CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (51 page)

“But it was exactly those days of wild
spending that brought us to this recession within the market, not to mention
the increasing debts of our clubs.  Not a single one of the Serie A teams has
been spared from these financial difficulties,” Braidi declared.  He had been
personally asked by the Professionals’ League to find ways of reducing the
costs of professional soccer, from player salaries to ticket prices.  “Even the
teams with the biggest budgets in Italy and Europe, in order to balance their
books, have had to sell off players who were once the face of their team and
reconsider their long-term goals.”  This widespread tendency of financial
stagnation had negatively affected trades, simultaneously decreasing
investments and making short-term loan arrangements much more appealing, not
least for their lower impact on the team coffers.

Braidi was still lamenting the decline of
Italian football when his secretary brought Matteo into his office.  “Hello.” 
He was wearing the team sweats and presented himself to the two professionals
with as much character he could muster, trying to influence the negotiations as
much as possible, but he didn’t even have time to sit down before Canosi was
already reading him the riot act.

“What on earth are you doing?”  The agent
was visibly angry.  “Come this Sunday, you might not even be allowed to watch
the match from the parking lot!”  Agostini had let him know that he was
planning on leaving Matteo off the roster until he could prove that he was back
in shape mentally and physically.  “The Sicilians are starting to back off, and
I can’t blame them,” he barked.  “I wouldn’t want you on my team either if I
was them.”

The young man stood there nervously at the
entrance, afraid to take a step forward.

“Please, Matteo, sit down.”  Braidi waved
him in and indicated a seat next to his agent, showing off his mediation skills
as he did so.

“Tell me exactly what you’re trying to do
on the playing field?”  Canosi was not so easily placated.  This stupid kid
from the sticks was single-handedly ruining all of his hard work to create
interest in him on the trade market.  “Do you understand that you’ve been given
the chance to be a starting player for one of the strongest teams in Serie A,
to be followed and mentored by a first-rate staff of soccer professionals?” 
The agent was an able money-grubber who hid his own personal stakes in raising
the market value of his players behind a false display of concern for their own
best interests.

Matteo listened to the sermon in silence,
irritated by Canosi’s manners, drowning him under accusations and warnings.

“Go ahead, Matteo.  Tell us what you’re
thinking.”  Braidi encouraged him, playing good cop.  “We’re here to help you,
not to judge you.”  He sat back and assumed the position of a good listener,
trying to look as fatherly as possible.  “We’ve noticed that something has
changed, both on and off the field, since our meeting last week, and we want to
know if there is something, anything, that we don’t know about and that is
unconsciously making you play below your ability.”

“Sir, I don’t....”  Matteo looked as if he
had lost his train of thought, wandering in his labyrinth of memories without a
compass.  “I asked Mr. Braidi if...,” he stuttered, stopping short every time
Canosi gave a snort in the background.  Matteo felt like he had lost his
guiding light, and that he was on the path toward self-destruction for the
first time in his life.  After all, soccer players live in a parallel universe,
often on the road, where it is difficult to keep up personal relationships and
maintain a firm grip on the real world.  They are young, extremely wealthy men
with ephemeral expectations: their careers won’t last long, and the knowledge
of this can gnaw away at their certainties.  “I’d like to stay here.”  And
maybe, just maybe, playing badly meant undermining his trade to the Sicilians;
but that wasn’t how he wanted to keep his place on the
San Carlo
roster.

“The Italian soccer market is in a
downturn cycle, and you can’t afford to turn your nose up at an offer like the
one
San Carlo
is making you.”  Canosi lifted himself from the bergère
and towered over the young midfielder with all of his self-importance.  “Don’t
waste our time here, boy.”  His tone became harsher still.  “We’re not here for
games.”

“I’m not here to play games either,
sir
.” 
Matteo held his stare, not backing down and accentuating the term of respect.  “I
asked Mr. Braidi to give me another chance to remain with the team, at least
until June.”  The agent had set off an alarm in his head: this face-to-face
confrontation had reignited his will to fight for what he believed in, for what
he wanted.  “Then you can make your decisions about my future and my contract,
taking into account an entire season.”  This was a battle that no one wanted to
lose.

