The Hurt in the Words

Prologue

My eyes land on the scoreboard. We’re down one-nil. One goal. A draw is all we need to reach the top league. This is a chance I can’t let slip away.

The stadium is packed with fans. I’m running unmarked through the center zone; the murmur dies down all at once.

Michele receives the ball, traps it, and with a light touch spins it around the Number Four. My teammate lifts his head—I raise my arm. He sees me and strikes it with the instep. A deep thud, blades of grass fly up, and the ball takes off. It reaches me perfectly; I trap it with my chest, shift it left with my right foot, and slip past Number Two.

“Ezio! Over here!” shouts Franco, open on the left wing.

With a soft touch, I fake a sprint to the right, turn my back, and even my gaze and plant foot are aimed in that direction.

The defender falls for it, leaning to his left to cut me off; I’ve got space to push forward.

The giant steps in front of me—a wall of muscle and sweat. Instead of shooting, I fake a pass and pull back my right foot, ready to strike. At the last second, I drag the ball behind my standing leg with the inside of my foot. The giant lunges forward, and with a spin, I switch direction and spot the gap between the players.

“Later, string bean. I’ll wait for you down the line if you want.”

The keeper is far from the goal; I shoot with the instep.

The ball soars, heading for the top corner.

The goalie dives—he doesn’t make it—and the net billows.

The crowd erupts across the stands. My teammates chase after me, throwing me to the ground in a pile of hugs.

The opposing players line up at midfield. Two of them bounce near the center circle, ready for the restart. We line up on our side.

Their captain yells, and the fullback flails his arms, covered in tribal tattoos. Number Five launches into a tackle, studs up—I leap to dodge it, the sun blinds me, and the stadium falls silent. A searing pain rips through me. I crash to the ground, screaming.

Alberto rushes to my side. “Ezio, are you okay?”

The referee blows the whistle.

My eyes meet Alberto’s, wide with fear. Michele bites his lower lip and stares at my knee. Manuel shakes his head.

The stands hold their breath. No chants, no cheers. The scarves hang still, hands frozen midair. Open mouths, silent. Only the rustle of a flag left to the wind.

Two medics carry me off.

Why are the fans so quiet?

My body is wrapped in a white sheet, under the cold light that fills the room. The beeping of the heart monitor rattles me—maybe because I only slept a couple of hours, or maybe it’s the thoughts flooding my head. There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away. It’s hot: I kick off the sheet and clutch the mattress.

Anna’s warm hand brushes against my skin; the touch helps me breathe easier, and my heart begins to settle.

My wife gives me a faint smile. “It’s going to be okay, Ezio.”

I grab the bed handle and push myself up.

The door opens—Dr. Trevis walks in with a black folder tucked under his arm. “Hi Ezio, how are you feeling today?” He clears his throat. “The injury is serious. Your ACL is completely torn. Recovery will be long, and we can’t guarantee you’ll play like you used to.”

The sharp smell of disinfectant creeps into my nose.

“That can’t be true.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth.

Anna stumbles, steadying herself on the doctor’s arm. “There has to be a way. Another surgery, something…”

Trevis rubs his forehead. “We’ll do everything we can, Ezio, but you need to be prepared. A full recovery may not be possible.”

I slam my fist against the mattress. “I won’t accept that!” I shout, jerking upright. “Soccer is my life!”

Anna runs a hand over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

The doctor watches me, then exhales. “I know how hard this is,” he says, placing a hand on my leg. “We’ll do our best, but you have to face reality.”

I sit still. “What am I supposed to do now? I don’t know how to do anything else.” I wipe away the tears. “As far back as I can remember, I’ve only played ball.”

A thud on the window glass. A sparrow drops to the ledge—

You too, my friend, have stopped flying.

The metallic clank of weights and rehab machines.

Simone adjusts his green coat. “One more time, Ezio. You’ve got to bend it further.”

I grit my teeth, sweat running down my back. “I can’t, damn it!”

“You want to be a footballer again, don’t you?”

I move to a corner of the gym, under the open window. A warm breeze brushes against me, the sun peeks through the trees, and birds chirp as they chase each other through the branches.

And I can’t run. Not anymore.

Six months later

Claudio pushes aside a pile of paperwork, then stops. He looks me in the eye, lets the pen drop with a sharp tap, and leans back in his chair. “No point sugarcoating it—your football career is over.”

