13 - Unpredictability

I grab the cold gate handle and push it shut. The lock snaps with a sharp click.

I head toward the car, walking down the driveway and tossing my keys in the air.

The three of them, leaning against the hood, don’t look like good news. And these guys? What do they want?

Trouble, for sure.

Now I recognize them: Massimo’s parents, and Stefano’s, and Gabriele’s.

Massimo’s father crosses his arms. “Ezio, can we talk?”

I walk up to them. “Sure. What’s going on?”

“We don’t agree with your methods,” Stefano’s father says. “These specialized trainings are just a waste of time for our boys.”

“They’re working hard, and I’m seeing progress in every one of them.”

“The truth is you’re not bringing out their potential,” Gabriele’s father jumps in. “My son’s a natural talent, but you’ve got him practicing useless details.”

“Natural talent is for fish that swim and birds that fly.”

The man points a finger at me. “What did you just say?”

“Listen, those details are essential for their full development.”

“In the meantime they’re losing opportunities!” Massimo’s father raises his voice. “They should be on the first team, not doing basic drills.”

“I get what you mean, but those basic drills are the foundation for long-term success.”

“We’re not seeing that growth,” Gabriele’s father yells. “All we see is that they’re tired and frustrated.”

“Progress in soccer—like in any sport—takes time and patience. I’m working with them not just to make them better players, but to help them overcome their individual weaknesses.”

Stefano’s father pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re just wasting time. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you fired.” “Do what you have to do.”

Massimo’s father steps closer.

The tires of a gray Ford screech to a stop near us. The whine of the window rolling down. “Everything okay here?” Giancarlo says.

“Hey, Gianca. Yeah, I was just about to leave.”

He gets out of the car. “I’m going for a beer. Want to come?”

“No, Marco’s waiting for me. I have to make him dinner.”

Giancarlo opens the door. “You’ll be home by eight. Just a quick one.”

“All right, just a beer.”

I wave and get into the car; the seat has gray stains in the middle. “What the hell happened here?”

Giancarlo peels out. “What did those guys want?”

“Nothing. You know how parents are—they all think they’ve got Maradona at home.”

My coworker hits the gas and pins me to the seat.

He pulls into the bar’s parking lot. We get out; a beep from the car, and the hazards flash twice.

“No, I didn’t want to come to the usual place. Let’s go somewhere else.”

He throws an arm around my neck. “Since when are you shy?” He opens the door and gives me a little shove so I walk in first. “You’re famous now—you coach the town team.”

I head for the counter, weaving between tables full of laughing people. The walls are covered with old photos, trophies, and sports medals.

“Hey, Bob, an unfiltered. What are you having?”

Giancarlo scrapes a fingernail between his front teeth. “Same. Heard from Fabrizio? Any idea how he’s doing?”

“No, I called, but he’s not answering.”

“He’ll show up.” He takes a long gulp of beer. “So? What did those guys want?”

“Nothing, I told you. Some parents don’t agree with my training methods.”

Bob sets down a bowl of green olives, one of chips, and one of salted peanuts.

“They waited for me by the car.” I toss a handful of peanuts into my mouth. “They were furious. They think I’m wasting their kids’ time.”

Giancarlo nods and spits a pit into the ashtray.

The speakers blast Una vita da mediano at full volume.

“I tried to explain that these drills are essential for their long-term development.”

He scratches his ear. “You’re the coach. They can say whatever they want. Why do you care?”

A dull thud and a sting in my back— I turn. “Who the hell—”

“Well, well, here’s our favorite coach,” a stranger says, swaying.

Giancarlo stands and shoves him. “Beat it!”

“Leave him, he’s drunk.”

The door opens again; I turn. Great—those three from before. Hope they leave me alone.

I drain the last of my beer.

Massimo’s father calls out to Bob. “Another one for our friend here.”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I gotta go. Marco’s waiting for me.”

Stefano’s father motions for the drink anyway. “Just one. We owe you an apology.”

“Just one.”

Gianca taps my elbow. “You sure? You don’t have to.”

“Don’t worry.”

Gabriele’s father rolls a ball in his hands. “You know Ezio could place this exactly where he wanted?”

“Oh, come on…”

The whole bar goes quiet.

The man signals Bob and brings another beer over. “Show us,” he says, raising the ball for everyone to see.

I don’t want more trouble. “Okay.”

I glance around: three tables ahead of me, two people standing, the aquarium, and right behind it, a dried-up ficus.

“I’ll send the ball right in there.” I point past the tank with the freshwater fish. “Onto the ficus soil.”

“That’s impossible,” Giancarlo says.

I grab my beer; it leaves a damp ring on the coaster. I drink half.

People start chatting again.

I toy with the ball, drop it, juggle twice, and kick.

It hits the first table, brushes a chair, bounces off the wall, and lands on top of the aquarium. It rolls slowly, skimming the edge—seems like it’ll stop—then drops right into the pot.

The bar erupts. I raise my arm with a V-sign.

I finish the rest of the beer.

My friend comes over. “I’m taking you home.”

A blonde woman approaches, her hair sliding over her shoulders. Her lipstick plumps her mouth like it’s about to burst. She presses a finger under my chin. “I see you’re good at hitting targets. Let’s see how you handle rotation.” She shoves her tongue into my mouth.

I pull back, step away.

She sips a cocktail that fades from deep red to bright orange, ice cubes slipping down her throat.

A scrape behind me—I turn. Two blue eyes lock on mine. Emma grabs her purse, waves to her friend, and walks past, bumping me.

“Emma, wait.”

I push through the crowd after her, too many bodies, I can’t reach her.

The music dissolves; a light breeze ruffles my hair. Her heels hammer the sidewalk, streetlights tracing the curve of her hips.

She gets to her Fiat 500. Her hand lingers on the door handle. She opens it, climbs in, starts the engine. The taillights glow and shrink into two red dots as she drives off.

The blonde woman rubs against my legs. “My name’s Sonia.” She hands me her glass of liquor, and I drink.

We leave arm-in-arm. The street is empty.

“Isn’t there someone who can come pick you up?”

Sonia staggers. “I’m not calling that bastard husband of mine.” She fans herself. “I’m sweating.”

“If you don’t live far, I’ll walk you.”

She leans against a wall and vomits. “I can’t breathe… my back hurts.”

“Are you okay? Hey, can you hear me? Breathe!”

She collapses.

I kneel beside her. “Come on, breathe.”

I bring my cheek close to her mouth. “Nothing, damn it!” I open her shirt and lace my fingers over her chest. “You have to hold on.” I start compressions, counting out loud. “One, two, three…” I keep going. “Don’t quit on me now!” I look around: nobody.

“Sonia!” I shout, and call 911.

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