Forze La Panda! [5m1w: Terry Langford]

I've decided to split the Five Managers, One World stories off into separate places. I think this is going to be easier for people to follow, and as they are beginning to develop different tones and personalities, I figure some people may only want to read a couple of them.

This will happen during the offseason for each manager. This also means that posts may be somewhat irregular. My goal is to post somewhere in the 5m1w universe each day, but that means several days could go by--especially in the offseason--in any particular thread.

If you want a quick summary of his past year, the career thread of monthly updates is the best bet. If you want to read the full backstory, the easiest place to do that is here (which, unfortunately, is in reverse chronological order), or you can read the original Five Mangers One World thread, skipping (or becoming fanatically interested in--whichever) the other stories.

WARNING. These stories will contain adult themes from time to time. Love, sex, and alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

We join Terry Langford after what can only be thought of as a rough year. He was fired from Ajax Cape Town, hired by Rodengo Saiano in Italy, and struggled throughout. Now, he seems to have secured a job for next year with the Pandas, and his relationship with Leti, a South African woman he met in Cape Town, seems to be stabilizing. Could our young Irish manager be turning the corner?

The Bonus. June 8, 2010.

“Terry! I am glad you could make it. Come in, come in.”

I entered the sumptuous offices of Rodengo Saiano’s chairman to find Marco Lissandro already there, seated in one of the white leather chairs around the low coffee table that sat to the side of his desk. I mumbled something, shook hands with each of them, and seated myself on the dark couch on the other side of the table.

My anxiety had risen on the way to this meeting. My assumption was this was just a routine, end of season, see you in a few weeks thing, but there was always the chance I was walking to my own execution. After the past year, it was hard to remain utterly confident. About anything.

There was a raised lip at the edge of the cushions, and I found myself constantly fingering it, running the edge of my thumb along the smooth leather, catching the nail slightly and feeling it pull. I hoped I wasn’t scratching it. Probably cost more than I make in a year. Or two.

“Congratulations on surviving, Terry.” This was from Marco. He still unnerved me, and I still couldn’t exactly place why.

I looked down before responding, concentrating on keeping my hand still. “Thank you, Marco. It was a closer thing than I hoped. But we stayed up.” I looked at him. “And we had a good showing at home, no?”

Marco smiled, knowing I remembered his comments about the financial losses associated with the relegation playout. “Indeed. We did not lose money that day—a nice change for an important match.”

Alessandro leaned forward and waved his hands dismissively. “Terry, I know you saw the banner. I have already spoken to Veronesi, he says those … those stronzi will be barred next year. And, I wanted to apologize to you. And to her.”

I was taken aback. The image on the banner had blurred in my mind, but the sense of venom, the hatred that permeated it, had stayed with me, leaving a bad taste in the back of my throat that I could still feel. I had not known that Marco or Alessandro had seen it, nor, frankly, that they cared.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t known they knew about Leti.

“Thank you. I … well, thank you. I was glad that she, Leti, her name is Leti, didn’t see it. She had gone back to Cape Town.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, she works for Ajax Cape Town down there. Runs their finance department.” I wasn’t sure what was going on, and suddenly felt like I was blabbering. How could they really care? How did they even know?

Marco nodded. “A terrible thing, Terry. A terrible thing.” He lifted a white folder from the table and offered it to me. “We would like to make up for it, and also to help make sure you are ready when late July comes around.”

I took it, but didn’t open it yet.

“About that …” They both glanced at each other and smiled, sharing some private joke. “I just want to make sure—I should plan to be here next season?”

Alessandro leaned forward. “Terry, we brought you here to win, yes. And, well, we didn’t do much of that this spring. But Marco and I are both seeing what you are doing, and both of us believe you need more time to rebuild the team the way you want. So, yes, you will be back.”

He glanced at Marco. “But, we must be, what is it, frank? Yes, we must be frank with you. We need a good start this August, yes? A good start to a good year.”

Marco was nodding. I understood their position and this didn’t seem the place to pursue in too much depth. I opened the folder. It contained two smaller envelopes, one bearing the angular green insignia of Alitalia, the other the rainbow colored FIFA logo. In the opposite pocket, there was what looked like an itinerary. I saw BZO – FCO – CPT on one line, and looked up, confused.

“Cape Town?”

Marco nodded. “We’d like you to have two weeks off. And we thought that perhaps Ms. Netum—Leti—would accept tickets to some games in Cape Town as apology for the fans from Mezzocorona.”

I looked down at the paper again. It was a roundtrip ticket, with tickets to the Costa Rica – Iran game on June 24th as well as to the quarterfinal at Newlands on July 2nd. It was a little overwhelming—this was easily a five thousand dollar bonus for a very poor performance. That was over a month of my wages.

“I … I don’t know what to say. This is very generous. And thoughtful. Thank you.”

Alessandro laughed. “You’re welcome! Although going to Iran against Costa Rica may not be a present, no? Someone must fill those stands.”

First!

Great to see another split off, Mak. Will, as usual, be following along.

Thanks, tenthreeleader! While the football in Terry's life has been pretty miserable, I have enjoyed writing his off-the-field stuff the most. Hopefully, the team solidifies a bit this year, although it will be a while before we have much football to talk about here, as everyone is on vacation.

Conversation with Leti. June 13, 2010.

“Terry, did you hear?”

It was a gorgeous June day: bright, sunny, with a hint of mountain cool in the air. Terry was seated on a bench in a small courtyard behind an old stone church. He had found this space a few weeks earlier, and came here to sit, to think, and recently, to talk with Leti. There were a handful of graves along the far wall marked with bits of stone that once held carvings but now were worn into mute contours of rock, and above them the curved branches of a tall oak spread in supplication against the clear blue of the sky, sending mottled shadows scurrying across the gravel walkway and the dark brick of the garden wall.

“Hear what?”

“Pirates finally fired Krol. You should try for it.” There had been rumors about Ruud Krol’s imminent departure from Orlando Pirates for months, even before Terry left South Africa for the mountains of northern Italy.

“Leti, I can’t. They want me here, I said I’d stay. And they’re sending me to you for two weeks, the tickets, the whole thing. I can’t even apply—they’d hear of it, I’m sure.”

Leti was silent for a moment. “Yeah, I know. I just want you here.”

“I’m coming. Ten days, I’ll be there.”

“I know. I meant longer.”

“Sure, but we’ll have two weeks. Let’s not bring that down because it’s not longer, yeah? It is two weeks.”

“Two weeks.” Terry couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or still protesting. But lately such ambiguity wasn’t as much of a risk: something had changed from her visit, they had moved into a new territory where not every sentence was fraught with danger, where not every word had the potential to send one of them spinning off into uncertainty and doubt.

“Leti, I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh.” Her voice was light again, teasing.

“Be quiet, you. I’ve been thinking. Leti, can I go with you to see Nombi when I come?”

Leti was silent for a moment, unsure. It had been hard enough opening up to Terry during her visit to Italy. But the idea of him, his body, his blue eyes, being in that small shack was jarring. It was a practical impossibility, like turning a corner and finding a mythical beast grazing by the side of the road. You could imagine it, you could talk about it, but if you saw it, well that was something else entirely.

“Leti?”

“Sorry. Maybe, hon, maybe. Let’s see how she’s doing when you get her, OK?”

“Sure. Did you see her yesterday?”

“I did. She seemed a little better. She was sitting up, anyway.”

“That’s good, then.” Terry was struck again by how sick Nombi sounded—if sitting up was a good day, what could possibly be a bad one? And why wasn’t she in hospital? It was a little confusing—usually, Leti spoke of Nombi as if she had a bit of a cold, an inconvenient case of something. But when pressed, it sounded like she was barely surviving, huddled in some blankets at death’s door.

“So, you check on the seats?” Terry had tried to find them, but as usual the online world left him confused and frustrated.

