Defending Irene (15 page)

“But
mister
—”

“No. You can watch. Nothing more. At least I'm not sending you to the hospital. Davide, come here. Irene, you can take off that shirt now. Do you need help?”

I shook my head and peeled off the gloves. I never thought I would be so reluctant to give them up. Davide's eyes were filled with concern as he took them. I wanted to snap: “It doesn't hurt that much.” But considering the way I hissed through my teeth as I eased the shirt over my head, it was just as well that I didn't.

The
mister
walked beside me as I left the field. So much for his hope that we finish with eleven. But maybe he had made the right decision. Watching the action from the bench suddenly seemed like a really good idea.

Thirty seconds later the whistle blew three times.

Yes! We won! To celebrate our victory, I sat on the bench and smiled.

“Irene, how are you?” Giulia whispered from behind me.

“Better,” I said.

“Oh,” she growled. “When I saw Giuseppe kick you, I was outside myself. But I'll adjust him. Elena will help me.”

“No. No. It was an accident.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sí, sí.”

“
Va bene.
We'll see each other afterward.” Giulia patted my shoulder and headed back up into the stands.

When everyone else made it back to the bench, the
mister
gave us his shortest post-game speech ever. “Well done. I am very proud of you. Go home and rest yourselves.”

Was he too proud for words or coming down with the flu himself? I leaned toward the second option: he was holding his head up in the same way that Gianlucca had.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch, feeling completely drained. It felt like I had been playing midfielder, not goalkeeper. Mom felt my head, brought me juice, and offered me a choice of movies.

Dad paused
You've Got Mail
about halfway through. He held the cordless phone out to me, his hand covering the receiver. “Your
nonno
wants to talk to you. I told him about the game.”

I moaned and covered my face with my right hand.

“Ma dai,”
Dad said. “You did well. I have told you so many times. Take it.”

I did. “
Ciao
, Nonno.”

“How are you, Irene?”

“Better,” I said.

“What a
brava calciatrice
! I heard how you held onto the ball when someone kicked you.”

“Thanks. But Papá has told you the score?”

“It's nothing. Only three goals.”

“In one period.”

“Ah,
poverina
. Tomorrow, you will feel better. You will know that you did well. Listen, I have heard that your last game is next Saturday. At least until spring, right?”

“Ehm…sí.”
If I hadn't been committed to playing soccer in the spring before, I was now.

“Very well. Anyway, your
nonna
has wanted to visit the Advent Market in the Alto Adige for years. Now, we can see your game and the market. A good idea, eh?”

I could just picture Matteo making up rude remarks about my loud, enthusiastic grandfather. Well, let him try.

“We'll see each other Saturday,” I told my
nonno
. “That would please me very much.”

Luigi and I arrived early to soccer on Monday afternoon. But answering the question “How are you?” took so long that we drifted over to a bench to sit down instead of going out onto the field.

“A very interesting game on Saturday, I heard,” Luigi said.

I leaned my head against the wall of the clubhouse. “Too interesting for me.”

Luigi laughed, but the laugh turned into a cough that lasted more than twenty seconds. Finally, he straightened and wiped his eyes.

“All well?” I asked.

“Sí.”
He coughed a few more times, held his breath for five seconds, and was finally able to speak. “You surprised Renzo, you know. Especially when you held onto the ball after Giuseppe kicked you. Why didn't you tell Giuseppe that you wanted the ball?”

“I did. But in English. My fault.”

Luigi snorted. “The
Americana
still plays soccer in English after three months in Italy?”

“Only when I am the
portiera
.”

“Ah. I understand. All right. We must get up now.” But Luigi didn't move.

“Agreed,” I said, not moving either.

“We sit like a pair of old people who have gone into retirement twenty years ago,” Luigi observed.

“True. Let's go.” I stood up.

It wasn't one of our normal pre-practice sessions. Luigi stopped to cough every minute or two. I trotted stiffly. My bruise, which had turned a deep purple, hurt every time my cleats struck the ground and every time I swung my arms.

But Luigi and I were not alone. Over half our team looked like they ought to be getting plenty of rest and fluids instead of running and kicking. The cold air made most of them cough. Matteo only had enough air for one wheezing insult the whole time: “
Brava
, Irene. Luigi allows three goals in the last seven games, and you allow three in one period?”

Montegna and the rest of Merano II had ended their season last Saturday and had stopped practicing. We had a make-up game. Instead of a scrimmage, we worked on throw-ins, corner kicks, and crossing passes.

“How are you, Irene?” the
mister
asked when we finished.

