CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (8 page)

Precisely because he was a serious coach
who prided himself on his integrity, he hadn’t let himself get carried away
when, just before the summer, he had received an informal visit from Michele
Canosi, sports agent of international fame, who was interested in knowing more
about a couple of his players.  He wished for nothing better than a successful
career for his boys – something his own skills had not made possible for
himself – but he was afraid of them being mishandled or badly-advised.  He had
seen too many promising young players given contracts at too young an age to
play outside of Italy without a Virgil at their side, only to return to Italy
injured and frustrated, no longer of any interest to local clubs.  This is why,
during practice, he had lied to his boys, telling them only that a couple of
scouts from lesser northern teams might be coming to watch them from the
stands.

While equally patient and generous with
all of his players, Esposito had a secret but visceral preference for Matteo,
who he considered an absolute future superstar, complete with the character and
morals needed to handle fame, success, and money.

“This is an embarrassment!”  The manager
hotly greeted his players with these words in the locker room during halftime. 
“You’re sleepwalking out there!”  He theatrically slammed shut a locker door
left ajar.  “You are the best damn team I have ever coached.  You are the
absolute best of youth soccer!”  He looked them one by one in the eyes.  “Now
get out there, and this time, I want you to leave it all on the field.”  He
took a deep breath and shouted, “Because. We. Are. Going. To. Win. Today!”

“Yeahhhh!” they roared in response, fired
up.

“I can’t hear you,” he said, winding them
up.  “What are we going to do?”

“Win!  Win!  WIN!”  They rushed back
toward the field, determined not to disappoint their coach, and especially not
to let themselves down.

Esposito held Matteo back at the others
ran off, and whispered to him, “Don’t bring your personal problems onto the
field again.”  He gave him a smack to the back of the head.  “Got it?”

Matteo lowered his eyes and nodded, upset
with himself for having reacted so stupidly and immaturely to a provocation.

During the second half, Matteo pushed the
Brenta
team, and his teammates responded.  At the 57th minute, the playmaker hit the
crossbar with a bullet from 30 yards out, and at the 82nd minute, he dribbled
around three opposing players and sent a perfect cross in front of the goal,
where Marcello found it and headed it into the net for the tying goal.

“Goal, goal!” the stands erupted with the
pent-up emotions of having had to wait nearly the entire match for the
equalizer.  “How many minutes left?” they quickly began to ask the people
sitting next to them.  “Have they already started extra time?”

In fact, they had... the referee had
allowed for 5 minutes of extra time, only three of which were now remaining. 
The
Dogado
team, exhausted after the
Brenta
onslaught, tried
every tactic in the book to protect the 1-1 score and walk off the field with
what for them would be a more than acceptable tie.  Matteo ran about like a
fury, pleading with his teammates to keep sending him the ball to try to slip
past the iron curtain of the
Dogado
defense; when he saw that there was
no hope for a coordinated attack by the
blue and gold
, he took the ball
and forced himself into the deep
Dogado
defenders, earning a free kick
from a dangerous position.

There was practically no time left, and
the free kick would in all likelihood be their last chance to score.  The
referee pulled out a yellow card for the
Dogado
player and pointed at
the spot on the ground where the shot would be taken.

Silence fell throughout the stadium.  The
crowd was hypnotized by Matteo as he gently placed the ball on the grass, 20 yards
from the goal, at a central-left position.  He had spent countless hours over
the past two years practicing set pieces, studying the techniques of the best
free kickers in the game: from a bending trajectory to a falling one, gaining
valuable and erratic movement on the ball from the way it was kicked – straight
on, from the side, with only the three middle toes – and where it was kicked – on
the smooth side, against the air valve, or with the stitches.

The spectators were on edge.  Even Marika’s
friends had stopped chattering.  Then the referee’s whistle broke the silence.

Matteo took three steps and made a perfect
shot, sending the ball right into the upper corner.