“I did. They’re fabulous, Terry. The ones for the quarterfinal are even better than the first game. You did thank them for me, yeah?”

“I did, I did.”

“Why are they doing this again?” Terry’s eyes searched patterns in the shadow and light of the leaves above his head. He had not told her about the banner.

“They say I needed a vacation. I don’t know, to be honest. I think they wanted to do something to make sure I was coming back. Or maybe they are trying to soften me up and we need to cut payroll in half this fall. I don’t know. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the face. Or whatever that saying is.”

“No, no, course not.” There was a gentle pause. “Terry? I’m so looking forward to your being here.”

“Me too, love, me too.”

The Together Thing (Terry Arrives in South Africa). June 23, 2010.

“Leti!”

Terry dropped his carry-on bag, and the two embraced, followed by a long kiss that only ended when they were bumped by a small South Asian man as he swung his suitcase off the revolving carousel. They laughed off his apology, and contentedly held hands waiting for Terry’s suitcase to emerge.

Leti nestled her head against his shoulder. “Good flight?”

“Long flight. You know. That’s a lot of travel. You see the Italy game?”

She nodded. “I recorded it for you. You know how it ends?”

Terry winced. “Yeah. Someone was blabbing about it in the restroom. Sounds like it was a nail biter.”

“It was. You were lucky to win it. Crowd was gutted—Tunisia may be North African, but they’re still African.”

“I was lucky to win it? Me?” He spread his arms with a mocking smile on his face. “Not Italian yet.”

Leti squeezed his arm. “Who do you fancy?”

Terry shrugged. “Usual suspects. Brazil. France. England looks strong for once, maybe Portugal. Messi comes back, you can’t count out Argentina. You see his goal?”

She nodded. “It was special. It was basically playing on a loop on SuperSport for the next day.”

“Yeah. Oh! There it is!” Terry moved forward and took his bag off the belt, then turned to her. “Shall we?”

# # #

Later, after the drive home; after a detour by the now finished stadium in Greenpoint; after barely closing the door behind them before falling into a desperate and hungry embrace; after the giggles turned into gasps and the gasps into moans, they lay in her small bed, intertwined and sweaty.

The TV was on, and the clock was winding down on the early games: shots of Russian and Colombian fans in jubilant celebration filled the screen, along with close ups of South African players slowly walking around the field in Port Elizabeth, clapping in appreciation for the fans and their support.

Terry was using a lock of Leti’s hair to trace the line of skin down the back of her arm, gently brushing it back and forth and leaning over occasionally to kiss her. The camera panned through the crowd, pausing on two who held up a banner spray-painted with the words, Thank you, Bafana Bafana! There were caricatures of safari animals on the bottom, smiling and holding hands. She took his head between her hands and pushed off the wall, rolling over on top of him. “Terry.” Something in her voice made him pause, his eyes widening.

“Yeah, hon?”

“I saw the banner, Terry. I was looking for stuff online about the team, about the last game. It was in the background.”

Terry froze, looking at her. “Oh, Leti … I’m … I’m so sorry.”

Leti sat up and gathered a blanket around her, scooting around to face him. “Terry, how could you not tell me? How?” She turned away, her eyes brimming.

Terry didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what he was being accused of, but he knew with a fierce clarity that he wasn’t guilty. He had just tried to do what was best for her, for him, for the two of them. He stammered for a moment, searching for an answer. “I just … you didn’t need to … I was trying, I don’t know, to protect you.”

Her head snapped up and there was a hardness in her eyes that surprised him.

“From what, Terry? From what? From racism? You were trying to protect me from some idiot white people with too much time on their hands and a sheet? Do you know how ridiculous that is? How … insulting that is?”

“Leti, what? I don’t … I was just … “

She shook her head and stood up, quickly tying the blanket around her in a loose covering, then headed into the kitchen.

What the hell? What did I do? Terry sat back in bed and took a deep breath. He reached over the bed and fished around until he found his shorts, put them on, and then walked out to the kitchen. Leti was sitting at the table, her arms crossed, one leg bouncing up and down.

Terry slid into the chair across from her and reached out his arms. She looked at his hands, but didn’t uncross her arms. He slowly pulled his hands back, ran a hand through his hair and looked around the small kitchen. “Leti, hon. I don’t know what’s going on. It was a stupid, hateful, nasty, stupd thing. They were kicked out … I think they were banned for next year. I don’t know what you wanted me to do.”

She stilled her leg and looked at him. What are you doing Leti? He can’t understand. And it’s not fair to ask him to. She uncrossed her arms and looked into the blue of his eyes. Look at those eyes. He had them the whole time, and you liked them then, too. She felt herself softening.

“Terry … it’s OK. It’s just. Look, you can’t stop people from being idiots, and you certainly can’t protect me from it. I live here.” She looked out the window for a moment. “I live in the new South Africa, remember? Race is written in the air around me every day. Every day. And not just here. You can’t stop the women in the cheese shop in Rodengo from following me around because she thinks all Africans are thieves. You just can’t.” Terry waited.

“But that’s not really it, T. It’s really not. We’re either in this together or we’re not, yah? And if we are, then we’re in it all together. This.” She waved a hand towards the bedroom. “And the bad. What we like, what we don’t, all of it.”

Terry nodded. “I can do that. The together thing. I want that. Leti, I want that with you.”

She shook her head and stared at him. He can talk about soccer in compound paragraphs. But relationships make him stammer like a schoolgirl. Why the hell is that so cute?

“Teri … if you want that, you can’t pick and choose when we’re together. Especially when we’re so far apart when we’re together. You know what I mean, yeah? You there, me here.” She shook he head. “Terry, the banner. Is that why they gave you all this?”

Terry shook his head and gave a small shrug. “I don’t know why they did this, Leti. It was part of it, yeah. They mentioned how sorry they were. Ferrari more than Marco, of course, but yeah, it was part of it.”

She stared out the window for a while. She felt like she should be angry, should feel patronized by the attempt to buy her goodwill. But she wasn’t. It was a generous gift, no matter the motivation. There was no need for Terry’s bosses to even notice her, let alone care.

Leti looked at the clock on her wall. “It’s not too late. You want to go out, get a drink? There’s a spot around the corner? No music on a Wednesday night, but still. They’ll have the late games on.”

He smiled, felt his shoulders relax. “Yeah, sure, I’d go for something.”

“You would?” Leti stood, fumbled at her waist for a moment, and let the sheet slide to the ground. Terry stared at her, drinking her in. She walked over to Terry, held his head against her dark, warm stomach, stroked the back of his head. He wrapped his arms around her, moving them up and down her back, around the generous curves of her buttocks. She pulled away. “Care to join me for a shower?”

He nodded, speechless, and she took his hand, leading the way.

another well written update in these extensive tale.

The enjoyment you have writing the off-field stuff is coming through nicely and it makes for an enjoyable read!

Thanks, Satio. Really appreciate having readers ... I worry about the off-the-field stuff taking over--especially in the off-season. But you're right, I am enjoying it. I hope others are, too ...

I Don’t Think This is Quite How Trapattoni Got His Start. June 24, 2010.

“Be out in a sec, hon. You ready?”

Terry grunted something in reply. He was standing by the pale orange refrigerator, fingering the beaded antelope head magnet and staring at the calendar, trying to make sense of the scribbled notes—someone’s birthday, a doctor appointment—and the pattern of red x’s.

Leti emerged from the bedroom, wrapping a green and red scarf around her hair. “You have the tickets?”

Terry patted his pocket and laughed at her. “Colors of each team, eh? Smart, that.”

Leti smiled. “I’ll figure out who to root for once we get there.”

Terry nodded towards the calendar. “What’s all that? The red marks.”

Leti moved to the sink and washed her hands, hoping he wouldn’t ask again. She had avoided the topic so far this visit.

“Leti?”