“What a bunch of bull!”  Canosi pounded
his fists on the lacquered tabletop.

“Michele, calm down.”  Carlo walked around
his desk to his friend, gently guiding him back toward his chair and trying to
reestablish diplomatic calm in the heated room.

“I will not calm down!”  The agent twisted
away from Braidi.  “How can I be calm when we’re dealing with a brainless kid
who’s thinking with his dick?”  Canosi was too worldly to be deceived by
Matteo, and he saw straight through the midfielder, understanding much more
than Matteo would have liked to reveal.  “If you miss out on this opportunity
for some small town slut, you’re going to regret it for a long time, boy.”  The
agent was deliberately and dextrously trying to provoke a reaction.

“Fuck you!”  Matteo yelled, losing his
cool and knocking the chair behind him as he leapt to his feet.

“Enough!”  Braidi placed the palm of his
hand against Matteo’s chest, glaring all the while at his colleague.  “Michele,
please!”  But Michele was having no more of this, and left the room, slamming
the door behind him.

“Go on, sit back down,” Carlo said,
pressing gently on Matteo’s shoulder to get him seated.  “Canosi can be a bit
of a hothead, and certainly gets out of line sometimes with his unorthodox
ways, but I can assure you that when push comes to shove he is a true
professional, and it is only thanks to him, to his experience, and to his
connections that you are wearing a
San Carlo
jersey today.”  Braidi
slowly explained to Matteo the complicated economic interests involved in his
status with the team, regardless of the fact that he had been playing in Serie
A for such a short period of time and was still a bit of an unknown.  “You owe
him a lot, trust me.”

“I know,” he said, kicking himself and
slouching back into his chair.  “I’m sorry I reacted that way.  It won’t happen
again.”  Matteo was genuinely mortified, even though he didn’t recall reading
in his contract that he was not allowed to insult his agent.

“Don’t worry about it!  Michele loves guys
like you.  He’s probably already drinking a glass to your health.”  Braidi
called his secretary to cancel his 1 o’clock appointment and to have her bring
in a pile of documents.  “In his own way, he was just trying to make you see
the advantages of these negotiations.  The reason you hired him is to have him
work for you and to worry about your best interests, from contracts to trades
to financial advice to building your brand.  But there’s one thing he can’t do...
he can’t sign anything in your name.”  Braidi put his initials on a couple of
pages his secretary was showing him before he decided to reward the audacity
and unquestionable talent of his young playmaker.  “I’m going to give you one
more chance to show off your skills at the Four Team Invitational tournament in
China in January, which we’ll be playing in during the annual winter break of
the regular season.”

“Yeah!”  Matteo threw up his arms, his
right fist clenched in the air.  “Thank you so much!”

“Hold on there, don’t get carried away!” 
Braidi tried to keep his youthful enthusiasm in check.  “You’re going to have
to prove that you’re a player who can make the difference on the field; just
being average isn’t going to cut it.  Because if, and only if, you can
demonstrate that you are a crucial element for the team will you stay with
San
Carlo
until the end of the season. Otherwise...,” he concluded, “you will
accept the offer from the Sicilian club without any protest or complications,
and with a big smile on your face for the cameras.”

“I can do it.”  Nothing could wipe that
grin off the face of the kid from the Berici Hills.  “He won’t regret having
given me this opportunity.”  Matteo knew that he had the skills for it; all he
had to do, before arriving in Beijing, was to hone his fundamentals, memorize
the plays and routes in the manual, beef up the muscle groups that were
slightly underdeveloped, and put on weight.  “
I have to intensify my short
sprints and my ten yard dashes... I need to make a new workout plan with the
trainer.
”  He was thinking about how to improve his endurance, his
strength, and his acceleration when, in the inner courtyard of the original
club headquarters, just around the corner from Piazza San Babila, he crossed
paths with the owner of
AC San Carlo
, Carlo Maria Visconti, who was
speaking with a group of his collaborators.

It was the first time that Matteo had seen
him in person: a tall, thin man in his early sixties, salt and pepper hair
blown slightly out of place, and rimless glasses.  He had been awarded an
honorary knighthood by the Italian government about ten years earlier for his
work in industry, commerce, and tourism, a recognition for how his business
acumen had helped increase national wealth and improve the economic and social
situation of his employees.

