CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (48 page)

San Carlo
had been playing official
matches since the beginning of August this year, qualifying in the process for
the first rounds of the Europa League, while in Serie A they looked like they
were ready to equal last year’s results, currently positioned in the upper
echelons of the rankings.  But battling on multiple fronts was an economic
drain for small, so-called “provincial” teams, whose financial conditions
prohibited them from going out and purchasing expensive superstars, so they
depended on young players with salaries that were in line with their relative
inexperience.  Filling out their rosters meant building up a strong farm system
from which you could promote talented players, or having one of your scouts
find some diamond in the rough playing in the minor leagues somewhere in Italy
or elsewhere.   Among the youth squad players, both Sergio and Pão had been
practicing with the Serie A club for weeks, even though they continued to start
for Beretta’s team on Saturdays.  The Brazilian fullback in particular had even
sat on the bench as a substitute for one of the top league matches.

“Do you really think Matteo is ready for
Serie A?”  It was the first time Beretta had called him by his first name in an
official setting.  “He’s never played in a league match before.”  He didn’t
believe he was mentally ready for it.  “He doesn’t have the physical strength
or the experience for it.  It’s premature, and I’m afraid it will prove to be a
mistake.”

“He’ll learn on the field from the other
pros.”  Braidi thought that Matteo’s strong, balanced personality, a gift from
a strong, loving family, not to mention his background and his willingness to
make sacrifices, would help him both on and off the field.  “You can always see
a superstar right away.  And I’ve seen the light.” He had been waiting months
to get him up onto the big stage.  “I was sure of it the first time I saw him
play.  All it took were five minutes on that crappy little field to know that I
wasn’t just watching a blossoming midfielder or a talented amateur, but a pure
talent, a chosen one.”

“Well, hats off to you!”  Even the coach
of the youth squad had had to admit that the small-town midfielder was well
above the average.  “At my age, I don’t think I’ll be changing my tactical
ideas anytime soon, but I’ll miss that kid.”  He watched as Matteo dashed down
the sideline with the ball at his feet, setting the pace and the tactics of the
attack.  “Ever since his first day here he has always practiced hard and put in
extra work, and he’s never once complained about my decisions...
Lorenzoooo
!” 
Beretta suddenly began barking orders at a midfielder to get him to pull back
and help out on defense, before continuing.  “Humility is a rare quality for
someone who knows he is talented.  I don’t think he’s going to lose his way.” 
The silence of Braidi was enough of a confirmation for Beretta, so the coach
drifted away and sent his players into the locker room.

The day came to an end, as did the
following weeks for Matteo under Agostini’s command.

Practicing with the Serie A team was a
cathartic experience, so devastatingly exhausting that it went beyond anything
else he had ever known.  Hard work and absolute dedication were the order of
the day, and nothing was ever left to chance.  “The ball should never, ever, be
kicked away,” the coach repeated daily.  “You play the way you practice,” was
his mantra.  He prepared for the matches together with the team, and gave
responsibility to each one of the players.  Agostini was an excellent
motivator, capable of inspiring confidence and passion in his players, for whom
he was a dedicated taskmaster.  He monitored their athletic preparation and
their psychological toughness, their ball control and their understanding of
their role within the team, from handling the pressures of the outside world to
dealing with the dynamics within the squad.

Daily practice schedules were explained
inside the locker room, after which the coach took up his position in the
stands to keep an eye on all of the players at once, giving his assistant coach
the duty of running around with the group on the field.

Warmups were never skipped, being so
important for physical endurance and as preparation for the following
exercises.  During warmups, the assistant coaches wanted to raise the players’
body temperature, heartbeat, and breathing rate so as to prepare them for the
work at hand, respecting Agostini’s explicit indication that he wanted contact
with the ball to be a priority.  After warmups, they worked on fundamentals and
running, particularly for attacking and defending open spaces.  Then they moved
on to simulating game situations, followed by footballtennis, thematic games,
and keep-away, all standard pregame and halftime warmups.  Only then did they
play their daily practice match.