She dried her hands on the worn towel, took her jacket from the wall, and put her hand on Terry’s waist, guiding him out the door as she fished in her pocket for her keys. Her voice was quiet, and Terry had to strain to hear it over the jangle of metal and the dull thud of the door closing. “They’re reminders. Of Nombi. Each day I need to take her lunch gets a mark.”

Terry stopped her at the landing and pulled her into his arms. He looked into her caramel eyes, kissed her forehead, her nose. “That’s a lot, Leti. I’m sorry.” She leaned into him for a moment and took his hand. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

Terry paused a moment. “Leti. About Nombi.”

Leti headed down the stairs. “Come on. We’ll go see her.” She paused, surprised at what she was saying. “Yeah. We’ll go see her tomorrow. Or the day after. But we’ll go. We’ll be late if you don’t move your arse.”

# # #

Terry slid into his seat, handing a brightly colored souvenir cup of too-expensive beer to Leti as he did so. “Thanks.”

“Cheers.”

They touched cups briefly and Leti glanced down at the match program she had been reading. “It looks like Iran is through if they win? That would be quite a shock.”

Thirty minutes on, it looked possible as, in the space of ten minutes, Iran scored twice from corners, each on powerful headers that easily beat the Costa Rican keeper. With the goals, the crowd turned in support of the team from the Middle East, anticipating a historic success. The two goal lead lasted through halftime, and as the teams headed down the tunnel, Leti got up as well and stretched. “Another round?”

“Course. Want me to get them?” Leti shook her head. “Nah, I want to stretch my legs for a bit.” She took out her phone and fiddled for a few seconds. “Brazil’s up one on Greece. Looks like Iran could do it.”

Terry shook his head with a smile as Leti turned to head up the steps. He watched a few dozen people dressed in black from head to toe scurrying around assembling a stage of some sort. At the far end of the stadium, a host of children in bright costumes, carrying ribbons and large flags were lining up. He sighed and sat back in his seat, thinking about the first half.

Iran’s lead didn’t really reflect the game: it was an even contest decided so far by Iranian expertise on set pieces. That was something to think about for the Panda’s this fall: could they survive on a staunch defense and free kicks? The problem was all the talent they had signed up front—a half dozen strikers, none of whom were really good enough to start but each of whom had the potential to play in a higher league. Maybe Russo will magically claim the spot in a few weeks. Or Diaferio. Hell, any of them.

He brought a well worn piece of paper from his pocket, and smoothed it out, studying it. It listed names, dates of birth, and was covered with hand written notes on a dozen players. Terry smiled, grabbed a pen from his coat pocket, and carefully made a few more notations. He was absorbed in thought, and didn’t notice Leti sliding back into her seat, another cup of beer reached out to him.

“Oh, hey, thanks love.”

“Sure. Good to walk around. You watching this mess?” She nodded towards the pitch where the children were performing a strange mixture of African dance and something else, some sort of combination of gymnastics and American style cheerleading. Terry shook his head. “Can’t say I am.”

Leti looked at the paper in his hands. “What’s that? Chievo?”

Terry folded it slowly and put it back in his pocket. “Yeah, ChievoVerona. They’re our new parent club. I don’t know what the finances will be like, but I don’t think we’ll have a lot of dosh to throw at players. So I was hoping to pull some quality in on loan.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “You sure you don’t want to apply for Pirates?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Plus I heard they already hired someone. The guy from Bidvest. De Sa?”

Leti nodded. “Roger De Sa. Yeah, good signing for them I guess. Not as good as you would have been.”

“Thanks hon. Holy hell, did you see that?”

“What?”

“They just tossed that girl twenty feet in the air. Jesus, that would make me nervous.” Leti laughed, and a lightness took hold of both of them, soaring above the stadium with the flock of pigeons that wheeled around the light towers.

Iran packed it in defensively, absorbing the Costa Rican attack in the second half. The strategy looked sound and even if the soccer was a little unattractive, Terry knew he would do the same thing. There was a lot on the line for a country looking to make it out of the group stage of the World Cup for the very first time.

From their seats, he could see the Iranian bench, watching as nervousness turned to smiles and smiles to small moments of celebration, players leaning their heads together trying to hide their smiles, but betrayed by the excitement in their eyes. The clock edged down—thirty minutes to go, twenty, ten, five.

And then a long pass from the left flank found Erick Scott streaking through the box at full speed. His header narrowly eluded the Iranian keeper, and the Costa Rican forward continued his sprint, fetching the ball from the net and running back to the center circle, screaming at his teammates to hurry up.

There was a minute left in regulation, and Costa Rica had a lifeline, however unlikely.

Now the crowd was on its feet, cheering on the Iranians as they tried to hold on or the Costa Ricans as they surged forward. The fourth official showed four minutes of extra time, and Costa Rica was sending everyone far up the pitch. Iran was clearing the ball, but not far enough, and each clearance just led to another wave of red shirts bent on attacking the goal.

Randall Azofeifa got a pass inside the box, used his knee to gain control and set up a volley and wheeled and shot. Ebrahim Mirzapour in the Iranian goal deflected it, but it fell right to Bryan Ruíz, and the FC Twente forward volleyed it hard into the net!

Leti and Terry turned to each other, elated with the energy of the stadium, their eyes wide and their mouths open. Two goals in less than three minutes, and Iran’s hopes of progressing were gone—the tie put them behind the Greeks for second place in the group. The couple stayed standing in front of their seats after most of the stadium had cleared out. Terry was silent, looking out over the field, watching all the postgame rituals he knew so well as they unfolded—the interviews on the sidelines, the stewards slowly dispersing along with the crowd, the grounds crews already beginning to patch the field for the next game, the stadium staff cleaning up along the sidelines.

Leti looked up at his face, his eyes intense and searching. “You’ll be doing this someday, you know? Answering questions after coaching a game in the World Cup. You will.”

Terry smiled and looked at her. “Yah, right. I don’t think this is quite how Trapattoni got his start.”

“No, maybe not. But you’ll look back and say I never thought I would be here when I started in South Africa. I owe it all to my lovely woman, Leticia. This one’s for you, baby.”

Terry laughed. “My lovely woman, huh? Alright, lovely woman, let’s go find a bar full of Englishmen and celebrate.”

World Cup Group F

Costa Rica v Iran, Newland

Costa Rica 2 (Erick Scott 89, Bryan Ruíz 90+3) – Iran 2 (Mohsen Khalili 30, Javad Nekounam 39)

MoM: Alireza Vahedi Nikbakht (8.6) Costa Rica’s Best: Ruíz (7.8)

Attendance: 60,140. Referee: Armando Archundia.

Make Like Americans and Borrow. June 30, 2010.

Leti woke with a start, bursting out of sleep at clattering noise. “Terry?” It came out softer and half an octave higher than she meant, muffled with the last vestiges of sleep as she sat up.

He rushed into the room, wiping his hands on his pants and crossing quickly to her side.

“Sorry, love, I just dropped a bowl. I’ve got it, no worries. Go back to sleep. I’ll clean it up.”

She shook her head, still groggy. “What? A bowl?”

“Yeah, one of the dark red ones. Sorry about that. I’ll get you another.”

“What were you … “ She shook her head. “I don’t know where I got them. What were you doing?”

He leaned over and kissed shoulder. “Nothing. Go back to sleep, no need for you to be up too.” Terry turned and headed back to the kitchen, leaving Leti on the bed, still blinking against the late morning sun.

She sat up, scratched at her head and stretched, looking around the room. He had only been here a few days, but evidence of his presence was everywhere: a pair of jeans tossed over a chair, a deodorant stick on the top of the bureau, a condom wrapper on the nightstand. She reached over and grabbed the small plastic square, dropping it in the trash as she headed towards the bathroom.

