CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (16 page)

“I know, Carlotta told me,” Dario answered
lethargically, much more concerned about the grass stain on his new silver sneakers
with tire-print soles than with Matteo’s plans for the evening.  “We’re going
to
Jungle Jim’s
, and you’re meeting up with us there.”

“Not exactly.”  He decided to let down his
congenitally masculine guard.  “I want to see her alone tonight.”

“Did you hear that everybody?  Pack your
bags, we’re going to Vegas!  The cat’s in the bag!” he cried, imitating Tricky
the Voice.  “The fat lady has sung!”

“It’s a bit early to celebrate, don’t you
think?  We’re only at halftime, I’d say.”  Matteo shook his head thoughtfully. 
“She doesn’t know yet.”

“Oh drop the act,” Dario reprimanded him. 
“Has any girl ever said no to you?”

“Maybe I never cared before if they did.” 
He combed his right hand through his hair and bit his lip nervously.  “It’s
different this time.  With her it’s different,” he sighed.  “Everything’s so
strange.  I’ve known her forever, she’s a part of my life.”  He stopped, unsure
of what he was even saying.  He leaned back against the flaking cement wall.  “I
never planned to....”

“To...?”  Dario waited for his friend to
say the words, to admit them, especially to himself.  It’s not easy for boys to
recognize, or to admit, their feelings.  They feel exposed, vulnerable....

“Zovigo, hit the showers!” Coach Esposito
yelled at him, approaching the locker room from the adjacent club offices.

“OK, coach.”

“Now!”  He put a hand on his star player’s
back and pushed him in that direction.

Dario had only enough time to blurt out, “You
two are bound to one another.  You always have been.  Everyone knows it!”

Matteo nodded at him just before his coach
let the rusty metal door clang shut behind them.

“What’s he talking about?” he asked
Matteo, his eyes narrowed.

“Nothing, coach.  Nothing but rumors.”

“Don’t let me down, Matteo.”  He stopped
him.  “Doors are opening for you that just one year ago would have seemed
impossible.  Keep your eyes on the prize, and don’t get sidetracked by kid
stuff,” he warned him in a parental voice.

“What are you talking about?”  Matteo felt
his muscles go tight.

“Be patient... just a little while longer.” 
Esposito’s eyes began to well up and his chin began to tremble.  “God it’s hot
in here.  Go on, hurry up and get changed!”  Esposito spun away before a tear
made its way down his kind face and dampened his beard.

The cacophony of Matteo’s teammates in the
showers faded into the background of his noisy, crowded thoughts.  The water
ran down his face and muffled his ears.  “
Kid stuff!?  What kid stuff is he
talking about
?”  His brain desperately sought an answer.  “
I saw two men
in suits up in the stands... they certainly weren’t the new groundsmen!  But
even if these ‘open doors’ – as coach calls them – were to lead me straight to
the stadium of the
Lanerossi, what would have to change?  My life would
be basically the same, with the exception that I’d be playing in Castelnovo on
the other side of Vicenza.
”  He made a quick calculation.  “
Less than
thirty miles from here
....
”  He passed the shampoo to Puccio without
even noticing it, lost in his thoughts.  “
Practice during the week, games on
Saturday afternoons, just like now!  Everyone would come to the home games at
Bertoldi Stadium and maybe even sometimes for the away games... even Marika
might come to those!  She likes soccer, she practically knows as much about it
as I do by now.  She’d like it.
”  Giacomo’s high-pitched, ear-splitting
voice jarred him from his thoughts.  “
Come on!
” he shouted to himself,
turning the water off and walking away from the cloud of steam.  “
And
tonight, if what I think is true, there’s gonna be a lot to celebrate!
”

He got dressed quickly, toweling off his
hair as best he could, and then darted out of the locker room, only to find an
unexpected posse awaiting him: his coach; his father, looking like he had just
been drinking rounds of grappa; his sister, who was giggling; the owner Dr.
Manea and his older son; and in the shadows, the two elegantly-dressed men from
before.

