CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (50 page)

The stadium erupted, and before his
teammates could tackle him in celebration, he pointed his right index finger up
and turned his eyes toward the sky: it was a different celebration from the way
he had always celebrated his goals in the past, but at the Vendramini house, no
one even noticed, busy as they were jumping about and hugging each other.  The
die-hard fans in the southern curve began to call his name and quickly composed
chants in his honor.

Marika was inexplicably happy and
confused.  She felt her eyes swell with tears and a feverish chill brought
scarlet blotches to her face.  Her sobs got lost in the general shouts of joy,
but eventually the emotion was too much and she ran from the room before the
tears began to flow.

At the end of the match, number 28 was
assaulted by journalists who asked him to make statements or allow himself to
be interviewed.  He was big news for everyone.  He was answering the final
questions, unfamiliar with the skill of giving them nothing but rote responses,
when Agostini interrupted.  “Matteo, hit the showers!”  Trade rumors had
already begun flying about, suggesting that he would soon be departing for
Sicily where another Serie A team wanted to take him on loan for the rest of
the season as a starting midfielder.

Matteo had not received any notification
about such an event from
San Carlo
, and the staff assured him that the
excessive interest that the press was showing in him today would already be on
the way out tomorrow.  So he gave little thought to the possibility of being
transferred to a faraway team, which would have been a real blow to him, and he
just kept his focus on his play with
San Carlo
.

November turned into December, and the end
of the first half of the season.  Matteo was playing regularly with both the
youth squad and the Serie A team, but despite his excellent performance, he was
having a hard time finding permanent space in the top league because of the
already rich roster of veterans and South American talents; he kept moving back
and forth without finding a constant role.  The rumors about a trade to the
yellow
and green
of Sicily gained more and more credibility, and even the
executives of
San Carlo
were considering the advantages of loaning him
out for the year so that he could get constant playing time and raise his
market value.

“We’re thinking about entering into
negotiations with the Sicilians for you as of January.”  It was a cold winter’s
morning when Braidi called Matteo into his office.  “The
yellow and green
would like to buy you out from us, but we’re only willing to discuss a loan,
with a fifty percent buyback.” 
San Carlo
was willing to lose its
talented midfielder for a little while in order to give him playing time that
would help him develop for the future.

“Wow,” he mumbled, his head bowed by what
sounded like a rejection from his own club.  He had been in denial about all
the rumors for weeks, pretending like he had all the time in the world to put
back together the broken pieces of his life... because yes, the money, the
career, the fame, and the fortune were all well and good, but he was still just
a young man very much attached to adolescent sentiments which could muddle his
mind and shatter the fragile equilibrium he had as a man and as a player.

“The
yellow and green
Athletic
Director has put forward a loan proposal with a release clause, at the end of
the season, of 1.2 million euros for co-ownership.”  It was a significant
amount for a kid who still had to prove his worth.  “Your salary until June
will be completely paid for by
San Carlo
, while the exact details of how
the loan will work have not been established.  Mr. Parini is still speaking
with the rest of the executive board about the possibility of accepting a
co-ownership deal.”

Matteo was having a difficult time
understanding everything Braidi was saying, a flood of legalese that the
uninitiated could only guess at: rules for trades, the juridical norms for
sports contracts, negotiations, transfers, laws, and sentences of the Italian
Soccer Federations.

“I got in touch with your agent, Canosi,
who expressed full willingness to negotiate.”  He offered Matteo a glass of
water from the elegant Baccarat crystal pitcher sitting on his liberty-style
desk.  “This is an excellent opportunity for you to develop, surrounded by a
group of professionals who love taking on challenges and working with new young
talent.”  Braidi was trying to tempt Matteo with a future as a permanent
starter for the
yellow and green
.  “You’d have the chance to start every
game for a serious, storied team, showing your skills off to a dedicated fan
base and to the scouts of the National Team.”