“Goooooooal...” the announcer yelled in
his best imitation of a South-American cadence, joining the raucous cries of
joy rising from the stands, which had suddenly turned into a Sambadrome after
such an exhausting and long-awaited victory.

As he always did after scoring, Matteo
pumped his right fist into the sky and performed an airborne pirouette before
being tackled and submerged under his teammates.

2 to 1,
Brenta
.  The referee
whistled the end of the game.  Everyone to the showers!

The
Dogado
team argued with the
linesman for calling the foul against Matteo, while the
Brenta
team dragged
out its celebrations. 
“
La la la la la la la, Go Brenta go, Go Brenta
go!
”

Applauded by his coach and the remains of
the crowd, Matteo headed toward the locker room through the tunnel under the
central stands.  Most of the spectators had headed toward the snack bar to
debate the results and performance of the team; only some parents and Matteo’s
group of friends were still in their seats.  He quickly scanned those remaining
until he found what he was searching for, those soft, pistachio-colored eyes. 
His mouth spread instantly into a wide smile, which she matched, under the
watchful gaze of both friends and enemies.

The look between the two of them could not
go unnoticed, especially by those harpies who envied their relationship, and it
set off a firestorm of gossip and bitchiness.  “She’s such a stupid chick,”
Lucrezia commented furiously.  “She truly believes that Matteo likes her.”

“She’s always telling us that they’re just
friends,” Livia added, glad to join in against Marika, “when in truth she’s
been drooling over him for years.”

“Yeah, like a dog in heat!” Lucrezia
added, cruelly, her nostrils flaring.

“She doesn’t get it that he’s just leading
her on.  He only thinks of her as a friend... a male friend at that!”  Their
vicious laughter rippled over the noise of the cars leaving the parking lot.

In the locker room, meanwhile, the team
was awaiting only Alessio, the central defender of the team; he had been
delayed by his responsibility, as team captain, to help the manager escort the
referee out of the stadium and make sure that he was not assaulted by angry
fans, as was especially possible when late goals were scored.  The number 2
entered the lockers to the sounds of ecstatic shouts and yells, and lowbrow
jokes about the opposing team.

“Olé!  Olé! 
Brenta
... olé!”

The kidding around only ended when the
coach entered and raised his gruff voice above the decibel level of his
celebrating charges.  “Quiiiieeeeet!”  Esposito slammed his metallic clipboard
against the wall, chipping off a piece of moldy plaster.  “You were just lucky
today.  We’ll talk about it more on Tuesday.”

When he left, one joker chucked his shin
guards toward the closing door, and then they all started stripping off their
uniforms and heading to the showers to relax under the hot water.  “Pass me the
soap,” Marcello said from underneath a cloud of steam to Albano, who was
rifling through his gym bag.

Sheepishly, the goalie pulled out a
gigantic half-gallon jug of discount liquid soap of a strange lime green color
and handed it toward his teammate.

“Hey guys, check out Puccio!” Marcello
ribbed him, calling everyone’s attention to the huge plastic container.  “He
brought enough soap for a car wash.”

Everyone turned their eyes on the
unfortunate butt of the joke, grinning good-naturedly and trying to press the
maxi-bottle into Marcello’s hands.

“Hold it right there!”  The forward
refused the strange liquid, taking some from another player’s bottle.  “I’m
fine as is, thanks.”

The showers echoed with further gibes at
Puccio’s expense, who had to take his fair share of grief after his poor play
on the goal scored by
Dogado
.

“Hey Puccio, you could have called ahead
to tell us you weren’t showing up today,” someone in the back hollered.  “We
would have found a sub.”

 “Yeah, a cardboard cutout!” shouted
Stefano, getting in on the act.  “No one would have noticed the difference.

Albano, his face covered with suds,
sputtered through the spraying water at the rest of the team, “Aw give it a
fucking rest, guys!” then said something else that was unintelligible, given
that his voice was under attack from that strange shower gel.

