CRAVING U (The Rook Café) (55 page)

China proved once again that it represented a constantly expanding
potential market with the largest number of soccer players in the world, though
a very low percentage of professionals: a sponge ready to voraciously absorb
Italian players; a wealth of consumers that automatically linked the word soccer
with Made in Italy quality.  The new frontier of sports, but even more of
business and merchandising.  “
Playing in Beijing,
” the newspapers
pointed out, “
was an extraordinary business move that guaranteed European
clubs with liquidity and financing.
”

And where capital and enthusiasm meet, business thrives.  The
official white and blue
San Carlo
jersey, number 28, with the logo of
the
Folgore
sewn on the chest, became the most popular jersey of the
entire tournament, selling like hotcakes, and the club was forced to reconsider
the trade negotiations that had been undertaken so far for the young
midfielder.  A meeting was quickly scheduled with his agent Canosi to adjust
the contractual agreement for the player upon his return to Milan, and the team
began looking at other options which might prove to be of interest to the
Sicilian club.

The
white and blue
were no longer willing to consider a trade
or even a loan for their playmaker, and were pleased to honor the rest of his
contract for the season, building up to the later negotiations for his first
professional contract.

It was 5:30 pm on January 3rd when friends and family got together
at the Vendramini house to watch the recorded final of the
Wagon Cup
. 
“I’m so happy the Chinese team beat the French on penalty kicks.”  All of the
men present, some of them uninvited, commented on the results.  “
San Carlo
deserved the trophy, thanks to a coach who is willing to make tough, unpopular
decisions that have paid off in the end, turning the eleven players into a real
team.”  Mr. Zovigo was simply incapable of bragging about his own son.  “What
are you talking about, Bepi?!  It’s thanks to Matteo, and not the coach, that
they won the tournament.”  Dario was riled up, professing self-proclaimed
merits for Matteo’s role in the victory.  “He played calmly, and used his head,
just like I told him to.”

The
Corsairs
were just then descending into Rome’s Fiumicino
airport on a flight that had taken off from Beijing at 1:30 pm and was expected
in Italy at 5:50 pm local time.  After a layover in Rome, they would then make
their way to Milan’s Linate airport, arriving in the Lombard capital at 9:10 at
night, where they would find, along with a crush of cheering fans, vehicles
that were ready to shuttle the players who were being given a bye week to their
final destinations.

Matteo was one of those who had given his all in China and who
Agostini was now giving a day off from the regular season, which would be
starting up again midweek.  “I’m going home,” he sighed, looking out the window
at the snow-capped Apennines.

“Huh?”  Pão, sitting next to him in row 12, was fidgeting about,
nervous about the landing.

“Tonight I’m finally going home.”  Matteo buckled his seat belt,
watching his visibly frightened friend.  “
I can’t wait to see her again.
”

“I know.”  Pão gripped the armrests, sensing phantom vibrations in
the aircraft.  “You were great in Beijing!”  The reason why was understood.

“Thanks.  So were you.”  There was a rapid and sincere exchange of
praise between them while the loudspeaker informed the passengers to check that
their tray tables were stowed and to wait until the plane stopped taxiing.  “It’s
time for me to see my family again.  It wasn’t easy for them not to have me
there for Christmas.  And I’m ready to see Orgiano again.”  He watched as the
blood returned to his friend’s face once the plane touched down.  “
I can
renounce any number of things that aren’t important to me.
”  After all, the
world keeps on spinning, and fame doesn’t last.  “
But I don’t want to give
up my family.  And I could never give her up.
”  There were no more doubts
in his heart.

Pão nodded, standing up to get his carry-on luggage.  “I like
Marika.”

“Yeah, me too,” Matteo smiled longingly as he lingered in his seat.