“Why?”  The boy from Orgiano was still too
naive and inexperienced to understand the complicated economic interests that
were behind all trade negotiations, and which could ruin a club when handled
badly.  “I’ve always practiced hard and I’ve never argued with the coach.  I’ve
played my heart out on the field, and I’ve been willing to play in different
positions, with good results, I think.”  He swallowed nervously.  “Why do you
want to trade me?”

“It is precisely because we think you are
an excellent part of our team that we are giving this extraordinary opportunity
to you and not to any other player.”  Braidi registered his player’s reluctance,
but was afraid that he didn’t exactly understand why the boy was holding back.

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart
for the trust and respect that you have always shown me, but I’d like to be
given the chance to remain in the
white and blue
, at least until the end
of June, when you’ll be able to make some decisions about my future and my
contract, based on my performance over an entire season.”  Matteo was asking
for another shot.  “I won’t let you down.”  His eyes shone clearly in the
feeble light that filtered through the window.

“OK, Matteo.  We’ll see.”  Braidi inhaled
deeply, taking a sip of his high-end bottled water.  “Here’s what we’ll do:
Canosi will be back from England in a few days, and right now you just need to
focus on your match Saturday.  Let’s wait to make any decision until next week
Thursday, when we can all meet together here in my office and talk this through
calmly.”  He lifted himself gracefully from his sienna leather bergère
armchair, his suit showing not the least wrinkle or crease.  “Take your time
and consider our offer; sleep on it, talk to your parents about it – we’ve
already informed them about the negotiations – and don’t worry too much.”  He
put his arm around his shoulders as he escorted him to the door.  “Leave these
bureaucratic bothers to us.  Just keep on playing the way you have been, and we’ll
consider the rest in due time.  Good luck!”  Carlo smiled at him just before
the aging secretary from reception led him to the exit.

“
Bureaucratic bothers, you call them!
” 
What for them were run-of-the-mill trade negotiations were his life.  “
It’s
easy for you guys to speak
....
”  He felt like he was suffocating,
seeing his many reflections in the elevator mirrors.  “
You aren’t the ones
who will have to take the heat for any decision
.”

He had to take into consideration the
responsibility he felt toward
San Carlo
, the team that had taken him
from a patchy provincial field to the stadiums of Serie A in less than a year;
then there was his family, which after decades of struggles and sacrifice would
finally be able to cash in on that past through a son they were justifiably
proud of playing in Serie A.

“
Hey Pop!  My market value has gone way
up and they’ve offered me a professional contract
.”  He smiled to himself
as he crossed the entry hall of the
San Carlo
offices, imagining the
expression on his father’s wrinkled face when he saw the piece of fertile land
that could now be his to farm as he wished... as the owner.

An excellent reason to accept the offer of
a transfer, as was the future fame of being a starting player and the desire to
prove that he was the best, but which still weren’t enough to tip the scales of
emotions, feelings, love, and uncontrollable sensations that would not listen
to reason.  His thoughts and his heart had gotten all tangled up on the heights
of the Berici Hills, tying his stomach up in a knot of fear and emotion.  To
stay, even though it was riskier than running away; to fight, even if
surrendering was simpler.

After dinner, in the silence of his room
at the
Visconti
dormitory, Matteo called his father while the rest of
his teammates were engaged in a heated game of FIFA.  “
Son, you have to make
your own destiny and fight for what you really want
.”  He listened to his
parents repeat over and over again that they would support him no matter what
he chose.  That they were proud of him, soccer or no soccer, and that they
would never push him one way or another.  That he had to do what was best for
him, because no one else would look out for him as well as he would himself.

“OK, I will.”  He never dared to tell them
about the doubts and anxieties that were sucking his blood; he didn’t want to
burden them with that extra weight, but even more, he didn’t want to disappoint
them.  Only later, while speaking with Dario about the Sicilian team’s interest
in him, did he admit that he felt the need to stay closer to home so as not to
lose touch with the life that he eventually wanted to live.

