The Hurt in the Words

11 - Teamwork

Diego, Davide, and Marco sit on the bench.

The referee’s whistle pierces the air: the match has begun.

A boy from the opposing team barely gets brushed and throws himself to the ground, writhing like a pro.

Matteo moves the ball across and sends it to Edoardo, who switches play to Domenico on the opposite wing. The fullback sprints forward and swings in a cross for Stefano, who’s slipped free through the central lane.

Sliding, Stefano whips it into the box; Massimo meets it first-time and scores—one–nil after just five minutes.

A shout erupts. Massimo’s father bolts from the stands and presses against the fence. “Did you see my boy? That’s how you play! Cold-blooded, with rage!”

But Massimo’s play wasn’t cold-blooded or raging. That attitude is anything but healthy.

We restart. Leonardo, our keeper, keeps his eyes on his teammates, looking for someone free. Tommaso and Edoardo shuffle without urgency; it would take a gust of wind to lift the corners of their jerseys.

Riccardo backpedals. “Tom, Edo, wake up! Want me to grab you a cappuccino and pastry?”

Tommaso bends to tie a lace. “If you’re in such a rush, go ahead.”

“My friend,” Riccardo says evenly, “I’ll go ahead—but remember, the world doesn’t wait for sleepers.”

Our keeper boots it long. It’s intercepted by number Four of Blue Flame, who nods it down to midfield.

Edoardo charges the ball under pressure, somehow keeps control, but his teammates don’t get free. He hesitates, then plays it sideways to Domenico. Domenico takes a few steps forward. The opponents back off, giving him space. He carries the ball upfield—still no one showing for the pass. Alessandro shifts slightly right but is still marked. Domenico lofts a long ball into Blue Flame’s box. Riccardo jumps, the defender beats him to it and heads it to their midfielder.

I need to make these kids understand how movement creates opportunity.

In the stands, a blonde woman punches the back of the seat in front of her. “What are they doing? Falling asleep?”

A man in a light-blue shirt glares at me. “What are you waiting for? Put my son in!” He slumps back. “If I’d known, I’d have stayed home.”

One row down, a guy in a straw hat shoves two fingers in his mouth and whistles. “Ref, you’ve been favoring them for half an hour!”

Riccardo charges down the right. Gabriele drifts toward the attacking third. Their wide midfielder handles the ball, and the referee whistles a penalty for us.

The crowd erupts, players gather around the spot.

I hope the boys keep their focus; a penalty can change everything.

Gabriele sets the ball on the dot, rolling it three times.

The referee signals.

A short run-up, clean strike—goal. Two–nil.

The usual guy jumps to his feet. “Goal!”

A bald man a few meters away waves his arms. “Calm down, or you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

Another fan rolls up his sleeves. “Shut up, you don’t know anything.”

These parents are getting worse.

I turn to the bench. “Get ready—you’re going in.”

Davide and Diego hop and stretch.

Play halts; I signal the fourth official.

The referee nods. “Sub!”

Gabriele and Stefano come off.

“You gave everything. Good job. Rest now.”

The official checks the shirt numbers and waves the subs on.

“Coach, what are you doing? Why change them?” someone shouts.

“I give everyone playing time!”

The home team is already in our half. Number Twenty eyes the goal, clearly ready to shoot. Tommaso squares up, hands behind his back. Twenty cuts into our box, unmarked, and slides it to Seven.

We need to organize this defense—can’t leave players free in critical spots. “Watch out!” I yell.

Twenty darts in, heads it, and scores. Two–one.

A man in a red jacket shoves another spectator. “Get lost!”

“This is kids’ soccer—shameful,” a woman mutters.

Down the row, a scuffle breaks out; two men grab the arms of a big guy with a white beard.

And of course, a barking dog joins the chaos.

Corner kick for them.

Number Sixteen takes a short run and whips it in; it hits the crossbar and drops into the box.

Tommaso clears it.

The parents start yelling at each other again. “You hear me? He’s been mouthing off all game!”

The woman extends an arm. “Then why sit here? Get the hell out!”

The man laughs. “No, you get out.”

This doesn’t feel like a sports event, or an educational environment at all. These parents are giving the kids a terrible example.

Four to Sixteen, who pushes through Domenico and Tommaso. Sixteen returns it, Four bursts into the box and toe-pokes a shot.

It deflects off Matteo—own goal.

Two–two.

The halftime whistle blows.

I step into the locker room and stop in the center. “What’s with those sad faces? You’re playing an amazing game—even if it ends ten–two.”

They gape at me.

“I saw respect. I saw sacrifice. I saw a team.” I rest a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “The results will come. Maybe not today—but they’ll come.”

We all stack a foot in the middle, side by side. “Try everything you can think of. No fear of mistakes. Now get out there and play.”

Cleats clatter as they explode out of the room, shouting.

Domenico heads it clear. Alessandro controls and feeds Diego, who has two defenders blocking the shot.

Davide pops up on the left, breaks free, enters the box—and shanks it wide.

Stefano’s father kicks the chain-link fence. “Why’d you take my boy out? He wouldn’t have missed that!”

Domenico switches it diagonally to Matteo, who sprints unopposed through our half.

Number Six moves to challenge; Matteo dishes to Gabriele, who feeds Tommaso, and Tommaso whips a long cross.

Four intercepts and clears to Ten, who drives forward.

Edoardo and Domenico close him down, shielding the box.

A quick feint—he’s free—and a low shot. Between Tommaso and Matteo, Seven rises highest and nods it to the far post.

Three–two.

Final whistle.

“What’s with the long faces? You played, you lost—so what? You gave your best, and that makes me proud. Never give up on your dreams.”

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