7 - Opportunities or Limitations?
I step onto the soft grass of the sports facility and tilt my cap to shield my eyes from the sun.
Six of them are doing short passes, one adjusts his socks, three are juggling, and two are sitting down. Another pulls his finger out of his nose and tucks his shirt into his shorts.
I walk over. “Guys, over here!”
They gather in a semicircle—two of them elbowing each other.
“I’m Ezio, and starting today, I’ll be your coach.”
I point to the tallest. “Number one, what’s your name?”
He wraps an arm around the neck of the boy with bright blue eyes. “Leonardo.”
“And you—the one about to get strangled?”
He pulls away and punches him in the shoulder. “Riccardo.”
“Alright. The rest of you—give me your names.”
I set up cones and form a grid. “Okay, Leonardo, between the posts, please. Now let’s play—six on six.”
“You ready? Let’s see what you’ve got. Remember: talk to each other and work as a team.”
I signal Riccardo and Alessandro. “You two, over there.” I pause. “With you, Lorenzo, Diego, Tommaso, and Domenico. You’re the blue team.”
The rest—Stefano, Edoardo, Massimo, Matteo, Gabriele, and Davide—go on the other side, the red team.
I blow the whistle.
What the hell are Edoardo and Riccardo doing? Bad pass, and the ball rolls out. Riccardo rolls his eyes to the sky.
Center field—Tommaso and Massimo are fighting for the ball. Tommaso’s feet are quick; the sweat on Massimo’s dark skin sparkles in the sun—he looks dazed. He tries a through ball, Tommaso’s out of position, and the play breaks down.
“Massimo, you gotta look at where I am!” shouts Tommaso, his ponytail bouncing down his back.
Lorenzo keeps the pace from midfield, breathing hard. He stops to catch his breath. Gabriele is already showing signs of fatigue—slowing down, taking breaks.
Lorenzo raises his arm. “Move it, Gabriele!”
The game intensity drops.
Near the sideline, Stefano shouts instructions. “Domenico, cover that side!”
But Domenico either doesn’t hear or ignores him, leaving a gap the red team exploits: their striker slides in and scores.
Stefano crosses his arms.
Davide clashes with Diego, knocking him down.
Alessandro struggles to keep up, Matteo moves cautiously, protecting his knees.
“Hold up a second!” I jog over. “Take a break.”
Diego gulps water straight from the jug and coughs.
I pat his back. “Easy—you trying to drown yourself?”
The others laugh.
“You’re doing alright, but we need to talk more on the field. Keep going.”
I settle on the bench. “Riccardo, release the ball earlier!” I get up. “Follow Gabriele, Edoardo!” I sip water. “Massimo, hold your position!”
Matteo fakes a shot and scores low in the right corner. The kids cheer, hugging and high-fiving.
It’s getting late—I need to cook dinner for Marco.
I raise my arms. “Good work, that’s it for today.”
They gather their stuff, chatting as they head to the locker room.
The sun starts to dip. Davide pedals away on his bike, his right leg cutting over the top bar to reach the pedal.
I pick up the last cones and balls, lock the gate—it’s time to head home.
Marco sets the table while I drain the pasta. We sit down; I flip on the news, he’s messing with his phone.
“Please, not at the table.”
He tosses the phone on the couch. “How was your first day?” He buries his spaghetti under a mountain of grated cheese.
“Not bad. Riccardo’s easily distracted.” I scoop some endive and carrots onto my plate. “Tommaso’s got trouble coordinating.”
Marco slurps up a spaghetti strand. “Yeah, I saw that.” Sauce dribbles down his chin.
I sip my wine. “So, you were there too?”
The landline rings.
Marco props his elbow on the table, fist against his cheek. “Do I have to answer it?”
I drizzle olive oil over the cherry tomatoes. “Also, Diego goes down if you even breathe on him—not on purpose, I think.”
Marco dumps the whole salt shaker on his veggies. “You could get shock collars for them! If they mess up—buzz! They’d shape up real quick.”
“Cut the crap.”
The phone won’t stop ringing. “Fine, pick it up.”
“Too salty.” He dumps the salad into the trash. “Nobody calls me there. It’s for you. Answer it yourself, I’m not your secretary.”
“Hello! Who’s this?”
“It’s Gianni. So Sansevieria finally got themselves an invincible super coach.” He chuckles. “My boys need a game. How about a friendly?”
With my other hand, I lower the TV volume. “Didn’t you start coaching ‘Stella Nera’ now?”
A pause. “Yeah. So?”
“They’re not ready.”
“What’ve you got to lose? You scared?”
I shake my head. “Do you hear yourself talk?”
“Aren’t you the one who’s good at motivating players? Unlike me.”
I pour myself more wine. “It’s too soon.”
“You’ve got a week. And your son, huh? Commitment and dedication—more than I’ve ever had in my whole career. Your words.” He hangs up.
Marco spreads his arms. “Who was it?”
I slam the phone on the table. “Damn it!” I refill my glass. “Why do you care? You’re not my secretary, right?”
He starts down the hallway.
“It was that asshole you used to call coach.”
Marco freezes. “Gianni?”
“Yeah, him.” I drop my plate in the sink. “Wants a scrimmage.”
Marco grabs his phone and disappears into the bathroom.
“There’re dishes to do.”
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