“They tell me you’re very talented.”  The
owner held him back as Matteo tried to slide past him on the way toward his
parked hybrid.  “But the last couple of matches haven’t exactly equaled your
reputation.”  He shook his hand and smiled lengthily at him.

“I know that, sir.”  Matteo was a talented
player, proud and naive, and he was meeting the big man for the first time.  “It
won’t happen again, President.”

“That’s the way!”  The president looked
pleased as he approached his Ferrari F458 Italia.  “I like young superstars with
a bit of character.”

“Then keep an eye on me during the China
tournament,” he said, selling himself.  “You won’t be disappointed.”  Matteo
felt like he had the strength of a young lion; nothing was like the shot of
self-confidence after getting up from the ground, dusting himself off, and
knowing that he was stronger than ever.  Because if there is a time for
surrender, there’s also a time for pushing forward... and this, for him, was
the moment to stay and fight.

WELCOME TO BEIJING

Three weeks
separated Beijing from Milan, and the practice schedule was fitful and
strenuous: running, stretching, and sprints; explosiveness and power training;
jumping and endurance; fartlek and interval training; running steps and
skipping rope; tactics, fundamentals, and recovery.

Matteo thought of nothing else for all
that time, except for adding muscle mass and choosing a suit for the gala
evening event of the
Wagon Cup
, the very exclusive four team
invitational organized in the capital of the Middle Kingdom by its top-flight
sponsor, a luxury automobile maker who was looking to reestablish its role in
professional soccer on the occasion of the brand’s fiftieth anniversary.

The strain on his muscles was significant,
and he could feel it during matches, when the muscles underneath his thigh
supports began to ache over the course of the games.  But his market value was
once again on the rise, thanks to his ability to match his technical
preparations with his intelligence.  During the 17th match of the season, he
scored two goals against one of the top Serie A teams, throwing the Broletto
Stadium into a frenzy.

“He’s a good kid.  It pains me to think
that he’s going to end up being disappointed.”  In the stands, Braidi lauded
Matteo’s character and determination, even though he was sure that all of his
efforts were in vain.  “It’s too big a challenge for him.  He’s not ready for
that level of competition.”  He was comparing notes with Canosi inside the
stadium press box.  “It’s all too much for him: overseas, against foreign
teams, and with jet lag to boot,” he sighed, flipping through a Spanish sports
newspaper.  “But he deserves our respect, and if he’s able to translate the
levelheadedness we saw him play with today onto the field of Beijing, well
then, maybe he’ll pull off a miracle.”

“Carlo, please.”  The agent was openly
sarcastic as he accepted a drink from the shapely waitress serving the special
guests seated in the press box.  “It’s ridiculous to even think for one second
that he can be anything more than average in Beijing.”  He winked at the
waitress, who smiled back at him.  “As you said, there are too many factors
against him, and he’s just not up to the challenge.”

Braidi had nothing to say against that,
but, lifting himself from his armchair, he spoke seriously to Canosi.  “You’ll
give him your full support, though, right Michele?”

Canosi nodded, distracted by the waitress’
backside, while Carlo went downstairs to meet with the team in the locker room.

“Today was an important victory against a
difficult opponent.  Congratulations, everyone!”  Braidi was speaking to the
eleven men who had played that day before he headed further down into the
underground parking lot reserved for players and staff.  “You were great,” he
said to Matteo.  “Just a few days ago you were like the walking dead on the
field and now, today, two goals.  I’m impressed by the difference a little time
can make.”  He was trying to tease out the young man’s reactions in advance.  “I’d
like to have you come to dinner with me tonight.”  It sounded more like an
ultimatum than an invitation.

The player had already made plans with his
teammates for that evening, but he didn’t think he could say no to that
request.  And so his hybrid compact followed Braidi out into the hills outside
Milan, all the way to the rich area of Brianza, where the deep emerald green
Maserati Quattroporte pulled up in front of a wrought-iron gate outside a villa
with a large yard and sculpted jasmine plants marking the edges of the
property.