“Well enough.”

“Your ribs still hurt you?”

“Not too much.” I glanced at the clipboard that the
mister
carried. Attached to it was the roster for our final game in Bolzano.

I could imagine where this was leading. The
mister
was about to tell me that there wouldn't be room in the van for me during the final game of the season—when my grandparents were making a special trip to watch me play. It made sense. Should I have worked harder during practice?

“Not your fault,
cara
,” my
nonno
would say. The reaction of my nonna would probably be a whispered, “Thanks to heaven!”

“Listen,” the
mister
continued. “I know that your
papá
has been to every game—even the one in which you did not play. It takes time to drive into Bolzano, but would he take you to the game? Then we can have fourteen players instead of thirteen. It would be much better.”

“Of course,” I said, knowing that Dad would drive a lot farther to make sure I could play.

“It goes well. I will explain the situation to Roberto on Thursday. Thank you, Irene.” The
mister
lowered his clipboard. I watched him write Roberto's name in as the third substitute.

I found my name among the starters. Well, this would be all right. I was helping Roberto, helping the team, and even helping my
nonna
. Now she had a great excuse to avoid watching me play. There was not room in the car for six people. But I would have to explain the situation to Dad. I decided to wait until after dinner to avoid annoying comments from Max.

When I cornered Dad in front of the computer to tell him what happened, he tilted back in the black office chair to listen. When I finished, he covered his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a smile. “What were you thinking, Irene?” he finally asked. “You have been starting for over a month.”

My left hand touched my ribs. “This seemed like a good excuse for the
mister
to leave me behind.”

“A good excuse to leave behind one of his most versatile players?
Dai
, Irene. But it will please Roberto. No one wants to miss the last game of the season.”

At dinner Friday night, Nonno felt happy for Roberto too, but it was my
nonna
who came up with a plan. “The
calciatori
will take the car,” she announced. “They must arrive early. The others can take the bus.” (The plural feminine ending on the word “others” meant that she was talking about my mom and herself.)

“Good idea,” Mom said. “I'll check the bus schedule.”

“After the game, we will visit the Advent Market together. Maybe see Ötzi the Iceman at the museum.” Nonna turned to me. “Don't forget to bring another outfit,
cara
. Let's select it together? After dinner?”

“I have to clean the kitchen first,” I said.

“I'll do it,” Max offered.

“Che carino,”
Nonna crooned. “How sweet. A thousand thanks, Massimiliano.”

My brother blinked twice and smiled angelically. I wondered if he was up to something. He might not have realized that Nonna had given up on trying to make me quit soccer. But it seemed as though her other campaign was still going strong. If I was determined to look and act like a
maschiaccio
on the field, the least she could do was make sure I looked elegant off of it. It didn't seem fair. Max probably would have been allowed to parade all over Bolzano in his soccer uniform. Still, at least my
nonna
was coming to my game, instead of insisting that she would be perfectly happy checking out the smaller local Advent Market with my mom. That was progress.

It took fifteen minutes of going through every scrap of clothing in my old wooden wardrobe before Nonna announced: “The blue sweater together with your gold chain please me most.”

“Agreed,” I said quickly, before she could change her mind. Mission accomplished.

But she wasn't done yet. Nonna reached for the bag that she had left on my desk. “All right, Irene. Now that you are older, you must learn to respect your skin. To run outside is bad for it. Also, too much sun. My cosmetologist recommends these for the young.” Nonna pulled out tubes of cleanser and moisturizer and handed them to me. “These will also prevent acne. A good thing, no?”

“
Sí.
Thank you.”

“We also discussed your coloring,” Nonna continued. She reached into the bag and pulled out blush, lip gloss, eye shadow, fingernail polish. “Let's try them. If they seem
bella
enough, you can wear them tomorrow.”

“Not during the game?” I said, horrified.

“No. How silly, Irene. After the game,
carissima
. After. But I do have a plan for your hair….”

Before I left for the game on Saturday afternoon, Nonna braided my hair so tightly against my head that not a single strand would be able to escape. A way to minimize the Medusa effect? My scalp still hurt ninety minutes later as I waited on the field for the game to begin.

The only parts of my body exposed to the chill, autumn air—my hands, face and knees—were cold. But that would change once we started to play. I liked the view from where I stood—and I wasn't talking about the vineyards rising up the steep slopes of the valley, the people in loden cloth jackets
taking a walk, or the bluffs rising high above Bolzano. I liked playing
terzina
, the left defensive wing. It was a thousand times better than being the goalkeeper, but there was more to it than that. I liked working with Werner and Manuel. I liked hearing our opponents' grunts of disappointment when we stole the ball and sent it back to the midfielders.