“Yeah, I know, Coach.”

“You’ve learned a lot from the game. Use that. Those skills can open other doors.” He slides the papers into a drawer. “And if you ever need anything, call.”

I walk out of the office. Cool air drifts in through the locker room vents.

Mariano steps in front of me. “You sure about this? You’re still valuable to the club.”

“Cut the crap. You saw it too—I’m dead weight.” I know he’s just trying to make me feel better. “Even the coach said it. My career as a player is over.”

I peel off my sweaty uniform and head for the shower.

The water runs. I scrub my skin, trying in vain to wash away the thoughts that won’t let go. The fear of an uncertain future—one that, just a few months ago, was all I ever wanted.

I open my locker and toss shower gel, shampoo, a white towel, and a light blue one into my bag.

From the door I grab the team photo—me front and center, that happy face of mine.

Feels like it was a lifetime ago. And that happiness isn’t coming back. I glance around, taking in every detail, every face of my teammates.

A memory I’ll carry with me always. A part of my life that mattered.

Ten years later

I walk past the shops. I stop on the sidewalk and let a SUV with a dangling headlight roll by. I cross the street. On the other side, Renzo’s café window. I pass by the door and breathe in the scent of freshly ground coffee.

A dachshund lifts its leg and pees on a tree. A group of kids plays in the park. The ball bounces over the dips of the makeshift field, then rolls over to me. The kids chase after it, shoving and laughing.

So many memories.

I juggle it a bit, then send it back with a backheel pass.

I unlock the door and drop my backpack in the hallway.

Anna’s at the stove. The smell of bacon hits me. I brush her hair aside and kiss her neck.

“Something smells amazing.” I give her a playful slap on the butt. An old Genesis song is playing on the radio.

She waves the ladle at me. “Disappear or this is going straight to your head!”

I tear the page from last month’s calendar and head out to the yard. Luigi’s dribbling around three plastic cones; Marco’s sitting in the grass, building dirt hills with a yellow dump truck.

“Hey, boys.”

Luigi stops, the ball still at his feet.

“I’ve got some news for you.”

He comes closer.

“Starting today, I want to coach you myself. I want to help you become the best.”

Luigi’s eyes go wide. “Really? Just me?”

“Just you.” I ruffle his hair. “Together, we can do anything.” I pull him into a hug.

“Yay!” Luigi yells, sprinting off between his brother’s dump truck and bulldozer.

A sparrow takes flight; I lift my eyes to the beat of its wings.

Marco tugs at my sweatpants. “Me too, Dad. I wanna play soccer.”

I crouch down and pinch his cheek. “Of course you will—when you’re a little bigger.”

I crumple the calendar page still in my hand and toss it to him. “Here, train with this.”

Gray clouds cover the sky, and rain falls relentlessly, turning the ground into a swamp.

My son pushes forward with the ball glued to his feet, splashing mud with every step, and his green jersey is now streaked with brown.

The whistle swings from my neck.

I stand still, hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket.

My hair sticks to my forehead, soaked through. Luigi moves with confidence, every dribble sharp despite the awful field conditions.

“Focus, Luigi!” I shout over the rumble of thunder. “Control it—don’t let it control you!”

Luigi slips in the mud, takes a long step to the left, fakes a move, and fires hard. The ball trails a line of water behind it and sinks into the net.

“That’s it! Just like that!” I clap my hands.

We take cover under the locker room canopy; the old, cracked tiles struggle to keep the rain out, and drops leak through the splits, forming little puddles on the concrete floor.

“How do you feel?”

The peeling plaster exposes red bricks underneath. Luigi scrapes at the dusty bits. “A little tired, but good.”

Hung on a rusty nail is a photo: a dark-haired girl on a red Ducati Monster, giving a thumbs-up.

“In a few days, you’ll play with the city’s youth team. It’s a big opportunity. Lots of scouts will be there.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The downpour makes me drowsy.

“I know you will.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Mom’s waiting for us.”

We head home, and Luigi bolts for the bathroom. The smell of bleach stings my nose.

Anna’s sitting at the table, pulling up the collar of her turtleneck. “We need to talk.”

I pick up the wilted orchid flower. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

Water bubbles in the pot on the stove. Anna turns down the flame. “You’re pushing him too hard,” she mutters. “He’s just a kid. It can’t be all training and games. He needs time with his friends—he shouldn’t feel all this pressure.”

