1 - Hopes
The stadium bleachers rumble under the pounding of thousands of feet. A group of fans in red and green jerseys wave their flags.
The ball rolls across the grass and Luca chases after it, his studs sinking into the turf. Not far off, the center back watches him, ready to make his move.
Luca sprints forward; the fullback is faster, intercepts the ball, and plays it back to a teammate. That player bursts into our half and tries a one-two with Number Fourteen, who cuts into the right side of the box. Roberto steps up, barely brushes his calf, and the midfielder drops.
The referee blows his whistle and rushes to the penalty spot.
The kid gets up, rubbing his ankle.
“What’s the ref talking about? That wasn’t a foul, it was clean!”
“It was plain as day, sir. The boy fouled the striker—no way the ref could miss it,” says a woman behind me.
“He didn’t even touch him! These days they drop to the ground if you breathe on them.”
The woman crosses her arms, one eyebrow raised. “We can’t see it as clearly from here as the man with the whistle can.”
“Damn it!”
She sighs, a blond strand falling across her face. “We have to set an example. Show them how to behave—even when we don’t agree with the call.”
Number Eleven steps up to the ball, eyes locked on the keeper, his teammates shouting encouragement. He fires a rocket from the spot, sends our goalie the wrong way. The net bulges as the posts tremble.
The opposing fans jump and hug each other.
“We’re down a goal, and it’s only been five minutes.”
“The boys are playing well,” the woman says. “They’re up against ‘Stella Nera,’ top team in the league.”
“Yeah, right.”
She smiles at me.
Their Number Eleven whips in a cross—Giorgio heads it away. Number Ten appears, controls it with his chest, and fires it off the right post.
“Phew, lucky break. That was close.”
“They’ve all got real talent,” she says.
“I don’t believe in talent. It only marks the limits that hard work can surpass.”
Number Four plays it to Six, who threads it through to Eleven. He breaks into the box and shoots with the outside of his foot—Gigi tips it over the bar.
Corner from the left.
The blond fan coughs. “Still, you can’t deny that some players have proven—”
“I don’t feel like talking right now, okay? I’d rather focus on the game.”
Number Nine plays it to the far post; Pino steps in, challenged by Number Eight, and clears it for another corner.
“I understand. Sorry for bothering you.” She sits down, wrapping her scarf tight around her.
Number Ten presses forward on Number Nine, who takes on Giorgio and whips a cross into the box. Behind Number Twenty, the midfielder slips through and scores.
“Damn it, we didn’t need that.” I clap my hands hard. “Stay focused! Play with heart!” And right at the end of the first half.
I head toward the snack bar, craving something warm. I walk through a crowd of parents. I shoulder past a man staring at me with a clenched jaw. I raise an arm in apology.
I reach the counter.
The bartender, a graying man in a red-and-blue cap, looks at me and gives a quick chin nod. “What’ll it be?” He grabs the portafilter and clicks it into the grinder.
“An espresso, please.”
He taps it twice and tamps the coffee.
The blonde woman steps closer and pulls her jacket collar shut. “Let’s hope the second half is as clean as the first.” She pulls a pack of tissues from her purse.
The bartender sets the hot drink under my nose. “And for you?” he asks the woman beside me.
“A hot tea, thanks.” She dabs her lips with a napkin, leaving a red stain.
“And I’m sorry about earlier,” I say. “I got a little too caught up in it.”
“Happens to all of us, no problem,” the woman says. “I’m Emma.” Her wide eyes meet mine.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ezio, Marco’s dad—he’s still on the bench.” I stir a sugar packet into my cup. “I honestly think people forget what these youth matches are supposed to be about. It’s not just about winning.”
A kid bumps my elbow as he runs past. I grip the cup to keep from spilling it.
Emma nods. “Exactly. It’s important that everyone gets the chance to play.” She sips her tea. “But it’s also a training school—meant to teach competitive-level soccer and shape future players.”
Some players are warming up on the sidelines.
“All parents pay the same fees. They give their time to bring their kids to practice and games. The least they deserve is to see them play, even for a little while.”
She lifts her drink again. “You’re right. And in the end, they’re here to have fun.” She blows on her tea, a little cloud of steam drifting from her face. “To learn teamwork—not just to chase a trophy.”
I stir the last sugar crystals at the bottom of my cup.
