9 - Laying the groundwork
It’s Sunday afternoon.
White lockers line the walls, each one holding jerseys with clearly visible numbers and names. On the shelves, soccer cleats, caps, and gear are neatly arranged side by side. Shirts, carefully folded, wait to be worn; shorts and socks lie next to the shoes.
Cleanliness and order go hand in hand with the locker room’s quiet atmosphere.
The players march in single file.
Riccardo grabs his jersey and starts getting dressed. Around him, his teammates do the same. Diego laces up his cleats.
“Alright boys, stay focused. Remember the plays we worked on this week. Edoardo, you’re on Number Ten. Don’t give him any space.”
I grab a marker and draw on the whiteboard. I trace a line between Edoardo’s position at the center of defense and the opposing Number Ten, marked with a red circle.
“Stick close to him. Don’t let him turn and face the goal.”
I sketch arrows down the right flank and mark a spot with an X.
“Stefano, be ready to run the wing and cross it in—aim for Riccardo or Massimo.”
“You got it, coach,” Stefano says, giving a thumbs-up.
“Good. Time to warm up.”
Outside the locker room, the crowd’s roar swells.
The players file out one by one and begin their warm-up. They jog in circles, do dynamic stretches, and sprint drills to loosen up.
The referee checks his watch.
The players gather at midfield. A sharp, penetrating whistle: the match between Sansevieria and Stella Nera is underway.
Stefano mumbles something, Domenico sends in a low cross, Lorenzo jumps to make contact. Number 22 races in, face tense, right arm out for balance—he heads it in and scores, putting them up 1–0 just one minute after kickoff.
Leonardo stands frozen in goal.
Stefano raises his arms. “Domenico, were you counting blades of grass?” he shouts, jogging over.
Domenico shoves him. “You’re impossible to understand—mumble much?”
“I told you to play it back!” Stefano’s voice shakes.
“How am I supposed to follow when I can’t hear you?” Domenico shrugs. “Speak up and be clear!”
The referee approaches and the players take their positions.
In our area, Number 7 receives the ball and turns under pressure from Tommaso. The right winger breaks away, finds space, chips a long cross to Number 27, who holds it up and lays it off. Massimo misreads the play and mistimes his run with Tommaso.
In comes Number 20—goal.
It’s 2–0.
The winning team’s parents cheer; a burly man leaps up. “Great job, boys! You’re the best!”
Alessandro plays it to Lorenzo, who fakes and threads a through ball to Riccardo. A defender closes in, snags it, and clears it back.
Fortunately, Lorenzo chases it down and sends it upfield.
“Matteo, where the hell were you?” Alessandro yells, running to his side.
Matteo rubs his knees. “They hurt like hell—I can hardly move.”
Alessandro’s eyes go wide. “Another chance wasted!”
Number Three intercepts the pass, passes back to the keeper, who chests it into space and plays to his left.
Matteo's still struggling, and now we’re back in our box.
Domenico tries to defend—too slow, makes a mistake, concedes a corner. His movement is sluggish, a sign of recurring injuries.
Number 7 swings in from the flag. Number 6 flicks it on for Number 27, who volleys in at the back post with his left foot.
Leonardo can't reach it—it’s a goal.
Number 14 and 27 sprint to their fans, who react with thunderous cheers.
It’s 3–0.
Some parents shout tactical suggestions; others argue with each other.
A woman in a red hat jumps up. “This is unacceptable! They needed better organization!”
Gabriele receives the ball near the attacking third, face in a grimace. He tries a dribble—slow and predictable. He passes to Stefano, who pushes forward only to be surrounded by taller, stronger defenders. He hesitates, gets blocked, and the move fizzles.
“Stefano, what are you doing?” Gabriele yells.
“I couldn’t do anything! Those defenders are giants!” Stefano shrugs.
“You need to be more confident! You can’t freeze every time!” Gabriele roars.
Stefano raises a flat hand: “And you? A snail could move faster!”
Gabriele slaps him. “If you’d just move instead of whining all day!”
I turn to the fourth official.
He calls a throw-in; the players line up.
The fourth official raises the electronic board: numbers 7 and 10 off, 9 and 13 in.
Stefano and Gabriele head off the field.
“Diego and Davide, your turn!”
They take their positions, ready to enter.
“Show me what you’re made of!”
Thirteen shields the ball and extends a foot to keep control.
Lorenzo, leg stretched and body leaning forward, wins the challenge and we regain possession. With a pass, he finds Alessandro, who switches it to Davide, free just outside the box. Davide stops it and sets up for a shot. A defender closes him down; our forward changes course and plays to Riccardo, open on the right.
