2 - Desires and Obstacles
I push the sheet aside and slide out of bed, part of the blanket already bunched on the floor.
I toss the pillows to one side and pull on my tracksuit. Used tissues are scattered across the rug. I wash my face and leave the damp towel crumpled on the chair.
I rummage through a pile of papers—found it. I aim the lamp and grab the document. Step out of the living room, down the hallway—the sound of a guitar drowns out the traffic passing outside.
I knock. “Can I come in?”
The door swings open. Marco’s sunken into his unmade bed. The smell of fried potatoes from the neighbors drifts in through the open window.
“What do you think?” I hand him the bound pages.
He grabs them. “Official notice. The Technical Sector of the FIGC, having reviewed the exam results of the candidates who completed the Regional Course announced via Official Notice for qualification to license D, has decided to register the following individuals as certified coaches.”
“My name’s in there too.”
The nightstand is piled with crumpled tissues.
“Nothing to say?”
Marco rubs the corner of his eye. “So you changed your mind? Good for you.”
“That’s it?”
He drops the papers onto the bed. “What do you want me to say? You want a round of applause?”
“I’m doing this for you.”
“It’s not for me, Dad. I’ve moved on. Maybe you should too.”
A sleeve from a new shirt and the patched legs of some jeans stick out from under the bed.
“I want you to know that my biggest wish is to see you hap—”
His chin quivers. “I still hear your words. They’re here.” He taps a finger against his temple. “They keep haunting me.”
“I know I messed up. I’ve said I’m sorry a thousand times.”
He knocks on his skull with his knuckles. “I can’t shake them, Dad. I just can’t.”
“Silence my words and let them go!”
“I’m too scared to fail.”
“Failing isn’t the mistake. Not trying—that’s the real failure.”
Marco puts on his headphones and gestures for me to leave.
After days of overcast skies, this Sunday finally brought the sun; its rays crash against the branches of elms and maples. A boy in a blue striped T-shirt chases a friend in a yellow blouse; their laughter mixes with the rustling of wind-blown leaves.
There’s Carlo—figured I’d find him at the park on a day like this.
“Hey, Carlo.”
He peers over his glasses. “Hey, Ezio. What brings you out here? Never seen you around before.”
Next to us, five kids are chasing a ball; one of them, wearing a red cap, fakes a move and shoots—it smacks into a tree trunk.
“I heard Enrico got cut from the team.”
Carlo sets his phone on the bench. “Yeah, and?”
“I was thinking about starting a youth football school here in town. What do you think?”
He folds his arms. “And how exactly do you plan to do that? You know it takes money and…” He looks me over. “And you don’t exactly look like you’re rolling in it, same as me.” He crosses his legs. “And time? Running something competitive isn’t as easy as it sounds.”
On another bench, under a holm oak, a couple exchanges quiet smiles.
“We could try to get some local sponsors. Maybe organize small fundraisers. And if we get other parents involved, we could split up the tasks.”
A woman wearing dark glasses, a magazine open on her lap, glances up at the kids now and then.
Carlo stands and leans toward me. “I work six days a week—sometimes ten hours a day—for a shit paycheck.” He slams a fist against the bench. “And you think I should give up the little free time I have for this?” He opens his wallet and shows me the inside. “If my daughter asked me for an ice cream… forget it.” He scans the park. “Sandra, let’s go,” he yells.
“But that thousand-euro phone’s not missing from your life.”
Carlo smirks, lifting the corner of his mouth. “Ah, go fu—”
The little girl pops out from behind a bush.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he mutters, ruffling her hair.
Sandra wipes her nose with her sleeve. “Five more minutes.” A streak of snot clings to her skin.
Carlo grabs her by the collar of her jacket. “We’ll come back another day. Smells weird out here today.”
A swarm of flies hovers above the trash bin.
I walk away, the sound of ten- and twenty-cent coins jingling in my pocket.
This wasn’t how I pictured it.
I shut myself inside.
I squeeze between the chair and the wall, pull back the curtain to let in the last rays of sun. I sigh, pick up the phone, and dial the last number on the list.
“Hello, this is Ruggi Law Firm. How can I help you?”
“Good afternoon, this is Ezio Ruber. I’m calling about—”
“If this is still about the youth football school, I already told you last week that nothing can be done without municipal authorization. I can’t help you.”
“Listen, I need that permit.”
“The rules are clear. Without those signatures, the project can’t move forward. I’m sorry.” The line goes dead.
I call Marco’s cell. “Why aren’t you answering my messages?”
“What messages, Dad?”
“I sent you a text over an hour ago.”
“Sorry, didn’t see it. No one uses SMS anymore. I’ve told you a thousand times to get a decent phone.”
“So? Did you do what I asked?”
“Hold on, I’m reading.”
A honk and screeching tires come through the other end of the line.
“Where are you, Marco?”
“I read it, and I’ll tell you the same thing I said this morning! No one’s replied to the emails. I’ve got to go now.” He hangs up.
I head into the kitchen, grab a pan with dried-up tomato sauce, fill it with water, set it on the stove, and light the gas. Four squirts of dish soap in the sink—I toss in the greasy plates.
The water in the pot starts to bubble. I dump it into the sink, run cold water, and start scrubbing.
I say goodbye to my coworkers, toss the small plastic coffee cup into the trash, and head over to the forklift.
I unplug the charger, strap on my helmet, and start up—the rubber tires squeal across the floor.
Neon lights crackle overhead.
Accompanied by the soft hum of the electric motor, I ride down the aisle between metal shelves. I drop off a pallet stacked with cookie boxes.
“Ezio, I heard you’re still clinging to that youth soccer fantasy?” Andrea’s voice catches me off guard.
I turn. His green work coat is stained with brown blotches. I rest my arms on the forklift wheel.
“Yeah. I want to start something with a few kids from the neighborhood.”
Fabrizio and Stefano walk over. Fabrizio shakes his head disapprovingly, dark hair brushing his raised eyebrows.
Stefano sweeps his bangs out of his eyes. “Ezio, come on. You don’t have the time or the resources for something like that. You could get a second job. Weren’t you an electrician?” He’s the biggest of the group and laughs wide-mouthed, showing a chipped tooth.
My cheeks burn. I grit my teeth and stare at the box labels. “It might not be the biggest school, but—”
Fabrizio rolls up his sleeves. “Wake up! We work our asses off here from eight to five. When exactly are you planning to run this thing? You’re not a league player anymore!”
“Forget it. I don’t feel like arguing with you.” I lift and stack yet another pallet.
Giancarlo drops a load of candy boxes on the rack. “I saw you with Emma. Isn’t she the youth program director at Sansevieria?”
“I’m not asking her for anything.”
Fabrizio pulls on a pair of leather gloves. “If you ask me, Ezio, you should let it go. You had your chance—and you blew it.”
“So what should I do? Give up?”
Fabrizio smiles. There’s a gap between his front teeth. “It’s not the end of the world. Some people make it, some don’t.”
“But I want to take the risk. And if I fail, so be it. At least I tried.”
Fabrizio adjusts his green work pants. “Haven’t you had enough defeats?” He leans against the metal shelf, making it sway.
“As long as I have the strength to try, I’ll keep trying.”
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