What has happened to my room? She pulled an oversize t-shirt from a drawer, shrugged into it, and headed to the kitchen. Terry was sweeping the last fragments of crockery into a dustpan, a crooked smile on his face. Leti pulled out a chair and perched on the edge, shirt pulled over her knees.

“Someone woke up happy.”

Terry emptied the dustpan and grinned at her. “At your service.”

“Do I smell coffee?”

“Of course. You want some?” He opened a cupboard, then closed it again.

Leti grinned. “Next one over.”

As she took the steaming mug from Terry, she looked at him quizzically. “What did you do to my bowl?”

A wave of chagrin fell over his face. “I was making breakfast. And, um, lunch.”

“Lunch?”

Terry nodded towards the counter. Leti could see some paper bags folded neatly by each other. And, on the stove, smoke rising above a frying pan. “Terry, I think breakfast is burning.”

“Oh!” he jumped across the room and took the pan away from the flame. “No, it’s good. Close. Thanks.”

Leti shook her head. “You still haven’t explained about lunch.”

“Oh, yeah. Well. Today has a red mark.”

“A red? Oh.”

She paused for a moment then nodded. “What did you make?”

“Sandwiches.”

Leti laughed, then got up from the chair and went over to the counter, and began to remove the contents from the bags.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Terry, she can’t. Nombi can’t have sandwiches.” She stopped and turned to him. “But it was very, very sweet of you. Come here, you.” She swept the bags to the side as Terry lifted her up onto the counter and as they kissed, she wrapped her legs around him, locking the two of them more and more tightly together.

# # #

“I think breakfast is probably cold.”

Leti laughed and leaned forward, resting herself on her elbows. From her vantage point on the kitchen floor, she could just see the pan on the stove. “Yeah. Probably. That’s OK. We need to stop at the corner before heading to Nombi’s. She likes half an Aero bar for her sweet. We can pick something up there.”

Terry got up. “Just let me get this off and get dressed. Be ready in a jiff.”

As they drove, she turned to him. “You were grinning like a Cheshire cat this morning. That wasn’t all about making lunch for my sister who you’ve never met, was it?”

Terry shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. I talked with Marco this morning. I think I found a loophole.”

“A loophole?”

“Yeah. He confirmed that we have no money to spend. And that we have to win in order to bring enough money in to keep the club going. Which means we need a better squad than all these talented youngsters we have.”

“And?”

“So we’re going to make like Americans and borrow.”

“You what?”

“Loans, Leti. Maybe a dozen of them. We’ve already made eight, maybe nine, offers to Chievo players. Another half dozen to other youngsters from reserve teams in Serie A and B. Loans. If they rot on the bench, I’m fine with that, but some of them will be good enough to win games.”

“But what about next year?”

He looked out the window for a second, scanning the tin roofs in the distance. Was that where they were heading? “Cross that bridge then, yeah? Some of the youngsters will be older, some of them will be better. And maybe we’ll have some money. And if not, do it all over again, I guess.”

Leti shook her head. “Terry Langford, you are something.”

“Yeah, I know.” He paused for a moment, his smile fading. “No idea if it’s going to work. But Marco thought it was brilliant. Course he would—it’s not going to cost him nothing, and if it fails, it’s clearly my head on the stick.”

# # #

Leti turned the car off, and looked over at him. “You sure you want to do this?”

Terry looked around. “What, I’m going to wait in the car? I’m sure. Really.”

She nodded, got out, and headed over to talk to some kids hanging out by a fence. Terry stayed next to the car, holding a lose canvas bag that held a few containers of soup and some magazines. He looked around, trying to mask his nervousness. Jesus, Langford. This is dodgy. Stick out like ****ing sore thumb or whatever.

She turned and headed away from the car, motioning for him to join her. They walked through the squalor, ducking the ever-present children. Terry stumbled a few times as the confusion he felt expanded into his body, making his limbs a fraction less responsive. He questioned each turn in his mind.

Is this the right way? Why are they all staring at us. Well, at me. That’s why, I guess. A couple kids approached him, tugged on his sleeve or at the bag, and chattered at him quickly in a language he didn’t understand, full of glottal clicks that echoed in his mind. One held out a hand.

“Pens? Pens?”

“Pens?” Confused, Terry patted his pocket by reflex but it was empty. “No, sorry, no pens.” He gently pulled the hand off his sleeve, and moved to catch up with Leti. “They want pens?”

She smiled a grim smile. “Yeah. Pens, calculators, paper. Things like that. True hooligans, that lot.” They were approaching what looked to Terry like a major intersection full of voices and women. He saw two piles of buckets stacked on inside the other, all rusty and worn, with faded traces of bright colors struggling to show through—red, yellow, blue all covered with an oxidized veneer of rust and use.

Leti spoke to one of the women, smiling, then turned. Terry followed until they arrived at a doorway covered by a dark purple cloth. Leti turned to him. “This is it.”

He gave her a squeeze on the shoulder, hoping it was reassuring, before they entered into the hazy darkness.

The first thing that Terry noticed was the smell: something slightly sour like milk left out a day too long. And, beneath that, the heavy smell of a close kept life in a small space: sweat, must, the faint odor of ****. Certainly in his time in Cape Town—brief though it was—it wasn’t his first encounter with this, but there was something about the size of the space, the closeness of the walls, that intensified the experience. That, and the anticipation—he and Leti had gone back and forth about this for so long, a gentle give and take that had paved the road for many of the turns of their relationship.

What did being here mean for their future?

Terry looked around, took in the sink, the empty shelves on the far well. Leti had moved to the cot, and was kneeling in front of it, whispering softly. She reached out, and helped the shape rearrange itself into a sitting position, then turned and motioned to Terry with her head.

“Nombi, this is Terry.”

Terry looked down. It was hard to tell how old Nombi was: her face was emaciated, making her eyes, dark brown pools swimming in a slightly yellowed sea, seem larger than usual. It made her look young, childish even. He smiled. “Hiya.”

“Terry. I’ve heard.” She began coughing, her body jerking spasmodically with each noise. “Sorry. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he nodded, then held out the sack in his hand. “We brought you lunch.” She blinked very rarely, and when she did, her eyelids moved very slowly, sliding down and pausing, as if the effort took an unusual level of consideration.

Nombi’s eyes opened again, and she looked at her sister. “That was kind.” Leti turned and pointed towards the back of the room. “There are some bowls and spoons over there, by the sink.” Terry went to find them and returned with two of each, well worn but clean.

“I could only find two.” Leti reached for them. “That’s alright, we’ll share.” Terry was surprised when Leti handed him a bowl, but understood as she lifted a spoon from her bowl to her sister’s mouth, her other hand holding a napkin beneath her chin. Nombi sipped the soup down, her eyes closed although Terry couldn’t read her expression.

She made a small noise and opened her eyes. “Your soup is so good, Leti. I think it’s what keeps me alive.”

Leti smiled. “Terry made you sandwiches. We’ll have them for dinner.”

Nombi’s head didn’t move, but her eyes turned to Terry. “Sandwiches?” She shook her head slightly, and something approaching a smile turned the edges of her mouth. “That’s sweet.”

The three of them ate the rest of their meal largely in silence, the sisters huddled closely together and Terry a little ways off. The two sisters leaned towards each other, comfortable in the quiet and the repetition of the activity: Leti would dip the spoon, hold it for her sister, then take a small sip herself. A pause as they looked at each other, then again.

Terry was reminded of two trees from his backyard when he was a boy. When the wind blew, it would look like they were bending towards each other in gentle obeisance. The sisters shared the same grace, the same gentle movements that betrayed a deep and hidden toughness. Terry and his two brothers and his Dad spent a weekend cutting down one of them to make room for a gardening shed, amazed by how hard it was to finally remove the thick and tangled roots that reached deep into the soil, each of them carrying long scars down their arms and along their shins from small thorns that lined the branches.