This psychological element crept into his
life over the next few days, and as the possibility of being transferred loomed
ever larger in his mind, the impact of these rumors affected his play on the
field.  The following match, Matteo was listless and ineffective: during the
Saturday evening match, he wandered about Ferraris Stadium like a ghost,
fouling up a number of passes and failing to convert more than one golden
chance in front of the goal, one-on-one with the keeper.

“What the hell has happened to you?”  The
next day, section 228 of San Siro Stadium, Milan.  “Did you lose your smile, as
well as your shirt, at Ferraris?  This isn’t about your agent, is it?  I sure
don’t envy you.  Missing as many goals as you did would shake the confidence of
much more veteran players than you.”  The
San Carlo
players were sitting
at the café of the San Siro second deck, waiting for their drinks and for the
beginning of the cross-town Sunday derby between
Milan
and
Inter
,
after having spent the day wandering the boutiques of downtown Milan.  “Forget
Canosi!  He’s a total loser,” Amedeo said to him, trying to cheer him up.  “He
couldn’t even hit the side of a barn with a soccer ball.”  The right winger
criticized the agent for being totally addicted to money, willing to sell his
own mother if he could find a buyer, and, most importantly for him, for being a
die-hard fan of
SS Lazio
, the cross-town rival of Amedeo’s favorite
team,
AS Roma
.  “But Braidi was clear, and there’s no getting around
that!” Amedeo continued.  “Your personal opinion, when it comes to negotiations
between clubs, is worth about as much as this plastic cup here.”

“Six euros please.”  The kid behind the
bar handed the check over to the two players, interrupting the scene.

“How much?”  Amedeo swallowed hard.  “I
get four of these in Rome for 6 euros.”  He raised first one, then the other
eyebrow.  “You sure you use the same money here in Milan?” he said, slowly
reaching for his wallet.  They paid and made their way to their box seats. 
Amedeo laid a piece of newspaper across his before sitting down.  “If Canosi
wants to sell you,” he winked at Matteo, “consider yourself sold.”

Convicted without possibility of appeal. 
A thumbs down in the Colosseum with no chance for mercy.  And while everyone
around him began making predictions about the big match and commenting about
the team’s performance yesterday, the mind of the young midfielder was
elsewhere, where the miles evaporated between the hills and vineyards and the
delicate fragrance of her skin invaded the air and his senses.  It had been
just one year ago when they had sat in this very stadium and she had fallen
into his arms, wrapping herself up in the scarf that he had purchased for her. 
Marika, her girlish face framed by long brown hair and lips tinted with a
brazen beauty, was a memory best left untouched.  Matteo knew that he would
never be able to love another as much as he loved her, and he knew that the
bond between them was real: he could feel her experiencing the same emotions
that he felt – the thrill of being with her and the pain of having had to leave
– after having watched her reject his offer of his heart on a silver platter.

The week after the derby, Matteo managed
to disappoint his coach once again, after having been inserted as a starter for
the match but then being taken out after only fifteen minutes of lackluster
play.  All of a sudden, the interest from the Sicilian team was beginning to
wane after his recent performances, which the
yellow and green
management quickly brought to the negotiating table.

That Thursday morning, Braidi had just
finished an exasperating conversation with the Sicilian GM when Matteo parked
the fully hybrid compact car placed at his disposition by the team’s sponsor
between a Fuji-white F458 Italia and a deep emerald green Maserati
Quattroporte.

“The Italian clubs are getting beat by the
foreigners – Spanish and English teams above all, but with the French hot on
their heels – in terms of budget flexibility for high-class players.”  Michele
Canosi was delivering a speech on the decline of Italian soccer from a
half-inclined position on the 19th-century bergère while he sipped an espresso
in his friend and colleague’s office.  “The boards pay much more attention to
balance sheets in order to keep costs down and make sure their clubs are in the
black and have money to spend.  That’s why it’s so hard to make any real market
splashes in the Italian leagues.”  The sports agent, who had landed at Malpensa
International Airport just a couple of hours earlier after a successful
business trip with the English Premier League, missed the good old days when
even a barely-average player could command above-average prices for transfers
and trades.