The referee blew his whistle. Matteo kicked the ball to Emi. The game began.

For the first ten minutes Matteo played with all of his usual speed, style, and selfishness. He took two blistering shots off of two gorgeous crossing passes from Emi. The goalkeeper caught the first one and deflected the second one out of the penalty area. But as the minutes ticked down for the end of the first period, Matteo's pace slowed. The ball seemed to give him energy. When he had it, he could run. Otherwise, he walked.

During the short break between the first and second periods, the
mister
rearranged us. First, he sat down two tired midfielders who looked grateful rather than annoyed to come out of the game.

“Giuseppe, you take the place of Irene. Irene, you attack from the left wing. Gianlucca, move from attack back to midfield. You have a lot of energy still, no? It goes well. Federico, you go in for Matteo. Matteo, seat yourself. We'll have need of you in the third period.”

Matteo crossed his arms and bent his head. Except for the game he missed, I couldn't remember Matteo ever being out of the game. The
mister
had pulled Matteo to talk to him for a few minutes during a scrimmage or two, but he had always sent him right back in at the next opportunity.

Since I had scored my one official goal of the season against the other team from Bolzano, I didn't expect anyone to underestimate me. They didn't.

The ball moved up and down the field. There was plenty of action—throw-ins, goal kicks, free kicks, high headers, floating passes—but no one scored. There weren't even that many shots on goal.

Midway through the period, Emi stole the ball and made a break down the right sideline. Federico sprinted up the center while I made my way up the left side of the field.

One of Bolzano's defenders caught up to Emi and did his best to force my teammate out of bounds. Under pressure, Emi lost control of the ball. It sailed down into the empty corner and rolled to a stop, still inbounds. Emi put on a burst of speed and won the race to the ball. He sent a high-crossing pass into the penalty area where Federico and I were waiting.

I knocked it to the ground with my chest. A defender raced to put himself between me and the goal. With my instep, I passed the ball to Federico. He drilled the ball past the helpless goalie and into the net.

No whistle. No flags waving to signal offsides. A goal!

“Bravi!”
my
nonno
roared.
“Brava!”

Federico ran toward me with his arms outstretched. I think that he had every intention of picking me up and spinning me around, even though I was five inches taller than he was.

“No, no!” I waved him away with my left hand and pressed my right one protectively against my ribs.

Federico settled for pounding me on the back. “Thanks! A thousand thanks. What a beautiful pass! Two beautiful passes!” he added as Emi arrived.
“Bello, bello, bello.”

We wrapped our arms around each other's shoulders in a mini-huddle and grinned. But Federico couldn't hold still for more than a few seconds. He broke away from us and bounded across the field in a spinning gallop.

Emi rolled his eyes. I murmured,
“Bello,”
and we trotted up the field after him.

The score was 1–0. If we could keep Bolzano II from scoring, that might be all we would need.

But Bolzano attacked hard. A few minutes later, Manuel was marking Number 22—a strong, fast, dangerous player—when their legs tangled. They both went down. The referee blew his whistle and play stopped.

Manuel had been called for unintentional tripping. That meant a direct kick and not the more dangerous penalty kick—as long as the foul had happened outside the penalty area. Yes. The referee was placing the ball a few feet outside the white line.

I ran downfield. As one of the tallest people on our team, I would be part of the group forming a wall between the spot of the foul and the goal.

We stood shoulder to shoulder. The rest of our team arranged themselves in the penalty area to guard the other players.

Number 22 stood a few steps back from the ball, waiting for the referee's signal. It came. The boy rushed forward and kicked the ball. Our wall jumped, even though it was well over our heads. I turned just in time to see the ball sail into the far left corner of the goal.

The score was now one to one. It stayed that way through the end of the second period.

Davide was limping slightly as he walked off the field. The
mister
stood waiting for him on the sidelines. “You have hurt your ankle, Davide?”

“A minute ago. It's nothing.”

The
mister
crossed his arms. “The same ankle as before?”

“
Sí
, but only a bit.”

“Really?”

Davide nodded.

The
mister
reached for his first aid kit. “All right, come with me. I want to check the ankle and maybe wrap it. Everyone else rest.”

I noticed Matteo sitting on the bench, his head down between his knees. A shiver ran across his back. Then another. A cough shook him. His fist covered his mouth as he half sat up. Then he leaned back down, pillowing his head on his crossed forearms.