Terry drained the last of his soup—it was delicious, warm and smoky with a hint of citrus and small chunks of vegetables that hadn’t yet lost their crispness. He gathered both bowls, and took them back to the sink. Leti looked up. “You sit, hon, I’ll take care of those later.” Terry paused, wanting to do something, to feel useful somehow, but not wanting to argue.

He moved back to where he was, slowly lowering himself to the floor. Nombi had leaned further out, her head on Leti’s shoulder, her eyes again closed. Leti sat there, staring at Terry, slowly stroking her sister’s hair. Terry was entranced: there was a soft love, a caring, revealed in that single gesture. Her dark hand moving through her sister’s hair, sending small ripples through the short dreadlocks, her fingers reaching, massaging, tenderly searching out the shape of her skull. Nombi’s hair was light in color as if it had been kissed by the sun.

Holding Terry’s eyes with her own, Leti felt something fissure inside of her, a breaking open of some hard kernel of resistance created by seeing him, seeing the understanding reflected in his eyes in the midst of the impossibility that surrounded them.

Almost simultaneously, tears began to spill over for each of them, rolling untouched down their cheeks. Leti smiled shyly, and Terry only nodded in response. How long the three of them sat there, they could not say.

We'll Muddle It Through. July 2, 2010.

They had spent the previous day hiking Table Mountain with a rucksack full of cheese, a few different varieties of salami, and three bottles of wine carefully wrapped in towels to keep them safe. They held hands and marveled at the views of the city, spread out below them like some huge organic creature.

They were largely quiet, sharing looks and smiles and building a code of touch and gestures. They hadn’t talked about the visit to Nombi’s: there was no need, somehow. For each of them, sitting in that small space, sharing something precious and intimate and incredibly fragile had settled in them.

Cape Town’s topology from above was striking as it flowed away from the mountain: you could see green expanses that were being eyed by optimistic developers eager to create suburban enclaves in the new South Africa bordering on the chaotic mix of color and tin that betrayed the neighboring shanty towns. There were pockets of high-rise office buildings separated by wide avenues filled with a constant flow of traffic visible even from the top of the park. And, in between, varied proportions of street and lawn and building, an economic code of districts and neighborhoods that spoke of hundreds of years of urban development, layered communities buried upon each other. Their eyes were constantly drawn to the distant shape of the new stadium, perched on the bay at Greenpoint, which was their destination today.

As they were funneled towards the stadium along with the throngs of humanity, overwhelmingly dressed in white, green, and orange in support of the side from West Africa, Leti danced in place to the drumming that seemed to surround them, a slow shuffle marked by seductive swings of her hips. Terry hugged her close, feeling her press and grind against him. She looked back, a sly smile on her face.

How can I possibly go back to Italy in three days?

A man wearing the dark red of Portugal caught Terry’s eye. “What’s that,” he asked, pointing to Terry’s scarf.

“A panda.”

“A panda?”

“Yeah, it’s a team in the North of Italy, near Switzerland.”

“No ****? Sorry,” he flashed an apologetic grin at Leti.

“Yeah, it’s a newer club—twenty years, maybe twenty-five.”

The movement of the crowd drew them apart, and soon Terry and Leti were in their seats, joining the sixty thousand fans in anticipation and roaring with approval as the Ivorians appeared in their orange shirts.

Leti turned to Terry as the noise subsided slightly. “Well, what do you think?”

“Portugal’s been known to lay an egg. It’s all about Ronaldo—if he’s happy, the team elevates. If he pouts, they don’t.” He shrugged. “I’ve never minded him. I’d like to see him win something. But I’ll root for the elephants, yeah.”

“Who will they play next? Greece France, yeah?”

“Yeah. You have to guess France, but nobody thought Greece would win Europe, either. Or beat England.”

Half an hour later, the crowd was quieted. Portugal had dominated play from the opening whistle, and eight minutes in, Christian Romaric took down Raúl Meireles twenty-five yards away from goal. Cristiano Ronaldo lined the kick up and blasted it around the wall, curving it powerfully inside the post well out of Copa’s reach. It was his thirtieth goal for Portugal, and it looked to launch them towards the semifinals of the World Cup for the third time in their history.

Fifteen minutes later, a cross from Miguel Velosa found both Meireles and Ronaldo streaking towards the far post. Again, it was Ronaldo, this time with a strong header back across the keeper. When Meireles beat Copa with a well placed shot from a Hugo Almeida pass five minutes later, the game was all but decided: Portugal had a 3-0 lead, and was content for the rest of the game to give the Ivorians plenty of possession but very few shots.

For the Portuguese side, it was an hour of nonstop celebration and as the clock ticked away, the positive mood spread across most of the rest of the crowd: there was no heartbreak, no sense that a single goal could change everything, and the sadness at the loss was gradually replaced by appreciation.

When the final whistle blew and Drogba made a circuit of the field, clapping for the crowd, the cheer was almost as loud as for Ronaldo’s goals in the first half.

Terry turned in his seat. “Well, that’s that. It’s strange, you know.”

“What is?”

“I thought I would be here, watching these games. But I thought, you know, I would be in red and white when I did it. And that I’d be here with some crusty assistant coach.” He laughed. “This is better.”

She stood and started down the aisle. “Come on. Let’s get home.”

As they entered the apartment, Leti looked around appreciatively. “You cleaned up.”

“Well, my crap was everywhere. It is your place.”

Leti smiled. “Thank you. But I didn’t mind. Really.”

Terry walked over to her, helping her out of her coat. “Leti, what are we going to do? I can’t leave you.”

She pulled a chair out and sat down gently. “I know. But you can. And you will. We have tomorrow, and then you will head back to the mountains and the vineyards, and I’ll head back to the office, and we’ll muddle it through.”

Terry frowned. “I guess so.”

“What else is there to do? This … whatever this is … is special, Terry. It’s magical and I am so, so thankful for it. But it’s also real, you know? I can’t just leave my family, my job. Nombi. And you’re the coach of the pandas. It’s where we are.”

He nodded. “So, phone calls and e-mail and … well … phone calls and e-mail?”

“Yeah. And we’ll figure something out.”

Terry walked over to the counter and lifted a bottle of scotch they had bought on the way home from Nombi’s. “You want some?”

Leti shook her head. “Don’t have too much, now. Don’t want you falling asleep on me.”

He turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Have I ever?”

She laughed. “No. Just bring it with you into the bedroom.”

World Cup Quarterfinal

Portugal v Ivory Coast, Newlands

Portugal 3 (Cristiano Ronaldo 9 22, Raúl Meireles 27) – Ivory Coast 0

MoM: Ronaldo (9.2) Ivory Coast’s Best: Emmanuel Koné (6.9)

Attendance: 60,113. Referee: Wolfgang Stark.

Great writing as always Mak. A good win too for Portugal aswell there. I expected more from Ivory Coast.

Thanks, Satio. I really enjoyed this visit to Italy, it was a challenge and fun to write. I was surprised by both these teams: that Ronaldo would carry his team that well and that the Ivory Coast looked so listless.

The World is Better. July 4, 2010.

Terry’s sense of elation faded slowly as the continent crawled away beneath him. The flight from Cape Town to Europe made Africa seem endless—heading north along its axis, the continent stretched on and on, hour after hour. He bought another miniature vodka and poured it into his cup, along with a container of cranberry juice, then returned to scribbling on a piece of paper, drawing diagrams, circling a name here, adding an arrow pointing somewhere else there.

He frowned, staring at the piece of paper. It was possible, but he needed so many of the loan offers to go through. Surely Chievo would figure out what he was doing, that they couldn’t play all of these guys, and would refuse some of them. Hell, he could be endangering the entire relationship.