“Well then, tell her!”  The impatient fullback was giving him the
full-court press.  “Truth will set your soul free, brother.”  Pão clapped his
shoulder, taking advantage of the height difference created between them.  “It’s
true what they say: warriors on the field, but when the lights go down....”  He
didn’t finish the sentence.  “If I were you, though, I wouldn’t get too accustomed
to wearing number 28.  It won’t last long.”  They stood patiently in line to
disembark.  “You are a number 10, and you showed everyone that against the
Germans.”

His friends and family were of the same opinion as they watched the
recorded final of the
Wagon Cup
at the Vendramini house.

“From the National Stadium of Beijing, we bring you the encounter
between the two finalists of the tournament organized in celebration of the
fifty-year anniversary of the luxury car brand at the top of its sector, a
major sponsor of soccer clubs and competitions.”  All of the seats at 23
Palladio Road were taken.  There was standing-room only for the crew from
The
Rook
and the players from
Brenta
, there to support Coach Esposito,
who was equal parts proud and emotional.  “Bruno, what do you think about the
San
Carlo
lineup?” the play-by-play man asked the color commentator.  “Agostini’s
philosophy is clear: play well to win well.  He’s a genius with tactics, but
even better at choosing the right players.  He’s often been under fire for some
of his choices, but he has the guts to stick with his decisions and the fortune
to have a number of talented young players at his disposition.”  From the very
first moment, the
white and blue
made it clear that they would be very
dangerous, even if they were playing against a team that knew how to take
advantage of any small misstep.  “Our soccer clubs must start investing more
time and money in their farm systems rather than filling out their rosters with
foreigners with exotic-sounding names that are no guarantee of quality.”  The
commentators were criticizing Italian clubs, especially given the lackluster
performance by the national team in recent years.  “Agostini is right to start
his talented playmaker.  Zovigo is an unpredictable player: he’s quick,
relentless, and can create situations of numerical superiority with his
dribbling.  And he’s always got the next assist waiting right at his feet.”

It was the eighth minute of the second half, and Matteo was just 19
years old, when he shocked the world with a move that only a superstar could
pull off: dashing forward from midfield, he dodged the tight coverage of the
German stopper, bringing the ball into the box and scoring the goal that put
his team in the lead, completely bamboozling the center-back and goalkeeper.

23 Palladio Road exploded, as if the match were happening right
then, live, while the television cameras followed the young player as he
celebrated the goal, surrounded by his teammates.  Then the midfielder,
standing at the sideline, stared squarely into the lens of the video camera and
pronounced three simple, extraordinarily powerful words: “I LOVE YOU.”

And though they couldn’t hear him, the words on his lips were
unequivocal.

During the live transmission on the maxi-screen at the community
center, no one had noticed his lips moving, busy as they had all been to cheer
and hug one another, but here in the Vendramini living room, there was no way
it could pass unobserved.  Dozens of heads turned to stare at the only
legitimate pretender to that throne of love.

“He doesn’t mean me,” Marika hurriedly explained, waving her hands
uncomfortably.  “Are you all nuts?”

“Hello?!  Wake up!”  Her friends, Dario and Carlotta leading the
way, were pulling her from right to left, trying to shake some sense into her. 
“What language does he have to say it in?”  Even the teammates from
Brenta
got involved.  “He’s told you in Venetian, in Italian, and now in Chinese!  Don’t
you get it?”

“We’ve all known for months.”  Carlotta said, looking around for
everyone’s approval.  “You’re the only one who insists on....”

“Carlotta!”  Marika gave a venomous look at her cousin, holding back
some choice insults and silently thanking the stars that Federico wasn’t there
to witness this ridiculous charade.  “Please!”  She was begging her to change
topics, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the tile floor to avoid the stares of
her parents, and even worse, of
his
parents.