A distant car horn honks and Riccardo jolts toward the sound, losing his balance.
He regains control and sends a driven cross to Massimo, free at the far post. Our left-winger breaks free and heads high—but it sails over the bar.
The chance slips away.
“Massimo, what the hell were you doing?” Riccardo snaps. “It was an easy goal!”
Massimo shakes his head. “Come on, the cross was too high—even Domenico wouldn't’ve reached that!”
Riccardo rises onto his toes. “Too high? It was perfect! You just needed to position yourself better.”
“And do you think I didn’t try? Those defenders were everywhere!” Massimo’s voice rises.
Riccardo pounds his palm with his fist. “Maybe if you paid more attention to what’s around you, you’d be ready.”
“Don’t get discouraged!” I shout. “We’re creating chances—we just have to be precise. Let’s push on!”
The boys return to their positions.
Diego loses balance under pressure from Seven. He looks to Davide for help but gets nothing. They lose the ball and argue.
Seven skies the ball into the box. Fourteen lets it bounce and Twenty steps in, planting it under the crossbar. Leonardo dives and makes the save.
The whistle blows for halftime.
A father stamps his feet. “Coach, this is pathetic—our kids deserve better. Where’s the tactics? The strategy?”
Leonardo keeps his head down. Edoardo drinks and flings the open bottle at the wall.
Alessandro turns to Matteo. “What were you doing out there? You were supposed to support me, not abandon me!”
Matteo raises his hands. “And what do you think I was doing? I’m not risking injury!”
“This isn’t the time to think only of yourself!” Tommaso says, folding his arms. “We’re a team!”
Diego and Davide exchange looks.
“Diego, you’ve got to stand stronger under pressure,” Davide says. “We can’t be coughing up the ball so easily.”
Diego springs up and smacks the locker. “And you? Where were you when I needed you? Don’t dump all the blame on me!”
“Enough!” I roar, rising above the chaos. “Calm down!”
The boys fall silent.
“Dissatisfied? Good.” I wipe the sweat from my brow. “That’s what drives improvement.” I pause. “Communication is key. Diego, be more assertive. Davide, be more proactive.”
Davide shakes the bench. “Coach, it’s not fair that—”
“We're here to find solutions.” I inhale deeply.
Alessandro taps his elbow on the wall. “They’re always one step ahead!”
“Now—few minutes to breathe, hydrate, recover. In the second half, I want to see unity.”
Riccardo flops onto the bench. “Let’s be honest—they’re from another league.”
The referee whistles.
The opponents surge back up. Lorenzo intercepts a pass in midfield, already winded. He clips the ball to Davide, but a defender intercepts and launches a counter.
Their central midfielder breaks past Diego with a double step and feeds Nine, who faces Matteo one-on-one.
With a pained grimace, Matteo blocks the space; his run slows. The right-winger feints past him, then delivers a cross. Matteo stops to rub his knees. Edoardo and Tommaso are well positioned. The ball is switched to the opposite side, where Domenico marks the winger. But the ball passes him, landing at the feet of the left winger, who must face off with Riccardo.
The crowd roars with rage.
Riccardo hesitates—they winger feints and sails past him toward the end line. With a wicked curve, he delivers it into the box.
Leonardo rushes off his line to cut it out.
A Stella Nera striker exploits his hesitation, diving to nod it onto the far post.
Edoardo lunges in and comes up with a corner.
“What are you doing, Edoardo?” Matteo yells.
“You were supposed to mark him!” Edoardo shouts back.
Matteo waves his arms. “How was I supposed to know? You didn’t say anything! We could’ve stopped that!”
Edoardo clenches his fists. “It’s not my fault you’re never in position!”
Matteo positions himself for the corner. “Now’s not the time to fight—we need to talk!”
Things are spiraling.
“Tommaso, stay tight on Seven! Edoardo, track Fourteen—don’t give him space!” I yell. “Matteo, cover the far post. Lorenzo, brace for the clearance!”
Leonardo hops between the posts. “Diego, Alessandro, shift over—don’t let anything through!”
Seventeen jogs to the corner, tugs down his right sock, and places the ball on the white arc. He looks at his teammates, raises an arm, and taps it short. Seven cuts into the box. Tommaso closes the gap, but his movements are slow and clumsy. The midfielder feints past him and bursts forward, leaving Tommaso behind.
With his left foot, Seven fires a driven shot at our keeper—beating the defense.