Practice ended in the locker room again,
where Agostini tested the waters of the group dynamics.

It was in the middle of October when trade
rumors started filtering into these post-practice sessions.  “Coach, we heard
the GM is negotiating for a new defender.”

“Maybe they’re going to replace Bregant,”
someone suggested.

The feedback that the coach got from the
locker room indicated bright skies and smooth sailing ahead as the players
quickly joined in on a round of jibes at the goalkeeper’s expense, all starting
from the penalty kick that he had been unable to block.  Even if the majority
of them made six-figures a month, they were, after all, just a bunch of guys
who played one of the most beautiful games in the world.

“Definitely!  He hasn’t put together two
blocks in a row since he was in diapers!” Amedeo said, enjoying his joke.

“But what about Ninho...?” the team
captain added, taking aim at the club’s forwards.

“What about me?” the Brazilian attacker
roared.

“You didn’t create a single opportunity
the entire second half... you were stuck like glue to Zovigo,” he said,
complaining about a lackluster performance by the striker.  “What the hell were
you doing anyway?”

“What do you mean,
what was he doing
?”
Amedeo butted in, always ready with a retort.  “He was covering him man-to-man.” 
Everyone laughed.  “But we are the blue shirts, Ninho.  You need to cover the
yellow ones!”

Running short on oxygen and high on lactic
acid, the players started making their way toward the showers when Agostini
told them all to stay put.   “You’re all going to be expected to grow up fast
in this environment.”  He had decided to make their Friday session a bit longer
than usual.  “This is no longer your middle school soccer field that you were
once used to.  The stress level here is through the roof, and you’re going to
have to play through it.”  It sounded like an initiation rite to the new
recruits.  “Many of you know this already, the rest of you will learn it fast
enough.  But this isn’t the same as becoming men.”  He paused, there on the
threshold, getting ready to launch into a speech that would involve every
single player on a personal level.  “And in order to become a real champion,
you first have to become a real man.  It’s a necessity, and there are no
shortcuts.”  He was about to exit the room when he added, “Tomorrow we enter
our pregame routine: in the morning, we run through the final details before
departing for Palermo.”  One of his staff members handed him a handwritten
piece of paper.  “You’ll find the list of players traveling with the team on
the bulletin board outside.” 
CLUNK
!  The door closed behind him,
sending a dull, prophetic sound through the locker room.

Matteo rushed through his shower, unrolled
the bathrobe with the team colors that had been carefully folded on the bench
in front of his locker, and threw his clothes on in order to hurry to the “plasma
room” – so-called because of the enormous high-definition TV hanging on the
wall – that was used for briefings and which housed not only the trophy case
but also the bulletin board for official communications.  The club’s emblem was
everywhere, and above it all was a wall of enlarged photos of everyone who had
played a critical role in the club’s history.  Matteo was the first to get to
the bulletin board today, perhaps because he was the only one who had never
traveled with the team before, not even to warm a seat up in the stands.  But
before he got the chance to spy the names of the midfielders, a voice behind
him caught his attention.

“A playmaker is a leader, he makes
decisions, he does things that no one ever expects.”  It was Agostini.  “He has
to understand before everyone else how to control the game.  He has to be
rapid, especially in his mind, so as to dictate tempo and ball movement.”  He
pointed at the legendary captain of the
white and blue
from the 1970s.  “It’s
not an easy position to play.  It is demanding and stressful.”

Matteo listened to him without breathing,
understanding from the coach’s words what he had not been able to read on the
wall.

“If you need any help, with anything, you
know where to find me.”  He smiled at Matteo, a friendly, fatherly smile
wrapped up in a double chin.  “Everything’s going to be fine.”  He placed a
hand on Matteo’s shoulder and squeezed his collar bone between his fingers
before disappearing into the executive offices.