Emma tucks her hair behind her right ear, releasing a scent of orange peel that masks the coffee. “It should be a learning experience for them—to understand you can’t always win.” Her fingers brush my wrist. “Every loss teaches something. But you can’t learn that if you don’t get to be part of it.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s time.”
Emma pulls out a small red faux-leather wallet.
I stop her with a gesture. “Let me get this. To make up for earlier.”
She puts it back in her bag.
I leave five euros under the saucer, and we head back.
The second half begins.
We’re in their box—Francesco passes to Pino, who fires a long cross into the middle. Roberto rises and heads it in.
I jump to my feet, arms in the air. “Goal! Two-one—we just need one more to tie it.” I smile at Emma. “I’d love to see my son play.”
Marco is constantly in motion, shifting back and forth, fists pressed to his thighs.
She touches my shoulder. “He’ll definitely get a chance.”
My son sneaks a glance, then returns to the bench. Only a few minutes left in the match.
The coach gestures toward the ref.
Throw-in. The referee gives a quick nod.
Marco steps onto the field from midfield.
“Finally. That’s my son.”
Emma fastens a button. “See? Told you.”
Francesco intercepts a pass just past their midfield line, shakes off Number Three with a dribble, and gains ground down the right wing. He reaches the edge of the box and scans the defense.
Marco, on the left side, is unmarked and in a perfect position to shoot.
“Come on, keep it going.”
Francesco sends a tight, low cross toward the far post. Marco controls it with his right foot and shoots—but their fullback deflects it out.
A sharp whistle—corner kick.
Low clouds pile overhead. A flash of lightning cuts through the sky, followed by a rolling clap of thunder.
The crowd presses closer together; a woman beside me is bundled up in a red coat and a pale blue scarf. The air smells of damp earth.
Luca takes position by the corner flag.
The keeper, in a white jersey, has muddy gloves and taut legs; behind him, the crowd holds its breath.
The coach’s shouts blend with the fans’ cheers.
“Let’s go, Luca! Now!” someone yells from the back.
The ball curves in, heading straight for the goal. Marco sprints into the box; Number Four waits ahead of him. My son feints right, then left—the player in the Number Four jersey slips. Marco pushes forward with the ball at his feet.
My chest swells with pride. “That’s my son!” I shout.
Marco nears the goal, just meters from the net. He lifts his gaze and strikes with a sharp motion.
The trees sway in the gusting wind.
Damn—it’s too much on the toe.
The keeper is beaten, but the ball rolls wide left and slams into the advertising board.
A collective sigh rises from the stands, just as the final whistle blows.
Marco bends over, staring at the ground in front of him.
The guy to my left pounds the bleacher with a fist and straightens his gray raincoat.
Marco brushes wet hair from his forehead. His teammates walk off the field with no reaction.
“Look at me,” I yell. “Turn around!”
Nothing.
Head down, shoulders slumped, he walks away.
Emma brushes my arm. “It happens. He’ll bounce back, don’t worry.”
“But he wanted this so badly—to prove what he can do.” I need to get to him. “Bye, Emma. I have to go to my son.”
The clouds have cleared. Sunlight paints the facades of the houses in shades of orange.
I dodge the puddles scattered around and step into the locker room. I nod to the boys in greeting.
In the small room next door, the sound of running water echoes beneath clouds of steam.
Marco, sitting off to the side, still has his sweatpants on. Luca shoves Roberto and snatches his water bottle; his friend chases after him shirtless, zigzagging between gym bags scattered across the floor, unfazed by the cold.
The team already seems to have forgotten the match.
My son shoots to his feet; the stool crashes to the floor, hitting the locker door with a metallic clang.
“You okay?”
He grabs his backpack and walks out of the room without a word. “No. He kicked me off!”
We walk across the parking lot toward the car. Damn—something sharp works its way into a hole in the sole of my shoe.
“Hold on a second, Marco.”
I pull off the shoe to get rid of the pebble.
The fence, lined with frayed netting, sways in the breeze. I zip up my jacket and tuck my chin into the collar.
Marco drags his shoes across the gravel.
I pat his shoulder—sweat has darkened patches of the fabric.
“This isn’t over. I promise you.”
A group of teenagers runs past us, leaving behind the sharp scent of sweat.