“
Oh shit
!” Matteo swore to himself
as he realized that he had been invited to the
San Carlo
executive’s
home.  He got out of his car, feeling embarrassed and out of place.  He
followed Braidi down the pebble walkway, surrounded by evergreens, laurel oaks,
and majestic conifers, breathing in deeply the air brought down from the
mountains by the north wind.  It was a relief to his lungs and his brain, still
oxygen depleted after the match.

“Hi Matteo.”  Braidi’s wife gave him a
warm smile and tossed her freshly-styled hair before introducing him to their
daughters.

Sofia, the elder, came forward first,
shaking her thick copper-colored locks, walking on designer high-heels that
made her come eye-to-eye with the young midfielder.  “Nice to meet you,” she
said, showing equal parts confidence and indifference.  She was engaged to the
son of a rich businessman from Milan in the oil industry, and had zero interest
in her own father’s line of work.

Valentina, on the other hand, not yet 17,
was a ball of adolescent energy and in desperate need of falling in love,
victim of the hormones that went into high gear every time a handsome guy like
Matteo entered her home.  “It’s sooo nice to meet you!” she practically
shouted, squeezing his hand, while her father did his best to put a damper on
her enthusiasm.  Carlo had, in fact, long ago declared to his daughters that
all soccer players were to be considered totally off-limits, especially those
who played in the
white and blue
.

“Please, come in and have a seat.”  Clara
led him into the dining room where a large inlaid table sat underneath a
festive Christmas tree, decorated with dried citrus fruits and cinnamon
sticks.  She gave the maid the signal to serve dinner.

Matteo obeyed, intimidated by the trompe-l’oeil
on the walls, and took a seat next to Carlo at the head of the table, while the
two daughters giggled to each other in front of him.

“How do you like
San Carlo
?” the
lady of the house asked him with a melodic and hypnotizing voice, passing him
the hors d’oeuvres.  “My husband tells me that you’ve had an easy time bonding
with the group.”

“Yes,” he said, swallowing a bite down
whole before answering.  “They’ve been very nice to me, thank you.”

“I bet....”  The seventeen-year-old’s eyes
were glued to Matteo’s face, and she kept flashing not-so-innocent smiles at
him while she chatted with her sister.

“Stop acting like such a girl!”  Sofia, on
the contrary, didn’t seem the least bit curious about the guy in front of her,
even if everyone said he had the makings of a superstar, and she watched him
haughtily.

“Cut it out, both of you.”  Carlo reminded
them of their manners, ensuring that Matteo could eat his meal in peace, for
which he was very grateful.

Dinner proceeded without any further
interruptions, and as coffee was being served, the daughters retreated to their
rooms.  Braidi began retelling the whole story about how
San Carlo
had
first gotten interested in that unknown midfielder from Orgiano, when the name
of Mr. Vendramini came up.  “You know him, right?”

“Of course,” Matteo said rapidly, put on
the alert by the name.

“Obviously.”  Carlo quickly registered the
violent tremors that were making his voice shake.  “Mr. Vendramini, as I was
saying, told Michele, who is one of his clients, to check out two players from
your area.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”  Matteo was
invited to take a seat at the center of a light-colored,  button-upholstered
leather sofa, holding his decaf on his knees.  “You were also interested in my
teammate, Marcello.”

“Vendramini spoke highly of both players,
but he talked about you almost like you were his son.”  Carlo suggested that
there was more to the relationship than simple appreciation for his soccer
skills.

“We have known Marika and her family
practically forever.  They’re good people.”  The young man’s voice had grown
husky and nostalgic.  “They were friends to us even when no one else was.”  His
face darkened.

“What do you mean?”  Braidi couldn’t
decipher whether it was just a reference to all those opportunistic
bloodsuckers who showed up the moment someone got a bit of fame and money, or
if there was something more.  “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”  He stayed on the defensive.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” Clara
said.  It was her profession to see the inner workings of the human soul.