It was Saturday afternoon when Marika read
the message from Carlotta:

“The official San Carlo FB page posted
its list of players for tomorrow’s match... Matteo is one of the midfielders
leaving today for Palermo.  Here’s the link.  Please don’t faint:
facebook.com/notes/ACSanCarlo-SquadList
;)”

Marika wasted no time in answering,
obviously without checking her sources. 
“Don’t bullshit me!  This avian flu that’s been going around school,
or some similar X-file you’ve got there at the university, must have gone to
your head.  Matteo plays on the youth squad, not Serie A!”

“He’s been practicing with the Serie A team for weeks!”
Carlotta replied with absolute
certainty.
 
“Dario
told me.”

The IM client, left online and available,
put an end to their feud.
“If
I’m lost, please don’t find me.”
 An instant
message from Eve demanded immediate attention.

“I’ve got to go, Carlotta,”
and
anyway, Marika was too cowardly to click on that link. 
“XOXO.”
 
She changed her status to
invisible,
staying online exclusively with her
friend, who kept sending post after post...

“If I drown, let me sink”

“Don’t hold me”

“Don’t coax me”

“Follow me to nowhere”

Marika felt a pit
in her stomach and wrote back quickly:
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I know I don’t like
it!”

Eve had been
feeling very down lately, tired of battling against the hypocrisy of the world
and the cruel hostility that surrounded her, and she was ready to give up.

“Where are you?”
Marika wrote again, trying to be close to
her virtually. 
“Call me!”

All of a sudden,
though, the chat ended.  Eve was no longer online.

Frightened, her
heart pounding, Marika called Federico.  “Hello?”  Her voice was shaking as her
lips brushed against the phone.  “Fede, I’m worried about Eve.  You have to
find her.  Right away!  She’s turned off her phone and I’m scared to death.” 
She was as white as a sheet.  “Go find her, I’m begging you.  Find her!”

“Calm down!  I
can’t understand a word you’re saying.”  His face had lost all color too.  “Take
a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m worried
about Eve!” Marika sobbed dramatically, rereading the posts to Federico.  “Do
something, please!”

“Take it easy
Marika, everything’s OK!”  It wasn’t the first time that Federico had had to deal
with a similar hassle, for that’s all it was.  “Eve is here with the rest of
us.  We’re rehearsing.  She’s in the bathroom right now.”  He made a gesture to
the others to knock on the door.  “Don’t worry, it’s just a cover song.  We’ll
take care of her.”

Queen Mab’s
disciple came out of the bathroom, smartphone in hand and a guilty grin on her
face, reading Federico’s lips as she walked past: “
You’re such a bitch!
”

“I never said
that they were my own words.”  Eve ignored his insult.  “I just wanted to see
what kind of a reaction I got.  Take it easy!”  She spun around on a swivel
chair.  “But just think how kick-ass it could be if we played it live!”

“Federico, would
you please tell me what’s going on?”  Marika, on the other end of the line, was
mad with impatience.

“It’s just a
stupid joke.  She likes to provoke people through music,” he reassured her
sweetly.  “You should have known it.”

“Ah, I should
have known that?!  What the hell kind of a joke is this?” she yelled as large
teardrops settled on her lips.  “Well, I didn’t get it.  Maybe I don’t know her
well enough yet, but I certainly know I didn’t enjoy it.  Tell your friend
that!”

“I didn’t mean
Eve, I meant the song.  You should have known the song.”  
Celestica
by
Crystal Castles.  “It’s on the soundtrack of one of those series on The CW that
you watch online.”  Hearing her suffer had been like a punch to his gut.  “Sorry
about that.”  Federico yanked Eve’s cell phone from her hand and held it out of
reach.  “I know that Eve is a manipulative, ball-busting bitch and that you
need the patience of a saint to put up with her...,” maybe her problems had
hardened her heart and made her vent her frustrations on others, “... but we
all love her anyway, right?”  He waited for a confirmation that didn’t come.  “I’m
not trying to justify her.  What she just did is inexcusable, totally out of
line, but I hope you can forgive her all the same.”