Defending Irene (14 page)

On Saturday afternoon, the mister stood waiting for me outside the bathroom. He held out Luigi's gloves and the goalkeeper's jersey. “Here, Irene.”

I took them between my thumb and pointer finger.

“Don't worry yourself, Irene,” the
mister
said. “They are clean. They should not make you sick.”

That was not the reason I wanted to hand the shirt and gloves right back to him. A familiar lift to his eyebrows—the one Luigi used when he was teasing—suggested that the
mister
knew that.

“How is Luigi?” I asked.

“This morning he told us he was fine and even dressed himself for school. But he had a fever of 37.8°.
Ai, ai, ai.
” The
mister
shook his head.

That translated to a temperature of over 102° Fahrenheit.

“Poor Luigi,” I said out loud. Poor me, I added silently to myself. It was going to be a long game.

Five minutes later, we began our warm-up in the usual way: jogging around the field evenly spaced, in step and single-file. My ponytail streamed behind me like a banner. For the first time in weeks, I wished that I'd chopped my hair off. I knew the other team had noticed me, the girl in the gray and blue goalkeeper's shirt.

After stretching, we took turns shooting into an empty goal. But as I pulled my fourth or fifth shot out of the orange netting, the
mister
held out his hand. “Stay there, Irene. Emi,
dai!
”

Emi dribbled forward with the ball, his legs a blur of motion. He booted the ball diagonally across the penalty area. It bounced off the pole and across the white line: a goal. Werner came next. He lacked Emi's speed, but could put a lot of power and swerve on the ball. It hooked into the upper-right corner of the goal.

I unclenched my fingers and shook them out. I needed to stay loose. I hadn't faced a line of shooters since the end of fourth grade. But as person after person attacked, I learned which shots I could catch, which ones I should block, which ones I should punch over the net, and which ones were hopeless. Terror kept me focused.

When everyone else moved on to a passing drill, the
mister
motioned to a figure leaning against the fence. The person came forward with a familiar walk. My heart contracted. I recognized Luigi's nose, his chin, his hair. But the height was wrong.

“Irene, this is Renzo. He will help you prepare yourself while I work with the others.” The
mister
nodded at us both before walking away.

“A pleasure,” Renzo said, looking down at me. “I have heard much about you, Irene. Every evening after soccer, it goes like this: ‘Irene has done this. Irene has done that.' And that is just the
mister
. Luigi is worse. Much, much worse.”

If Renzo had been six instead of sixteen, I think he might have launched into a chorus of “Luigi plus Irene.” Instead, he merely said, “Let's go.”

He started with soft kicks and easy throws. I caught the ball and threw it back to him. He sent other shots bouncing across the penalty area. I charged forward to fall on top of those and wrap them in my arms. The shots came faster and harder. My percentage of saves dropped. I didn't even touch the last six balls he sent me. Finally, he had me punt the ball downfield a few times. Then it was time to go back to the clubhouse until just before game-time.

As we sat on the built-in wooden benches, the
mister
warned us about various players, pointed out our weaknesses from past games, and told us what we must do well in order to win. I bounced up and down, full of nervous energy.

Federico leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Stay calm, Irene. Emi and I will make goals. You will stop them.” He dusted off his hands as though that would be that. I wished I could be so confident.

“All right,” the
mister
said. “We have only eleven players. I want to finish with eleven. But please tell me if you do not feel well—if you cannot continue. Irene is our goalkeeper. Protect her. If they put it in the box enough times, they will score. But don't forget: if we put it in their box often enough, we will score.”

For most of the first period, Werner, Manuel, and Giuseppe kept the ball away from me. It rolled into the penalty area a few times when a booming kick overshot the fastest forwards. Each time, I ran out, scooped up the ball, and punted it down the field. I started to relax.

Halfway through the middle of the second period, the team from Ora had its first breakaway. No one stood between me and Number 17.

“Schnell, schnell, schnell!”
shouted their
mister
in German. “Fast!”