I pace. “You want him to succeed, don’t you?”

A white feather drifts slowly down the windowpane, hammered by rain.

“But at what cost?” She stands and stirs the tomato sauce with a wooden spoon. “Look at him. He’s stressed, anxious. He doesn’t laugh like he used to. He’s always so serious.”

I turn on the TV and put on the news. The sky is gray and the wind sweeps yellow leaves across the yard.

“Dinner’s ready!” Anna calls out.

Luigi rushes in, grabs the cheese from the fridge, sets it on the table, and opens the oven. “We’ve got the casserole too—nice.” He drops into a chair, stretches for the remote, and changes the channel.

Marco walks in with the ball at his feet and kicks it under the chair.

Anna stiffens. “Get that out of here!”

Marco flinches, picks up the ball, and hurls it into the hallway. He grabs a cushion from the couch and places it on the chair.

Luigi twirls spaghetti around his fork. “Can I skip practice tomorrow?”

“Why? Already tired?” I tap my knife against the plate with a sharp metallic clink.

He turns to his mother. “I just want to rest a little.”

“No way. You’ve got a big match this week.”

Luigi gets home from school and slips into the kitchen, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes tinged with purple.

“Everything okay?”

He sits at the table, sniffs the cutlet, sprinkles salt on it, and bites into it.

Anna strokes his hair. “Why aren’t you using a fork?”

He’s wearing a light blue T-shirt stained with white sweat marks and dirty shorts.

“Don’t start,” Luigi says, eyes fixed on his plate.

My wife grabs his arm. “Have you looked at yourself? You barely eat, you stay up late, you don’t take care of yourself.”

The boy jumps to his feet, knocking the chair over with a thud. “I have to train. I have to be the best.”

Marco hugs his mother.

Anna gently pushes him aside, walks over to Luigi and strokes his elbow. “Sweetheart, you’re tearing yourself apart.”

I whip around. “What are you talking about?” I break a piece of bread. “Leave him alone—he’s the best. They’re coming to watch him on Sunday.”

Luigi shrugs off her touch and runs out of the kitchen.

My wife collapses onto the couch, covering her face. Her sobs shake her whole body. “I can’t take this anymore,” she cries. “Go to him. Do something. Please.”

I wrap an arm around her shoulders and breathe in the scent of lavender.

She pulls away. “As always, I have to do everything myself.”

“At work it’s nonstop—everyone at each other’s throats, a war of stress and pressure.” I punch the door. “And I come home to this? Your complaints? Give me a break.”

“Seriously? If you want a break, you know what to do!” She steps right up to me. “You think I’ve got it any easier? Wake up!”

The sound of her footsteps fades, replaced by the metallic click of a lock.

And I’m left standing there, with the smell of overcooked cauliflower clinging to the plates.

We’re at the field for training. The droplets on the blades of grass reflect the glow of the floodlights.

“Luigi, come here.”

He rushes over, breathless.

“Tonight we’re focusing on off-the-ball movement and shot precision. I want to see you attack the space more aggressively. You ready?”

“Yes, Dad.”

I set up the cones and arrange the balls. Luigi moves through the obstacles, changes direction, and sprints.

“Go! Move faster! Picture the defenders closing in,” I shout.

His movements aren’t as smooth as usual.

“You need to be quicker with the direction changes. Do it again!”

I place the poles to simulate defenders. “Franco, go in goal, please.”

I pass him the ball. He controls it, dodges an obstacle, and shoots with the inside of his foot. The ball hits the bottom-right corner.

“Perfect! Again!” He sends another ball flying.

Luigi gets ready to receive it, but a split-second hesitation knocks it off his right foot. He lunges to recover it, but the ball keeps rolling, already out of reach.

“Come on! Seriously?” I yank the whistle cord from my neck and throw it past the net. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

Footsteps behind me.

I turn. “Hey, Gianni.”

Gianni shakes his head. “This isn’t it. It’s not enough.” He adjusts his tie.

“He’s already at his limit. He trains more than anyone. I can’t push him harder.”

Gianni shrugs. “Relax. I’ve got a hundred others who can take his place.”

“No, it’s fine. He’ll be ready. I’ll handle it.”

Gianni winks. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

I smile at the goalie. “Thanks, you did well.”

