Soccer Saturday | Sábado de Fútbol
"Two rival team fans find common ground—and something more—when their children's teams merge"
Soccer Saturday
Sábado de Fútbol
She wore a green jersey. I wore red. We were mortal enemies.
"Your team plays dirty," she said from across the field.
"Your team plays slow," I shot back. "That's why you lose."
"We don't lose. We strategize."
"Is that what you call it?"
Our daughters had played on rival youth teams for two years. Every Saturday, we'd glare at each other from opposite bleachers, trading insults between cheers.
Then the teams merged.
"This is going to be a disaster," I muttered.
"At least we agree on something," she replied.
Forced proximity changed things. We had to coordinate rides, manage snack schedules, attend the same team dinners.
"I'm Pilar," she finally introduced herself. "Since we're apparently doing this."
"Luciana." I shook her hand. "I still don't forgive the championship foul."
"That was a clean tackle."
"It was assault."
"Same thing in soccer."
Our daughters became best friends. Of course they did.
"Can Sofía sleep over?" my daughter asked.
"Ask her mother."
"She said yes!"
Which meant I had to see Pilar. At my house. Dropping off her child.
"Nice place," she said, looking around.
"Thanks. Come in for coffee?"
I wasn't sure why I asked. But she said yes.
One coffee became weekly coffees. We'd sit on my porch while the girls practiced in the yard, talking about everything except soccer.
"I'm a widow," she told me one evening. "Three years."
"I'm divorced. Five."
"That's a different kind of grief."
"Still grief."
"Yeah." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Yeah, it is."
I kissed her after the championship game—the one the merged team won. We were covered in confetti, surrounded by screaming kids, and I didn't care who saw.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Celebration?"
"For the team or for us?"
"Both."
Our daughters were thrilled. They'd apparently been scheming for months.
"We knew you liked each other," mine announced. "You just needed time."
"And proximity," Sofía added. "That's what the merge was really about."
"You engineered the team merger?"
"We suggested it to the coaches. They thought it was their idea."
We moved in together the next season. Our house became team headquarters—hosting practices, celebrating wins, consoling losses.
"Red and green together," Pilar observed, looking at our merged jersey collection. "Christmas colors."
"Rivals united."
"The best kind of love story."
We married on the soccer field where our rivalry began. Both teams attended—kids in jerseys, parents in tears.
"To love," I toasted, "that starts with competition."
"To partnership," she added, "that ends in victory."
"What's the victory?"
"This. Us. Everything we built from opposite sides."
Soccer Saturday—where rivals become teammates, and love wins every match.