“Dai,
Werner
, dai!”
shouted ours in Italian.

Werner was gaining. He pounded after the player, his arms pumping, his long strides covering the ground.

The forward must have heard Werner's footsteps getting closer. Instead of bringing the ball all the way in, he made a blistering shot from the corner of the penalty area. I managed to punch it up and over the crossbar. For a horrible second I wondered whether it would have gone over all by itself. If so, our team would be setting up for a goal kick to send the ball flying away from me instead of facing a corner kick.

No second-guessing, I told myself firmly. It was always better to be aggressive.

Players poured into the penalty area. Manuel took up his position next to the post. A player from Ora placed the ball in the corner next to the orange flag and stepped back.

The kick went up with plenty of lift and power. An orange-shirted form launched himself into the air. His head snapped forward. His forehead connected with the ball. A goal.

His teammates celebrated. I called myself a few bad names and reached down to pick up the ball.

“Don't worry, Irene,” Werner said. “Luigi could not have stopped that one either.”

Not from where I was standing he couldn't have. But he might have judged it in the air better.

Luigi would have definitely stopped Ora's second goal. Instead of knocking down the first shot as I barely managed to do, he probably would have caught it. The second player would never have had the chance to tap in the rebound.

Stay calm. Stay calm, I told myself as I paced back and forth. Don't panic.

Right. Even though I might wind up being personally responsible for our first loss. Even though I could almost hear Matteo say that leaving the goal empty would be just as good as having me in there.

Fortunately, Federico made a move to hold up his end of his whispered deal when he and Emi made a break of their own. Emi sent Federico a beautiful crossing pass. Federico ripped a shot from about five meters out.

Goal!

Federico jumped up and down, shaking his fists above his head in celebration. Then he picked Emi up and spun him in a circle. I think it was our youngest player's first official goal as a member of the
Esordienti
.

A few minutes after the kickoff, the referee's whistle stopped play when the ball hit Giuseppe in the wrist: a handball. Since the illegal use of the hands happened in the penalty box, Ora was awarded a penalty shot. The only defender would be me.

As I expected, Number 17 stepped forward. The referee placed the ball on the penalty spot and stepped back. I stood with my legs just over shoulder-width apart and my arms out to the side. Which way would he go? The left corner? The right? Or straight at me?

Number 17 stood for a moment with his right leg behind his left. Then he made his move. His right leg came back. The angle of his body suggested the ball was going to my right. He made contact. I lunged. My fingertips struck the ball, but it was only enough to change the ball's angle of flight, not stop it. Another goal. The score was 3 to 1.

But Emi and Federico were ready to answer. Federico intercepted a slow-rolling pass at midfield and passed it to Emi. Emi drove down the right side of the field and faked out the other team's keeper for another goal, making the score 3 to 2.

Less than a minute later, two whistle blasts signaled the end of the second period. We trotted to the bench, feeling energized. The game wasn't out of reach. Not yet. Only Gianlucca walked.

“Dai!”
the
mister
shouted at him. The boy ran a few steps and then settled back into a slow motion jog.

“I'm sorry,
mister
,” Gianlucca gasped. “I don't feel well.”

“Do you need to lie down?”

“No, but…” Gianlucca's voice trailed off.

“I understand. Those in the midfield must run every moment. All right. Seat yourselves.” The
mister
pressed his fingers to his lips. Then his gaze came to rest on me.

“Irene…”

Free at last! My hands reached down and crossed to grasp the hem of my goalkeeper's shirt, ready to rip it off. Eleven males ducked their heads or covered their eyes.

I stopped.

“No. No, Irene,” the
mister
said, still gazing away from me. “I changed my mind. Continue as goalkeeper.”

“But I'm wearing my jersey underneath,” I said.

I meant to explain why I could change in public, but it came out like I was questioning his decision. No one ever did that to the
mister
. I hunched my shoulders, waiting for him to roar.