“Have I told you all about my Spanish Lit professor?”  Carlotta gave
a theatrical cough, trying to draw people’s attention away from her cousin and
toward the hottest university professor in the world, the only one capable of
inflaming the minds of female students for “false friends” in the Iberian
language.  “He looks about forty, has green eyes, and comes to class by bike. 
He totally looks like Jonathan Rhys Meyers.”  She looked around for interested
parties, but no one was having it; not even the Chinese television cameras,
which were religiously following Matteo’s movements on the field.  “But there’s
no comparison: Matt is so much hotter!”  Carlotta’s eyes were following his
white
and blue
physique, his hair unkempt from the sweat and his eyes a limpid
sky blue, and she didn’t even care if her boyfriend was standing right next to
her when she said it.

The Rook
girls all agreed, their eyes
dreamy and their giggles uncontrollable.  “Heeheehee!”  They winked secretly at
one other; Matteo had long become the primary object of desire for that part of
the city that included Orgiano, the Moon, and Venus.

“There’s no use getting so ditzy about it.”  Daniele managed to put
an end to their hormonal storm in just twelve simple words: “My brother has
been in love with Marika since I was born.”

“What are you talking about, Danny?”  Marika’s face was the color of
an eggplant.  “We’re just friends.”  She was stubbornly forcing her heart not
to believe a single word that might prove his love for her.  “
Why won’t they
all stop torturing me
?” her conscience kept saying.  “
Matteo can’t
possibly want me.
”

“You know that isn’t true.”  Loretta looked at her like a sister,
sitting down next to her on the sofa and reading her thoughts.  “You’ve never
been
just friends
.”

“She’s right you know.  You two....”  Her cousin’s opinion got cut
off instantly.

“Carlotta, please!” Marika interrupted her before she could add any
more idiocies to the nonsense that everyone was spewing around her. “My parents
are here. And his too. Please,” she whispered, “would you stop it with all this
bullshit?”

“Marika.” The sweet, soothing voice of
Matteo’s mother was calling her.

“And here we go,” she muttered, staring at
her cousin. “Thanks a lot.”

“If you aren’t interested in him, that’s
fine.” Delia was looking at her with such sweet insistence that Marika felt
uneasy. “But I know my son, and I know what he feels for you is real.”

Marika knew she was speaking the truth,
that it was all true. Everything all of a sudden came into focus at that very
moment, and made sense in a way that she had never understood before, and that
she never would have dared to want or even hope before that moment.

“Matteo’s got a strong backbone and has proved
that he knows how to defend himself.”  Delia, on the other hand, still feared
that superficial world of hypocrites and temptations that showed mercy to no
man. “But he’s a sensitive and giving boy who has feelings just as much as the
next one.” Because it is difficult to make it in soccer, and the life of a
professional is not always a bed of roses. “Give him the chance to tell you
exactly how he feels, and maybe you’ll see that he can be just as fragile as
you are. Even more so.”

The clock, frozen in Beijing, marked the
fortieth minute of the second half, the score 1-1. “Dario, Carlotta!” Marika
jumped to her feet, making everyone about her flinch. “Move it!” she commanded,
running to the stairs to throw on her jacket. “We’re going to Milan.” If they
left this second, they’d be able to catch the
San Carlo
bus before it
left the airport.

“Where?” her mother screeched like an
eagle. “Exactly where do you want to go at this hour?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Vendramini.” Dario
tried to sound convincing.

“Yeah, Aunt Paola, we’ll be with her,”
Carlotta added, already fidgeting to leave.

“We’ll take my car.” He looked around for
more points in their favor. “I’ll drive slowly.”

“Please, Mom!” Marika was already standing
at the door.

“What on earth do you think you’re going
to do in Milan?” Paola was shaking her head reluctantly. “Matteo is with the
team. He’ll drive right past you without even noticing.”

“I know,” she sighed, knowing however that
she could wait for him for all eternity just to see in his eyes and his smile
the meaning of all the things she had spied there but which had always remained
unspoken between them. “But if it’s true that it’s me he wants to speak to, I
owe it to him.”

The crowd awaited the verdict in silence,
while Marika’s mother turned to her husband, who was reflecting in silence.