Franco takes off his gloves and walks off.

“Now you’re going to learn a move to beat a defender effectively.”

Luigi peels his soaked shirt from his chest and sighs. “Okay.”

“Make sure you’re in control of the ball and you know where the defender is.” I step back. “Push the ball slightly behind you and spin a full 180. You should end up with your back to the defender.”

Luigi ties his right shoe. “What did Gianni want from you?”

“Just something between us. Don’t worry about it.” I glance at the goal. “When you spin, use your other foot to guide the ball so when you finish the move, you’ve still got control.”

My son scratches his ear. “If it were about me, would you tell me?”

“Of course.” I tap the back of his head. “Right after the spin, accelerate to leave him behind and keep the play going.”

He nods and starts the drill. I sit on the bench. He repeats the movement.

A ladybug lands on my shirt—I let it climb onto my pencil and set it gently in the grass.

He pauses to catch his breath.

“Don’t lose focus. Keep going.”

He stares past the fence, then starts over.

Windows begin to light up, revealing warm interiors. The colors of the trees fade.

“I’m done, Dad. I can’t anymore.”

“Just a little more. You’re gonna be a great player.” I open the cooler bag and pull out a beer. I drink it in one gulp.

“Dad, can we go home?”

The clock says nine. “It’s early. Keep going.”

Luigi jogs to the sideline, grabs a towel, wipes his face, and walks off.

“We’re not done!”

His back gets smaller and smaller until he disappears.

Some guy bumps into me. “Kids thrown into the pit, forced to fight like hell to stand out, always one step from being replaced by someone else.” He hangs the camera around his neck. “It’s messed up.” He flips up his collar.

“There’s always been competition in sports. It’s part of what pushes you to grow stronger.”

The man brushes a white tuft of hair from his forehead. “You used to play. You know better than anyone how it works.”

I open the front door and close it behind me. I set the keys on the dresser, next to the plastic roses.

Anna comes toward me, lips tight, eyebrows drawn. “Go to him and do something, for God’s sake!”

Marco grabs my leg. “Wanna play, Dad?”

“Not now.”

I reach the end of the hallway and press my ear to the door. “Can I come in?” I knock.

I grab the handle—it’s warm. I step inside. Luigi is sitting on the bed, rocking back and forth, his head in his hands.

“Listen, you’ve worked hard, for a long time. I think maybe we can—”

“Fine. Whatever you say.”

I leave the room and pull the door almost shut. In the thin crack between the door and the frame, I see my son curled up, crying.

I step out of the bathroom and slide under the sheets. I turn on the nightstand lamp. “We need to decide what to do.”

Anna slams her book onto the comforter. “Really? You’re just now realizing we have to do something?” she whispers, turning her back to me.

“What do you want me to do? Let him quit? Tell him giving up is okay, that life’s easier that way?”

“Ezio, Luigi’s just a kid—barely more than a child.” She turns off the light. “And you… you’re supposed to be his father.”

The wind keeps blowing, and the shutter taps against the window.

I park the Panda and grab the backpack from the trunk with the dirty lunch containers inside. I slide the key into the lock. Strange—Anna only double locks it when she’s out. I didn’t know she’d be out today.

I step inside. Dark.

Where is everyone?

I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through the contacts to “Anna.”

Unavailable.

Where could she be at this hour? I try Luigi’s number—also unreachable.

They’ll be back.

I head to the kitchen and open the fridge. A steel pot covered with a white plate, Belgian endive and lettuce under a thin layer of condensation. I grab the rough carton of eggs and a bottle of cabernet from the fridge door.

I close my eyes and lean my head back on the couch armrest. The TV hums softly, still on. The wall clock reads six-thirty.

Damn, it’s late. Anna’s running late too—she has to go out tonight.

I put the moka on the stove and rush upstairs. Beds made.

What happened?

I dial Anna’s cell. No answer.

I fling open the wardrobe: my wife’s clothes are gone. I open the nightstand drawer—empty. Not even her underwear.

Back in the kitchen, I pour myself a coffee and collapse into the armchair.

Damn it.

I hurl the cup at the TV. A crash. Glass shatters across the floor.

I slide down onto the tiles and lie there on the rug.

Please note: I'm not a native English speaker. If you spot any mistakes or have suggestions, feel free to email me at p.rubiu@tiscali.it