Was it the accent?”
Catya blushed, and replied, “Maybe a little.”
“That’s okay,” I laughed. “The accent is deceptive. But it’s hard being poor in London. Everyone makes you feel like it’s some kind of permanent condition, an ailment. And then there’s the aristocracy, who we all laud like they’re God’s gift to Mother England. You just get this constant sense that there’s no way to get ahead, like you were born into this and that’s right about where you’re gonna die. I think we’re different from America, in that way. No such thing as the ‘British dream.’”
Catya listened intently, then shook her head.
“Sure, you can get ahead in America — you don’t have to be old money — but you pay a price. Generally, it means getting into sports, or music, something splashy. There’s no quite way to make it big, at least not for someone like me. Add to it that people in D.C. forget that places like the one I’m from even exist and… well, it’s not a recipe for success.”
“Is that why you got into sports?” I asked, picking up on her mention.
“I mean, I love the game, but it’s crossed my mind before, yeah.” She paused, and added, “Not that women’s sports get much attention, but if you’re the best of the best in your field, a Serena Williams or Simone Douglas, then it’s plausible.”
“You could be that.”
She smiled, and said, “I know. And if it doesn’t work out then, hey, at least I’m pre-med. In any case, the game taught me diligence. Why’d you pick up soccer?”
I leaned further back against the tree, sipped my coffee and considered the question.
“Well,” I began, “for one, it’s kind of our national pastime. Every lad gives it a shot. But I guess I stuck with it because it was the only thing that passed the time in council housing. We had no cable, no computer, nothing. There was always a decently inflated football, though. Rather, a soccer ball.”
“I knew what you meant.”
“So… I guess it was my way out, too. Out of passivity, out of being closed off from the world.”
Catya leaned closer, scooting further to the edge of her boulder. She was listening, openly and frankly, and I felt heard. That hadn’t happened in a while. Her hair frizzed around her shoulders, making a halo.
“Why’d you leave?” she questioned.
“England?”
“Yeah.”
I sighed. “More opportunities for somebody at my level to climb the ladder, for someone who wanted to coach.”
“You didn’t want to be a player?”
“No,” I replied. “Players get injured, get bad reps, get benched. It’s not steady income. Coaching, on the other hand, is a pretty steady gig if you can get it.”
She waited for more, and I hesitated, then elaborated with, “I’m buying my mum a house, one down by the sea in this town called Brighton.”
“Wow, really?” she replied, eyebrows raised.
“Yup. Or at least, I’m going to. If I can get a good income with a couple-year contract… I’ve already opened a savings account. It’s the one thing I can do for her, after all she’s done for me.”
“Simon—”
“Yes?”
Catya murmured, “That’s incredible.”
I blushed, and waved away her compliment. “It’s nothing, really.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she responded, her tone incredulous.
Unable to stand a compliment about something I felt I was honor-bound to do, I quickly deflected.
“So if soccer doesn’t pan out — and I’m not saying it won’t — but if it doesn’t, what would you do in medicine?”
Catya replied with the swiftness of somebody used to the question. “Oncology.”
My mouth dropped open a little bit. Once I’d managed to pick it up off the forest floor, I said, “And you think I’m incredible? You’re literally talking about curing cancer!”
She looked askance, and it was my turn to embarrass her with praise.