And Roberto … they hadn’t even spoken about it yet. Roberto was convinced they could compete with the players they had, had argued that with all the attacking talent on the team, they needed to use a second striker to see who developed quickest. Terry rubbed his eyes and started a new page, this one with names and numbers and rough totals. It was madness. They had no money and they had a dozen players who would never, ever be good enough to play for the team. But they couldn’t just release them without paying each one a termination fee. Which they didn’t have because they didn’t have any money. Yet they had a dozen players …

He felt so distant from the week that had just passed, already enveloped in the details of the squad, in the work needed to get ready for the season. Cup play started in a few weeks, then the league immediately after.

He took a final sip of his drink before passing it to a stewardess making her way down the aisle. He leaned back and closed his eyes, thinking of sweepers and attacking midfielders and target men.

But, almost immediately after his eyes went dark, visions of Leti appeared. Her face, her hair, her body beneath his. Her smile. And then a scene that kept reappearing, her eyes wide with wonder staring into his as she stroked her sister’s head. It was a postcard from the Harry Potter movies: a single snapshot where the figures still moved, the gentle fluttering of Leti’s hand, Nombi’s head as she adjusted her head slightly, Terry’s hand as it moved to his cheek to wipe away a tear.

His eyes opened wide suddenly, and he grabbed for his pen, quickly flipping the paper over.

Leti –

I close my eyes and I only see you.

For someone used to seeing, well, other things, it’s a pleasant change.

New Years. We can “muddle” (that was your word, right?) until then. But I want to welcome in 2011 with you.

I don’t know what comes after that. But I know the world is better, I am better, when we’re together.

Love,

-T.

From Terry Langford's Diary. July 18, 2010.

Training Camp Update

It feels like we have two dozen new players here, but I know it’s not that bad. It’s only eight. Two were signed last spring—Leonardo Bianchi, a creative midfielder, and Jon Errasti, a Spanish holding midfielder that I think could develop into a star for us. If all goes well, Bianchi will play for the reserves, but Errasti … Errasti should play every game with the first team.

I’m looking for him to help Isma out—that gives us three Spaniards in the side, which should be plenty to take care of any homesick feelings they may have.

And the other six? All of them came from Chievo. All of them. Two will step directly into the side, most importantly, veteran striker Mirko Gasparetto. Gasparetto has bounced between Serie A and B for seven years, and while he never really stuck there, he certainly can help us here. He’s big and physical, and should dominate up front in this league. The other starter will be another veteran, defender Tommaso Chiecchi.

The other loanee’s add needed depth: two strikers, a wingback on the right, and an attacking playmaker to spell Isma. Only one of them, Cameroonian wingback Nester Herve Djengoue is a traditional loanee, a teenager in need of experience.

I am stunned that Chievo agreed to all of them. Eight players. $0 cost to us in salary.

And we’ve brought in about $40,000 in income, moving five players out. Gallovich was the only one I was sad to see go—he really is a good player. He just didn’t fit in with how we’re playing. He, Sinato, and Calvi all went to Messina. We’ll start having to call them Rodengo Sicily.

We also have a bunch of trialists in camp, a couple Italian defenders and two Brazilian wingbacks. All four are generating some interest from other clubs, so we’ll just have to see who we can hold on to.

Marco showed up today. He’s thrilled with what’s happened, talking about how our wage analysis is off the charts. I almost hated to give him the bad news: we’re submitting another dozen loan offers. None to Chievo, though, which means some will need us to pay a portion of their salaries.

Roberto is coming around. He still doesn’t agree with it in theory, but he sees how much better these players are. And he likes coaching better players.

She Asks About You. July 29, 2010

Terry was again sitting on the bench in the shadow of the old church, watching the patterns of light and dark dance across the brick walls as the wind stirred the branches above him.

“Hey, it’s me.”

He settled against the bench, his shoulders sliding across the iron slats, stretching his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankle.

“How you doing?” Let’s voice reached out to him bringing comfort slightly faded by the distance of the connection.

“Good, you?”

“I’m OK. You know how it is this time of year: we have a flood of new players, more on trial. Lots of expenses to process. Always a bit chaotic here to start. And relegation has taken its toll. You remember Marta? De Koenig?”

“Yeah, I remember her.”

“We had to let her go. Everything’s tighter.”

“Ouch. Sorry.”

“I’m not. Never got on with her honestly.”

Terry laughed. “How’s Nombi?”

“She asks about you. It’s funny. Some of our cousins have been there a few times, she doesn’t remember their names, whether she’s ever seen them before. But I bring a white boy around, and she asks about you.”

“Tell her the white boy says hello.”

Let’s voice relaxed. “I will. Promise. How’s your preseason coming?”

“Don’t get me started, Leti. You know I’ll talk until our phone die. It’s good. We’re still trying to sort out who we have, get them to work with each other, figure out their names. That sort of thing. But it’s good. We have, whatever, two weeks. And I’ve convinced Ferrari to let us have a ton of matches. So we’ll sort them out.”

“And learn their names?”

“Yeah, and learn their names.”

“You see all the moves here?”

“Not really.”

“Your team is gone, Terry. A mixture of wage dumping and of Heric wanting to, I dunno, make his mark or whatever.”

“Really?”

“Really. Hlatshwayo, Maluleka, Henyekane, Doutie, Tlou Segolela. Even Lance Davids and Darren Keet. Most recent was Jenniker. It’s a lot of income. Can only assume they’re looking to spend it again next year after promotion.”

“Wow.”

A pause. There wasn’t much to say—Terry had moved on, and while memories of those names ran through his head, thumbnail sketches of the players, moments from games, there was no emotional reaction.

Leti broke the silence. “Where are you?”

“By the church.”

“Found God yet?”

“No, just you.”

“What’s that mean?”

“No idea. Just something to say. Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. I mean it.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good. I’ll keep looking for God.”

“OK. Let me know if you find him.”

“Bye.”

Terry sat for a long time, watching two grackles argue over a bright red berry still attached to a small stem. The birds would squawk at each other, the berry on the ground between them. One would pick it up by the stem, and start to make a low clicking noise, something deep in its throat snapping open and shut in a muffled protest. The twig would jerk in time with the noise, then fall between them. The other bird would push its throat out, feathers expanding in an Edwardian collar. The two would circle each other, heads cocked to the side, always keeping one eye on the berry.

What fascinated Terry was the bush behind the birds, where another dozen berries hung, rubies touched by the last rays of the sun as it moved below the far wall. The grackles ignored them all, their attention solely focused on the single bruised and misshapen prize on the ground between them which left small spots of juice on the ground as they dragged it back and forth.

Very impressed by this story, I think there's a lot of effort put into the descriptions, and you've managed to weave the characters' emotions into an entertaining read! Keep it up!

Thanks, Goofus! Much appreciated--I think this is the most successful of the five in off-the-field things. Glad to have you reading ...

July 22, 2010

Friendly

Rodengo Saiano v Bari, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Bari 1 (Raffael 2)

MoM: Vitaly Kutuzov (7.1) Best Panda: Mauro Belotti (6.9)

Attendance: 700. Referee: Emidio Morganti.

July 25, 2010

Friendly

Rodengo Saiano v Bologna Reserves, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Bologna Reserves 0

MoM: Cristian Zenoni (7.9) Best Panda: Tommaso Chiecchi (6.8)

Attendance: 86. Referee: Massimiliano Velotto.

July 27, 2010

Friendly

Gubbio v Rodengo Saiano, Pietro Barbetti

Gubbio 0 – Rodengo 1 (Robert Diaferio 2)

MoM: Jon Aurtenetxe (7.0)

Attendance: 798. Referee: Andrea Armellin.

July 30, 3010

Friendly

Rodengo Saiano v Ascoli, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Ascoli 1 (Jonas Portin 90+3)

MoM: Portin (8.4) Best Panda: Mauro Belotti (7.2)

Attendance: 739. Referee: Roberto Lotti.

