10 - The Right Approach
Hey, Claudio, can I buy you a beer?
Claudio
Can you? Since when do you ask permission to buy me a beer?
I sit at the bar, peeking past the crowded tables, catch Piero’s eye, and trace the cold rim of my glass with my index finger.
Claudio sips his beer. “Get rid of the flat ball, you’ll play better.” He digs in the peanut bowl. A couple go into his mouth, and he licks his fingers.
“Riccardo loses focus too easily—just a noise and he’s off.”
Four guys at a nearby table clink glasses, the jazz playing low. Claudio downs the last sip. “I heard they train racehorses with train noises.”
“Horses?”
Piero lines up the bottles by the double pourer and shaker. “Talk, Ezio.”
“One beer for me and one for Claudio.” I gesture.
Claudio pushes his mug away. “How’s it going with Emma?”
“What does Emma have to do with it? I’m not interested in her.”
Claudio rolls his eyes. “Sure, you liar.” A white tuft flops across his forehead.
“Gabriele is always tired—never playing at full strength, as if he has no energy.”
“Don’t speak to me about being tired—I spent all day pruning trees.” He pulls his wallet from back pocket. “Tomorrow I’ll water them—switch it up to save energy. Keep balance: work and rest.”
A hand lands hard on my shoulder. “Ezio, you’re bigtime now—you don’t drink with us anymore!”
I grimace. “Hey, Fabri.”
Fabrizio throws his arm around me. “Piero, one for me,” he shouts. “Ezio’s buying.”
The bartender glances at me—I nod.
Fabrizio slams the bar, drags a stool between Claudio and me. “So, Ezio, did you get the blonde exec in bed or what?”
His breath reeks of Amaro Montenegro; his forehead’s shiny with sweat. “Knock it off, Fabri!”
“Back up.” I shove him slightly. “Claudio, Davide’s afraid of contact—probably thinks he’s weaker than the bigger kids.”
Fabrizio sprawls on the counter. “Who’s Davide?”
The music’s getting annoying.
“Wait, Fabri.” I raise my voice.
Claudio watches condensation slide down his glass. “Did you see how fast the drops move?” He swirls his pitcher. “They change direction when they hit an obstacle.”
Fabrizio drinks, then wipes his mustache froth. “Fast drops that change direction? Are we even drinking the same thing? Piero—bring me what he’s having.”
“Shut up, Fabri, please!”
Claudio stands. “I get it—I'm out.” He leaves ten euros under his mug.
“I’ll pay for his.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Ezio!” He avoids my eyes.
“Wait, I’ll drive you home—you’re not fit to drive.”
“Who said I’m driving home?” With a brisk turn, Fabrizio heads back to a table.
“No, wait,” I yell. “I didn’t mean that.” But he’s already gone.
The light above Piero flickers off. The guy under it staggers away, knocking over a table and a chair, disappears.
“Tommaso trips a lot—his feet are glued to the ground.”
“I know. Reminds me of that cartoon my niece watches. The baby deer stumbles at first, then runs through the woods and finds footing.”
Piero grabs a gin bottle, pours a splash into a glass, adds vermouth, a twist of lemon.
“Diego falls at the slightest touch—too unsteady.”
Claudio pulls out twenty euros. “Ever been on a choppy sea voyage? You bounce around at first, but then you learn the rhythm and you stay upright.”
Maria slips and spills two espresso cups on me. I catch her arm, keep her upright.
“You okay?”
She rubs her hands on my shirt. “Sorry, Ezio—I stained you. I didn’t mean it.” She wets her finger and dabs at the spot.
“Good thing they were empty. Don’t worry—I’ve got a washer.”
Piero stirs a red drink in a tall glass of ice, spoon swirling.
“Lorenzo gets winded—he tries to finish plays too quickly.”
Claudio slips his watch into his pocket. “It’s late.” He shakes his head. “If at work you start with light boxes, you get used to it—then you can raise the weight gradually.” He glances at me. “It’s late.”
“Thanks, pal—your advice helps.”
Claudio hesitates. “He can strengthen the muscles around his knees with something flexible that builds resistance. I’ve gotta go—bye.”
Piero knows ingredients in depth—strong but delicate, a perfect balance. The drink must taste good and look polished. Just like your team.
“Thanks, Claudio—Piero. I know what to do now.”
Suddenly a man bursts in—looks like someone from the neighborhood.
“Another promising kid, Matteo, has joint problems.”
Piero stands. The man strides straight to Fabrizio’s table. Without warning, he hits him in the face—once, twice, three times—relentless.
I’m frozen in shock.
Fabrizio’s face is battered, swollen, unrecognizable. The attacker stops, turns, and walks off like nothing happened.
I race out of the bar, Claudio right behind me.
“Let’s call the police!” I yell.
A guy in a studded leather jacket holds me back. “They’re coming. Leave him—he’s crazy,” he says. “He’ll hurt you too.”
Fabrizio’s face is a mess. What worries me most is the look of fear—the trauma—in his eyes.
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