He recognized Michele Canosi, the agent he
had spoken to months earlier, but not the other man; but he felt like he had
been hit in his gut when he saw the logo that was emblazoned on his jacket: the
Folgore
, the glorious ship from Salgari’s
Black Corsair
  novels,
not to mention the emblem that had been chosen by
AC San Carlo
for its
team, known colloquially as the
Corsairs
.

Shaking his hand, Canosi was the first to
break the silence.  “It’s my pleasure to introduce to you Mr. Carlo Braidi,
president of the youth squad and scouting division of
AC San Carlo Milan
,
currently playing in the big leagues, Serie A.”

“Hello Matteo,” Carlo said to him,
delicately placing a hand on the boy’s tense shoulder, a move he had made a
hundred times with other boys who found themselves in similar situations in
order to ease the inevitable tension.

“Good evening, sir.”  His voice was thin,
though not so much as to make him sound nervous.

At this point, Michele, who was not born
to take second place, began speaking again.  “Don’t worry, we’ll explain
everything to you.”  He wished Esposito and the club owner Manea a good
evening, then said to the remaining group, “I propose taking this discussion
indoors, in front of a good glass of wine.”  He laughed.  “Not for you, kid!” 
Matteo barely heard him, trying desperately to control the wave of disorganized
thoughts running through his mind.  “I want to have my old friend and colleague
try a glass of Tai Rosso from the Vendramini Winery.”

“
What does the Vendramini Winery have
to do with anything?
” he wondered, his face a blank as he followed the
others in silence, like some kind of automaton not knowing where his life was
leading him.

“Your sister told me about it...,” Dario
whispered to him as he exited the stadium.  “I don’t know what to say, I’m so
happy for you.”

“Don’t say anything to Marika for now.” 
Matteo could feel his father’s eye upon him, waiting at their car.  “I want to
tell her myself.”

His friend nodded, willing even to keep it
a secret from Carlotta if Matteo wanted.  Matteo and the others disappeared
into the evening.

Mr. Zovigo’s run-down old Fiat hatchback
led the way for Canosi and Braidi in their exclusive BMW Series 6 convertible,
metallic black.  When they arrived at the Vendramini Winery, Ferdinando was
over the moon to have them as his guests; he led them to the winery’s furnished
cellar where he had laid a table with local cheeses and sliced meats,
accompanied by toasted bread and slices of grilled polenta, all of which was
merely the precursor to his pride and joy: his deep red Tai Rosso wine, rich in
body, fruity with hints of wild raspberry and cherry.

“Bepi,” he said to Matteo’s father, “Congratulations! 
What an amazing opportunity for your son!”

“Thanks, Ferdi.  Let’s hope so.”  Giuseppe
Zovigo was not a man given to boastful, unbridled enthusiasm.  A lifetime
working in the fields – as a hired hand, not as the owner – had made him
cautious; he was one of seven children and had known in his youth the real
meaning of the words poverty and hunger.  His ceaseless labor had managed to
carve out a decent life for himself and his family: his greatest gift.  He, who
had barely gotten through middle school, had even managed to send his oldest
daughter to university, where she was getting very high grades.  He was
inordinately proud of his kids, and it broke his heart to think that Matteo
would now be leaving home and going so far away, but he knew that this was his
ticket to a life that he himself had never even dared to dream of.

The agent, lifting himself from the heavy
wooden bench that ran the length of the table, headed towards Matteo, who was
seated at the head of the table, next to Braidi.  He gave a friendly pat to
Ferdinando’s shoulders in thanks of the food and the wine, and then began
speaking to the clearly bewildered boy.