August 2, 2010

Friendly

Centese v Rodengo Saiano, Loris Bulgarelli

Centese 0 – Rodengo 2 (Roberto Sandrini 76, Alessandro Corsi 90+3)

MoM: Sandrini (7.4)

Attendance: 63. Referee: Andrea Cipolloni.

August 5, 2010

Friendly

Rodengo Saiano v Aurora Pro Patria, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Roberto Sandrini 83) – Pro Patria 1 (Matías Urbano 8)

MoM: Mattia Masiero (7.5) Best Panda: Sandrini (7.3)

Attendance: 170. Referee: Marco Barbirati.

From Terry Langford's Diary. August 6, 2010

I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy with a 2-2-2 record in the preseason. It’s a little surreal. But we haven’t given up more than 1 goal in a game yet, and the losses were both to clubs that are far better than us—Bari and Ascoli. I mean, they weren’t playing their first team either, but still: Bari and Ascoli.

They’re coming together, and they’re seeing what to do. The most difficult part of it is in back, but we have Cassaro and Belotti back there. Both of them dreamed of starting this year, but they’ve accepted their roles, and are doing a good job teaching the system. They’ll see some time, too. No way we make it very far through the season without some injury crisis.

Having the right people makes all the difference. We’ve added a few more on the payroll, too: a couple of Spanish players who were let go by their clubs, both of whom will be important. One, Edu, was brought in to be our backup, but he’s been fantastic in goal so far. I think he may have solved the logjam there, moving Pedersoli to the reserves. The other is as important, a central defender named Jon Aurtenetxe. I still can’t pronounce it right.

I grabbed Isma before they came, trying to get him to help welcome them. I shouldn’t have worried—they’re already talking of renting a house together with Erasti and Góngora. They say they’ll call it La Casa Grande, which was evidently quite funny. Roberto said that in Italian it would be La Grande Casa, hence the source of the hilarity.

I am clearly getting too old to relate to the players of today.

The revelation might be Roberto Sandrini. He may still be in the reserves to start the year, but he showed that he has some skills, scoring two long range drives in the preseason. And I was happy to see Leonardo Bianchi get some first team minutes. It’s off to the reserves with him, but I would expect him to step in as a starter next year. Ha, look at me. Next year.

We’ll be using the Serie C Cup games next week to sort out the squad. And, there are still more loanee’s on their way if all goes well. I had Marco check to see if there were any limits on the number of players we don’t own that can be on our squad. There aren’t. Lucky us.

Touchline Report, Rodengo Saiano v Pro Sesto. August 8, 2010.

No more friendlies. And with a return to games that matter, a return to the morning ritual meeting with Roberto and Matteo. We had breakfast in the café this morning, the first time since Leti’s visit I had been there. It had been closed when I came back from South Africa, and when I asked Roberto about it, he just shrugged and told me it would open again.

Evidently, he was knew what he was talking about: last night, he said to me, “see you for breakfast?”

“Dove?” I do like to show off the twenty-five words I know.

“Dove? Al caffè. Dove.” He shook his head and laughted.

“The same café? It’s open?”

He just nodded, and here we were. Turns out the old man was on vacation.

Our group in the Serie C Cup is Pro Sesto, Portosummaga, Legnano, and Feralpi Salò. All but Salò are also in our division, so we should know these teams well by the end of the year. That should be good. I may even learn some names.

Today, it is Pro Sesto. I remember two of their players from last season: one, a skilled Filipino midfielder named Simone Rota, the other, a striker with a name that wouldn’t fit on his jersey. Domenico Bernardetto Fumarico. No. Domenico Bernardino Fumarolo. That’s it. Fumarolo. We held them to a scoreless draw.

They have since added one of our old players, Stefano Martinelli, who starts on the right wing. Doubt he would recognize this team: six of our starters are new, two more arrived in the squad after I did last January.

The Cup games come fast and furious, so there is a bit of a battle of attrition in the lineups. Today, we’ll be looking for Esposito and De Pascalis to hook up with wily old Mirko Gasparetto. Mirko grabbed me and Roberto yesterday to tell us how happy he is about being here. He can’t fool me: he’s an aging striker being given a chance to be the solo target man up front. He’s not happy to be here, he’s happy about that.

And, seven minutes in, he shows us why, sending a thundering kick at goal from the edge of the box. Unfortunately, it is right at the Pro Sesto keeper who makes the save. But the power behind it was fantastic, and a good sign. I’m up and clapping, and Roberto joins in.

Even with that, though, we’re nervous out there, trying to do a bit too much.

“Settle down! Calm! Calma!”

They do, and the game becomes drab for a while.

Roberto leans over to me and waves his hand dismissively. “This … this is what we need to change. This is … pointless. Without direction.”

I nod. “How do we do that?”

“We add creativity, we add some … how do you say it?” He jabbers at Matteo for a moment then turns back to me. “Flair. We add flair.”

“OK. But first, Roberto, first let’s master this, OK? Get this right first.”

Seven minutes from halftime, Góngora finds space on the left, using a sudden shift of direction to throw off the defender. He steps back and surveys the box, sending a cross into the middle, where Gasparetto and De Pascalis are waiting. It’s Mirko who leaps higher and his aim is true: the ball beats their keeper to the near post and we’re up 1-0 in the first game of the season.

That, and the cheers of the ragged hundreds who have come to encourage us, combine for what I must admit is a very sweet feeling.

Pro Sesto’s coach, Carlo Caramelli, must have lit into his team at halftime: they use all three subs to start the half, bringing on a new strike force and replacing a central defender. Up front, it’s Fumarolo and Dino Sangiovanni. I recognize both of them from our game last spring—they were dangerous then, I assume they are still dangerous now.

As the half starts, I tell Roberto that I want to run, tire them out since they don’t have any more subs. He nods and yells some instructions to the team, gesturing rapidly with his hands.

It’s working—several of their players are gasping for breath and getting more desperate in their challenges. Martinelli goes in late and hard on Coly for the first yellow card of the day. The down side is that we’re getting banged up: Chiecchi, Djengoue, and Esposito are all wincing as they run.

Fifteen minutes from time, Marco Parolo—in for De Pascalis—has a breakaway, but his finish is too soft, and their keeper smothers it. I hope we don’t regret that. I am still uncomfortable in this stadium—there are too many memories of games slipping away, of things not working out in the last half hour of a game. It will take some continued success to overcome that, and if I am feeling that way, I suspect the fans do as well.

It all almost comes undone just minutes from time. A cross from Pro Sesto’s Paolo Ricchi takes a deflection off Góngora’s leg, and is heading straight into our goal. But Edu’s reflexes are sure, and he gets back into position to catch it.

Then, four minutes into extra time Edu’s inexperience shows up: he pursues a cross too energetically, carrying it out of bounds after he catches it. All he had to do was let it go—the referee already had the whistle raised to end the game. Now, they get a corner.

I feel a wave of anxiety rise with the ball as it arcs into the box. But Edu jumps confidently, grabbing the ball and as soon as he releases his kick upfield, the whistle blows. It’s a good first game, and a performance to build on.

The only bad news is that Esposito will miss about a month. But this year, we have some depth.

Serie C Cup Group B

Rodengo Saiano v Pro Sesto, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 38) – Pro Sesto 0

MoM: Juan Francisco Góngora (8.0)

Attendance: 297. Referee: Emidio Morganti.

Such a brilliant read, I actually joined the forum after stumbling across your Chaos Theory thread on Google; keep up the excellent work and good luck for the new season!

Wow, thanks so much, RyanMonteith. Thrilled you're reading, and I really appreciate the compliment.

We're Better than We Were (Rodengo v Legnano). August 11, 2010.

Games in the group play of the cup come so fast. With just two days since our opening match, we’re going to need to make quite a few changes.

Today we face, Legnano, who the media think are the best team in our division. So we have a chance to measure ourselves. Roberto is visibly nervous before kickoff. I motion to Matteo, who joins us leaning against the rail behind the home bench.