Fourteen leaps higher than everyone and heads it in. Leonardo pushes it away but it lands at the feet of Twenty.
Tough luck.
“We’re still in this! Don’t give up!” I shout, rallying them.
Twenty scores the fourth goal.
The boys lower their gaze, shoulders slumped, footsteps slow.
“It’s not over yet!”
Stella Nera is still on the attack, with Number 14 sprinting down the left flank.
Riccardo nicks the ball with the tip of his boot, forcing him off it. Surrounded by three players, he uses the sole of his foot and a change of direction to beat the first. A nutmeg dribbles through the second, a tight weave around the third—and he’s away in the attacking third. A defender meets him with a tackle, stopping his run.
Number 22 pops it off first-time to Number 15. He slices through the defense, hunts for goal, and shoots. Number 1 dives and blocks with his left foot, but the ball ricochets off Lorenzo’s leg and trickles in—making it 5–0.
“Don’t let your heads drop—this isn’t anyone’s fault. Those things happen.” I raise a fist in the air. “Leonardo, that was a fantastic save. You couldn’t have predicted that deflection.” I raise my voice so everyone can hear: “Let’s forget that one and focus on the next attack. Come on!”
The players retake their positions.
Alessandro receives in midfield, feints past Number 6, and slides it to Riccardo, open on the right. He brings it under control and strides toward the box.
The right back slides in—Riccardo evades him and plays to Davide.
Shit, it's too heavy.
Davide holds it up and sends it out to Massimo on the opposite flank. Massimo bursts down the wing preparing to cross. His movement’s weak. He puts in a cross aimed at Alessandro—but it’s off-target.
Alessandro leaps but misses.
The full-back picks it up and snuffs out the momentum. Massimo trails behind, winded.
“Were you napping, Massimo?” Alessandro yells. “Didn’t you see the defender?”
“And where the hell were you? You were supposed to be there!” Massimo fires back.
Alessandro sighs. “If you’d opened your eyes before crossing, you would've seen him.”
Massimo curls his fists. “It’s not my fault you’re never in position!”
Alessandro stares him down. “Come on, Massimo, wake up—learn to read the play.” He sprints off.
The ball falls in front of the box. Diego hooks it and shoots—off balance. His support foot skids, and the shot flies wide.
Stella Nera surges again; our boys sprint back to defend.
Number 15 darts between Tommaso and Edoardo, bursts into the arc, and drills it home with his right foot. Nothing Leonardo can do—it’s the sixth goal.
Stella Nera sets up for a corner; a challenge in midfield brings Edoardo down.
The whistle blows—a foul for them.
A crowd jeers the young official.
A man in a grey velvet jacket shakes his fist. “Are you blind? That was no foul!”
Next to him, a woman in a light-blue coat stands. “Shame! Go plant potatoes!” she hisses. “Ridiculous—I can't believe it!”
The referee points to the spot.
Domenico, out of breath and rubbing his leg, gets ready to defend.
Matteo steals the ball, dribbles past Number 10, and surges down the left. He enters the final third and lays it across low to Stefano, who arcs past the defense and tees it up for Gabriele. He controls it on his chest, lets it bounce, and slots it toward the near post. Number 1 dives, parries with his fingertips—the ball hits the woodwork and bounces out of the box.
The final whistle.
The boys trudge off the field, dragging their feet with heads bowed. Diego and Davide are in tears.
Stands quiet down to a soft murmur.
Lorenzo and Stefano perch on benches, elbows on thighs; Alessandro and Riccardo stare blankly ahead.
Matteo kicks off his cleats. “That was a disaster.”
Blue jackets and hoodies mingle with jerseys hanging on hooks.
“We wasted another chance,” says Massimo, knees pulled to his chest.
Domenico massages his leg. “Every time I think I’m fit, I get hurt again.”
Water bottles and supplements litter the floor; a blue plastic chair in the center is covered in bags and trash.
Gabriele leans against the wall. “I’ve got no energy. I don’t know if I can keep this up.”
I click my fingers, regaining attention. “Listen up: I know you’re disappointed, but remember—this was a friendly.”
“So what’s the point?” Alessandro says, voice trembling. “We just showed our weaknesses.”
The locker room glows softly through the frosted window.
“Exactly—and that’s the first step to getting stronger. Now we know what to work on.”
They head out, bag-laden shoulders, furrowed brows, heavy eyelids. Parents embrace them in the parking lot. Doors close, engines rattle to life, and tail lights fade down the driveway.
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