“... or a Teletubbies,” Matteo added,
throwing a towel at him.  “Get a look at yourself, man, you’re turning green! 
Anyway, a phone call would have been nice, you could have even sent a text.”

“All this for a small and, considering
that we won, insignificant slip-up!” Puccio defended himself.

“Yeah... once a match!” Marcello said as
he left the showers.

Meanwhile, Giacomo, Sandra’s boyfriend,
observed the scene in silence, disappointed about his perpetual role as
benchwarmer, primarily because of the skills of Marcello and Matteo.  “What a
pain, guys... with you two out there I never get a chance to play.”

“Why don’t you try out for goalkeeper?”
Marcello yelled.  “As far as I know, there’s an opening for the job.”

Albano gave him a dirty look.  “Another
comment and I’m gonna peg you with my stinky cleats.”

“No!  Please!”  He dramatically covered
his face and his privates.  “Hit me with your gloves instead... you clearly don’t
need them anyway.”

The back and forth between the players
went on until the last one had filed out of the locker room.

Marcello was among the first to get
dressed, and as he left he was immediately called by the coach into his modest
office.

As he entered, he noticed a very elegant
and serious-looking stranger standing next to his coach and the president of
the
Brenta Soccer Club
association.  He was wearing a smoke-gray suit
and carrying an executive briefcase.

Intrigued, Marcello openly stared at the
man, totally unconcerned about the most basic rules of etiquette and manners. 
The man stared back, judging the boy through a test of wills: who would look
away first?

“Marcello, I have the honor of introducing
you to Michele Canosi, an internationally-famous sports agent and scouting
consultant for many national and international clubs,” Dr. Manea, the president
of
Brenta
, said to his player.

“Pleased to meet you.”  Canosi approached
the boy, who had remained at the door this whole time, and shook his hand
firmly.  “Marcello, right?”  He looked down at his day timer, crammed with
notes and appointments.  “Marcello Bassani.”

“Yes sir!” Marcello replied, a bit taken
aback by the formalities.

“Relax,” Esposito told him, then turned to
the agent, saying, “Marcello is our number 9, our center forward.  He’s
nineteen years old and has been playing with us for about seven.  He’s like a
fortified tower in the middle, thanks to his innate physical characteristics
and excellent stamina.  He’s got an excellent header, he’s good at defending
the ball while his teammates advance, and he even has a powerful long-distance
shot.”

Canosi listened, but with very little
attention.  He was more interested in the boy’s off-field demeanor than his
coach’s opinion: he trusted no one’s testimony about a player except his own. 
He knew enough about the game to be able to identify their virtues by watching
them play himself.

Esposito meanwhile was saying, “Mr. Canosi
was at the game today, and....”

“You guys were good... but lucky,” the
agent brusquely interrupted.  “Similar mistakes are usually fatal.”  Canosi
kept his eyes on the other men in the room, taking a sip from the glass of
white wine that the club had kindly offered him.

About ten minutes after Marcello’s
hesitant entrance, Matteo joined them as well, having been informed by Esposito’s
assistant to head to the office.  The midfielder entered cautiously, but 
confidently, and he was immediately introduced to Canosi.

“Matteo is our number 10.  He’s a
playmaker, but he scores goals like a forward.  He dictates the tempo of the
other players, has superb skills, and sees the game like few others.  He’s
quick, and easily dribbles past his defenders.  He makes excellent deep passes
and is good with free kicks as well.  You saw what he did today.”  The coach
turned directly to Matteo now, and said, “Like I explained earlier to your
teammate,” pointing at Marcello, who was now feeling more at ease in this
unfamiliar situation, “Michele Canosi is a famous sports agent and scout for
various soccer clubs, both in Italy and internationally.  He’s at the top of a
network that is spread out all over Italy watching teams in all the minor
leagues.  He’s here to check out some promising players and offer them the
possibility of placing them in a special training program that starts next
spring, and will be held at a professional team’s training center.”