Matteo hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but
he had opened up that can of worms all by himself.  “When I was in middle
school, my family ran into some money troubles.  The sort of thing that can
happen to anyone.”  He raised his eyes from his empty coffee cup, trying to
make light of it.  “With three relatively young children, my parents were
forced to mortgage the house in order to get a loan and make ends meet, but the
more debts they incurred, the worse things got.”  He could see the poignant
look in their eyes, the look of those who had never known poverty.  “We’ve
never been rich, but we had a good, decent life.  But then the company my
father worked for went bankrupt,” he said without self-pity.  “I know that
there are those worse off than us in life, but there are some necessities that
you just can’t live without.”

“How did you feel when that happened?” 
The psychologist was trying to get him to let the scars from his past come to
the surface.  “Say whatever is on your mind, we’re here to listen to you.”  All
that was missing was an invitation to lie down on the couch!

“Awful.  But I don’t want anyone’s pity.” 
His eyes were icy, showing nothing more than annoyed impatience.

“No, dear,” she said sweetly, reassuring
him.  “I’m not pitying you, believe me.  As a
San Carlo
player, I just
want to know more about your life.  This is just an informal conversation we’re
having.”  To get a read on his emotional stability, and on his readiness to
face the necessary emotional and physical separation from the people he loved
that his profession would inevitably lead to.

He nodded suspiciously.  “But I didn’t
feel bad for myself.  My parents never burdened us with their problems, and we
always had everything we needed.”  He loved his family and didn’t want perfect
strangers, who had inherited their wealth no less, to judge them through the
lens of their prejudices.  “My brother was very young, my sister stopped
eating, and I couldn’t stand the sight of the wrinkles that began to spread
across my mother’s face.”  His face burned with love for the people who meant
everything to him.  “I saw my father waver in his certainties like I had never
seen before, but then I watched as he chose to ask for help rather than succumb
to depression.  And those he asked didn’t turn their backs on us.”  For Matteo,
family meant much more than just a genetic similarity.  “Ferdinando loaned us some
money, and even if the rest of the world considers it something to be ashamed
of, I’m proud of my father for having put aside his pride for the good of our
family.”  It was the triumph of dignity.

The husband and wife let Matteo speak
freely, without interference or expressions of undue commiseration.

“We didn’t want to be a weight on anyone. 
We needed to find work, and Ferdinando helped us out on that score as well,
calling in on a favor that some of his business acquaintances owed him.  Since
then, things have gotten better.”  His voice broke in the silence.  “We have
already paid back the entirety of the loan.”  Matteo was clearly proud of this,
and his attitude became more confident.

“I’m glad for that.”  Clara showed no
signs of letting drop her professional attitude, though.  “Earlier you
mentioned Marika....”  She left the comment open-ended, waiting for him to fill
in the blank.  Might this Marika be the answer that they were looking for?

“Yeah, well...,” he started, clearly
emotional.  “Her parents were very discreet about the whole business.  I don’t
think she has any idea about the money.  She was nice to us simply out of the
goodness of her heart and because she cares about us.”  He smiled awkwardly.  “The
same way we all care about them.”

“I completely understand.”  But what the
therapist was trying to really understand was the depth of the bond between
them: was it just a kind of brotherly affection, or a more powerful feeling
that went beyond reasons of family, gratitude, sense, and even perhaps Serie
A?  “Who is she to you?”

“Marika is....”  He paused, smiling and
lost in his own world.  “She is one of the few people in this world who can
really hurt me.”

Husband and wife exchanged a knowing
glance, both of them understanding exactly what he meant, because in front of
them they had a good kid with great expectations, who was willing to do
anything for his family and those he loved, capable of deep-felt emotions and
attachments, who had his dreams and wanted them to come true, and for whom
admitting his own weaknesses was not so difficult after all.  A mature and
balanced young man, capable of shielding himself from the pressures of Serie A,
but completely defenseless in front of the one person he truly loved, with a
love worthy of song and film, epic and poetry.

“A lovely evening!”  Carlo stood up and
walked over to Matteo.  “I’m proud of you.”  He slapped his hand onto Matteo’s
shoulder, holding him for a moment.  “Don’t ever let yourself be humiliated by
someone who has lost all hope.”  He squeezed his muscles, stealing a metaphor
for life from the world of poker: “They’re bluffing.”

The young midfielder nodded, thanking them
for their kind hospitality before taking his leave and heading towards his car
parked out in front of the gate.