Up ahead, the low rumble of an engine—Gianni, the coach, tosses a black duffel into the back seat of his Alfa Romeo.
“Wait here a sec.”
I walk toward him, my steps crunching on the pavement.
“Excuse me, Gianni—can I ask why you cut my son from the team?”
His eyes narrow. “He’s not fast enough for our standards.” He twists his mouth. “We’re looking for players with more experience.”
“I get that, but that’s what training is for.”
The coach shrugs. “Ezio, I’m being honest with you. No matter how hard he works, I just don’t see the kind of drive it takes to succeed in this sport.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Sure, he might improve—but he’s never going to reach the level we’re aiming for.”
“I appreciate your honesty. But my son has iron will. He never gives up. Hard work always pays off—and that will take him far, I guarantee it.”
Gianni shakes his head. “We have to be realistic. High-level football takes a combination of talent and hard work.” He climbs into his car. “And your son is missing one of those.”
“Talent is just a word that traps people in mediocrity.” I kick the car’s tire. “You’re a lousy coach. You don’t know how to motivate your players.”
He sticks his head out the window. “You should take a look in the mirror before talking like that.”
“My son’s got more commitment and dedication than you ever had in your entire career.” I slam a fist on the car hood.
Gianni scowls. “What do you know about my career? Look at yourself—ripped pants, the same shirt for days, and stained with coffee or who knows what else.”
“This isn’t about me. It’s about Marco.”
I turn. My son is leaning against a white Fiesta, kicking at a tuft of grass with the toe of his shoe.
The yellow glow of the streetlamp casts a shadow across the curled nose of Gianni. “Okay, you want to talk about him? Fine, your call.”
He steps out of the car and slams the door shut. He’s huge—a giant.
“If it hadn’t been for your little girlfriend, Marco wouldn’t have even played today.”
“What are you talking about? What girlfriend?”
“Not too sharp, are you?”
“Patience—it’s the IQ I’ve got, and I make do with it.”
Gianni steps closer. “Don’t play dumb. Who were you with today? What’s her name? Marta? No—Emma. That’s it. Emma. It’s thanks to her your son got one last shot.”
I pull back, hit by the stench of beer.
He turns to get back in the car, his back to me. “She’s a loser, too.”
“Maybe if I’d handed you twenty grand, you’d have dropped him into the youth ranks of some big-name club.”
A punch to the jaw catches me off guard and sends me crashing to the ground.
He gets in his car, revving the engine. “Who the hell do you think you are? You pathetic piece of shit.” He screeches off.
My jaw crackles—damn, it hurts.
Marco runs over. I reach out a hand—he helps me up and brushes the dust from my pants. “You okay, Dad?”
“I’m great. Don’t worry about me.”
I turn at the sound of footsteps—blonde hair, a shadow walking beneath the streetlamp, adjusting her handbag.
It’s her!
“Wait here a minute.”
Marco starts juggling the ball. “Where are you going?”
I catch up with Emma and block her path. “Why’d you do it? I never asked you for anything.”
“Oh, but you did. ‘I’d love to see my son play’—those were your exact words, weren’t they? Yes or no?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then what’s the problem? It didn’t go well—so what? Roll up your sleeves and do something about it.” She steps in closer. “I know who you were, and I know what you’re capable of. Take your life back, Ezio.”
“I already messed up with Luigi. I’m not making the same mistake with Marco!”
She jabs a finger into my chest. “I know the story.”
“You don’t know anything about what I did—what I made him do.”
Emma adjusts her strap. “You weren’t the one who pumped him full of that crap.”
“And how do you… how do you know all this?”
She digs through her purse. “Here—my card, number’s on it. I can help you. But first, you have to help yourself.” She turns and walks off.
“Oh, and one more thing—if you’re interested, I’ve got an open coaching slot for the youth team.”
Her figure vanishes around the chipped corner of the building.
On the way back to Marco, I pass a trash can and toss the business card in.
We sit down on the damp grass. The sky glows orange with streaks of purple.
Marco runs a fingertip along the seam of a black pentagon. “What if we started something of our own?”
“You mean a new team?”
He looks up. “Yeah. A place where no one gets cut. Where every kid gets to play and get better.”
“I don’t know. I’m tired. This whole thing’s taken something out of me.”
He tosses the ball up into the air. “Think about it.” He sets it down. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m hungry.”
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