Instead, one of his rare half-smiles appeared. “That is not the problem. What if Gianlucca faints in the goal, and no one sees it until Ora shoots the ball?””

Gianlucca made a face but said nothing.

“Gianlucca, you are on defense. Remain near the penalty area. Do not go to the centerline with the others. If you cannot continue, fall down. The referee will call time out and we can organize ourselves. Werner, Manuel, and Giuseppe, go forward a little. Keep it on their side. It's possible to win this game. It's possible. The other team can change players. We cannot, but you have strength, energy, the
forza vitale
.”

The vital force. I tried to imagine my coach in America using a phrase like that.

The
mister
motioned to the other team, who had already stepped onto the field. “They are tired, weak, desperate. They know you can win, as I do. Look at them. Four on defense. Four in midfield. Only two attackers. You can do it.
Dai!
” He held his hand out. We scrambled to our feet, formed a circle, and put our hands in the middle.

“Uno, due, tre…forza!”
the
mister
told us.

We echoed his count and cheer at a yell:
“Uno, due, tre…FORZA!”
Our hands flew up above our heads on the last word.

We can win this game, I thought as I ran toward the goal. I could feel it—especially if my teammates could keep the ball away from me.

They started well. The ball stayed on the other side of the centerline.

Eventually, Gianlucca took a knee in order to save energy. His head and shoulders stayed straight and tall, only swaying occasionally. Any time that Ora pushed the ball to midfield, Gianlucca stood up. When one of our defenders sent it back to the opposite goal, Gianlucca sank down again.

Then Werner headed the ball into the goal on a corner kick from Emi. I cheered. Gianlucca, who had stood up to watch, jumped up and down.
Uaou!
Three goals by three different players. We were more than just a supporting cast for the Matteo/Luigi show.

Two minutes later, Davide scored in a booming kick from the top of the penalty area. Four goals by four different players. Now we had the lead and we intended to keep it.

The coach from Ora yelled at his team in a flood of angry German. I couldn't understand a single word.

It was Ora's turn to throw everything possible forward. It was absolute chaos in the penalty area as players tackled and retackled. The ball rolled free into an empty space to my right. Giuseppe and I both raced toward it.

“Mine!” I called in English and dove onto the ball.

Giuseppe might not have understood. Or maybe he couldn't stop himself. Whatever happened, as I came down, the toe of his cleats struck my ribs.

“Ahi!”
I curled up like a hedgehog, my arms wrapped around the ball. I knew I should get up, dash to the corner of the penalty area, and punt the ball downfield. Maybe in the fast turnaround Emi or Federico could score again to put the game out of reach. But all I could do was lie there, temporarily frozen by pain. Tears squeezed out of the corner of my eyes. Matteo knew it would happen someday. I could almost hear him chanting: “
Calciatore
don't cry.
Calciatrice, sí.
”

But his voice would have been drowned out completely by Giuseppe's: “I'm sorry, Irene. I did not mean to do it. I'm sorry. It was an accident.”

Giuseppe was no actor. I believed him.

Someone else may not have. “It was an accident,” I heard him insist.

“Irene, how are you?” the
mister
asked.

“Less bad,” I choked. “Only a moment.”

I breathed in and out a few more times. My lungs still seemed to be working fine. The pain faded enough for me to move. I uncurled and released the ball.

“All right. Where does it hurt?”

I placed my hand on the bottom of my ribcage.

The
mister
frowned. “Can I check it?”

I nodded.

His fingers gently moved over the area. “A bad bruise, I think.” he said. “Nothing broken.”

“Thanks to heaven,” I heard Giuseppe murmur.

“Cough,” the
mister
ordered.

I did.

“Again.”

I coughed a second time. It hurt, but I didn't flinch like my Uncle Frank had when he'd broken a rib in a car accident.

“
Benissimo.
Very good. Ready to get up?”

“Sí.”
I stood up gingerly.

Players and fans from both teams applauded. I took a step toward the goal.

“No,” the
mister
said. “Come with me, Irene. For you, the game is finished.”