“We’ve already been introduced, but let me
do it again.  I’m Michele Canosi, a sports agent with many important clients in
all of the major and minor leagues, as well as a scouting adviser to many clubs
inside and outside Italy, for whom I handle the recruiting process.”  It was a
formal introduction, the way he liked to do things.  “
AC
San Carlo
,
in particular, has organized an excellent network of scouts and informal
observers to watch all of the leagues in Italy and overseas, even the
provincial ones; in the space of a single season, between twenty and forty
thousand players get observed, of whom not even one thousand are given the
chance for a try-out at our training camp.  On average, only one-tenth of one
percent are ever given a contract.  When our scouts find a kid with promise, an
official request is made to the boy’s team so as to organize the try-out at the
San Carlo
sports center.  If the player passes the try-out, he is given
a one-year contract for the following season.”  He paused to let the words sink
in.

“Our policy is to limit our choices to
players with real talent and potential, trying to keep unnecessary hopes and
sacrifices to a minimum.”  He took a long swig of the red wine, enjoying the
effects of his oratorical skills.  “This is a critical moment for young men at
a vulnerable age, learning how to juggle the responsibility and pressures of
team, family, school, and club, especially for those players who must live on
our campus and confront these challenges away from their home and family.”  He
took a deep breath which signaled the end of his discourse.  “On that score, I’ll
ask the director of the youth squad to fill you in.”

His audience was breathless; not a sound
broke the solemnity of that moment.  No one dared move a muscle to pick up a
glass or eat a bite.  All attention was focused on the two speakers.

“Thank you Michele.  Let me introduce
myself.  I am Carlo Braidi, and as Michele mentioned, I am the director of the
youth squad and of recruiting for
AC San Carlo Milan
, a team that just
last year made the leap into the top Italian league.  Aside from making decisions
on which young talents we should acquire, I am also their mentor through the
entire process of sports and personal growth.  Our team’s philosophy when it
comes to young players is, in fact, that sports can only be seen through the
larger lens of personal development.  You’re an intriguing player...,” his gaze
went directly to Matteo’s face, “who has the technical gifts of a creative
playmaker and the scoring instincts of a forward.  I won’t hide from you the
fact that your natural position on the field is a difficult one to maintain:
number 10s, like Roberto Baggio, have always had difficult relationships with
their coaches. Baggio himself, one of the greatest soccer players of all time,
a player who made the crowds go wild, was often sent to the bench by coaches
who didn’t know how to make use of him on the field.  There will also be the
intense competition of South American players, who are superb passers,
dribblers, fast with the ball, and set piece specialists.”

The challenge excited Matteo and the
hunger for victory gnawed at his stomach.  But suddenly, his face became rigid
and his expression showed nothing but fear and confusion.  His muscles no
longer responded to the commands of his brain, if there even were any.  He had
the feeling that he needed to get up and run away; to give it all up, to go
back to the life he had always had and which he liked; the only life he had
ever known.  Not to leave his friends and his family and, especially, the girl
who had become an essential part of his being.

“Don’t let the fear of failure keep you
from trying.”  Braidi understood the boy’s reaction to this situation, and he
sought to ease his mind.  “You will always find someone better than you in life...
you can’t expect to improve if you are always competing against those less
talented than you are.”  In his heart, Carlo knew that the boy in front of him
had great promise, and that he was mature enough to fear this new situation, an
exciting but unknown future that would take time to soak in.  “Fear is helpful,
because it keeps you on your toes,” he continued, gently, “so long as you don’t
let it stop you from growing.”  He tried to make light of it all with a closing
joke.  “Anyway, I have great confidence in you!  It’s already a good sign that
you haven’t asked me about million-dollar sponsorships, TV appearances, image
rights, and swimsuit models.”

Matteo struggled to smile, but not a sound
came from his mouth.  It was too dry to utter a single word.  The fear of
failure was there, yes, but also the fear of success: he knew perfectly well
that this was an offer he couldn’t refuse, but that fear was penetrating, and
kept him from thinking straight, even from filling his lungs with air.

“Anyway...” the
San Carlo
representative continued, “remember that soccer is a team sport.  It is not you
against the world, and the entire staff of the youth squad – myself in
particular – will be with you every step of the way, advising you, guiding you,
and helping you.”