“Roberto, you ok today?” He shrugs and nods, then looks out at the Legnano players in their pink shirts on the field. “You worried about them?”

“They’re good. Quintavalla, Dell’Acqua. They’re good.”

“Roberto, you’ve worked with our guys the last few weeks. We’re good.”

He listens to Matteo then the two of them go back and forth in rapid Italian for a few minutes. Matteo turns to me. “We’re better than we were. He knows we’re better. But we’re all still trying to figure each other out. We don’t know yet if we’re good.”

I turn and watch the field. There are a few dozen fans, some drinking, some watching the warm-up routines, some just lounging in the long rows of stands. He was right, and we both knew it.

I turn back to the two of them. “Sure, true enough. But trust me. We may not threaten for promotion this year, sure. But we’re headed in the right direction.”

Roberto agrees, and eventually the game kicks off.

Neither team can gain the upper hand in the first half hour. We do, however, confirm two important assumptions about the upcoming year. First, we are simply better when Isma has the ball. Period. Second, experience up front is a very, very good thing.

In the final fifteen minutes of the first half, we finally began getting the ball to the diminutive Spaniard more often, and suddenly we were creating chances. Just before halftime, Isma was surrounded on the edge of the area, but found a way to slide a very light ball into the box. It was far too slow for their keeper to risk rushing out, and for a moment it seemed to just hang there, sliding along the ground like a drop of water along a blade of grass. It was a frozen moment—the ball moving more slowly than seems possible, players on one side watching it, their keeper beginning to move towards it.

And then Domenico Girardi fought his way through two defenders and pounced. Everything immediately sped back up, including Girardi’s shot which found its way into the back of the net.

Our form looked good, but the game was very even. But halftime was an optimistic and upbeat affair, full of small tactical changes and lots of encouragement.

An hour in however, they leveled the score, as much from opportunism as skill. A pass into the left side of the box found Giorgio Zaninetti, who fired the ball towards goal. It took a hard deflection off Duravia’s leg and fell to Quintavalla who fired it into the net. Edu had no chance—he was on the other side of the goal, scrambling to recover from the deflection.

The tie was deserved so far: now we had thirty minutes to get the win.

Gasparetto, in for the fatigued Girardi, is obviously thrilled at playing with Isma, and the two almost pull it out. The draw, however, is well-deserved which, for us, is quite a victory: we played Legnano dead even, which was supposed to be beyond us.

The win puts us tied at the top of the table, with Legnano and us both on four points having played two matches.

Serie C Cup Group B

Rodengo Saiano v Legnano, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Domenico Girardi 44) – Legnano 1 (Francesco Quintavalla 62)

MoM: Isma (8.0)

Attendance: 286. Referee: Daniele Orsato.

Rodengo Saiano 2010/11 Season Preview. August 18, 2010

Rodengo should have plenty of talent to have a solid year in Serie C2/A. The challenge will be how the team gels, given the number of players in on loan and, of course, what Terry Langford will do next season when they all move on. Still, for now, it looks like a winning tradition could emerge in Northern Italy.

In terms of actual Rodengo players, the team will key off the play of 5’1” Isma in a trequartista role, with the passing skills of Massimiliano Esposito and the support through the middle of the park of holding midfielder Jon Errasti, defender Jon Aurtenetxe, and goalkeeping prodigy Edu. But the key to the team may be Abdoura Mohamed Coly who can play virtually anywhere on the field and will be a true jack-of-all-trades for the Pandas.

The most significant impact of the loans should be up front, where imports Mirko Gasparetto, Domenico Girardi, and Dimas will hold down the lone striker position.

Starting XI (Players on loan in italics)

                            Mirko Gasparetto

                                  Isma

            Massimiliano Esposito      Facundo Zampa

Juan Francisco Góngora         Jon Errasti          Marco Duravia

               Jon Aurtenetxe     Andrea Mei

                            Andrea Signorini

                                  Edu

Second XI (Players on loan in italics)

                     Domenico Girardi

                       Marco Parolo

     Alessandro De Pascalis     Tihomir Weikl

Claiton          Abdoura Mohamed Coly     Nester Herve Djengoue

          Silvio Cassaro     Tommaso Chiecchi

                      Mauro Belotti

                   Andrea Lamacchia

Other Significant Reserves/Youth Players

Last year, Langford turned constantly to a set of teenage strikers. This year, that group is playing in the reserves, and hopefully developing for the future. The best of them are Roberto Diaferio, Vladimir Rusu, and Alvaro Jalò. Midfielders Leonardo Bianchi and Elia Alberti are the other young Pandas worth tracking.

August 15, 2010

Serie C Cup Group B

Feralpi Salò v Rodengo Saiano, Lino Turino

Feralpi Salò 0 – Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 16)

MoM: Nicola Canzian (7.1) Best Panda: Tommaso Chiecchi (6.9)

Attendance: 130. Referee: Domenico Celi.

Gioventù. August 19, 2010.

We just scraped by against Feralpi Salò, including a desperate scramble for the last ten minutes after Marco Duravia was sent off with his second yellow card. But we held on. And with the victory came some relief: we looked good to qualify out of the group stage with an outside shot of finishing first, no less.

This is where the Cup gets hard, especially on small teams. We haven’t been home in four days, everyone is a little tired, a little cranky. The three hour bus ride from Salò to Portogruaro took six and a half—we had some engine trouble and then there was a mysterious traffic jam. We were at a dead stop for forty-five minutes, but by the time we got moving, whatever had caused the snarl had been cleared.

Roberto and I went back and forth about the lineup a few times. Surprisingly, he wanted to start one of the young strikers, but this is exactly the kind of game we kept Dimas for. Gasparetto and Girardi are tired, and we need a replacement that still poses some danger. We need to cement our standing here, make sure the season begins on a good note.

Unfortunately, we don’t start the game that way.

Twenty-five minutes in, we are just plain lazy: a player on their left wing sends a long high pass towards Luca Scapuzzi, their target striker. Belotti and Aurtenetxe just watch it, and Scapuzzi bursts between them. His first touch is too strong, and I think Edu has it covered, but the Portosummaga striker manages to pull off a shot from a very tight angle, and we’re down 1-0.

“Matteo, with me.” I head to the edge of the line. “Jon! Mauro! What was that? Mauro! We need you! Jon! Get your head in the game! Now!”

I head back to the bench, shaking my head and turn to Roberto. “OK, fine, Jon is young, maybe he loses concentration. But Mauro? I need our veterans to be beat by skill, not mental lapses.”

Roberto listens to Matteo then nods his head.

We tie the game in the least likely fashion possible: first, it’s a lovely stretch of possession, with a dozen passes moving crisply around the pitch. The finish is started by a searching ball into the far side of the box from Isma that Dimas runs on to, controls, and sends back across goal. Isma is being guarded by two defenders, both over six foot, but he slips between them and sends a header into the back of the net.

The entire team explodes, and his smile is largest of them all. He sprints to the corner flag, patting his head and screaming “El cabezazo! El cabezaaaaazo!”

Our mood changes, and we begin to take control of the game, but we’re not finishing.

“Hey! Hey! Back post! Back post!” Roberto and I are both screaming, but we clear the corner without damage. He keeps yelling in Italian as I sit back down. “What the hell was that? Nobody knows to take the back post? Roberto?”

He is clearly as shocked as I am, and just shakes his head, his eyes narrow. He can take the halftime talk, then—he’s good when he’s angry. I grab him just before we head down the tunnel. “First tactics, then Isma, OK? Bad, then good.”

He tears into them at first, then ends with a stunning imitation of Isma running to the flag, one hand knocking himself on the head. The players are laughing, Isma most of all. It’s a great job, and we come out for the second half both more attentive and more alive.

“Roberto, great job. You’re making me less and less necessary.”

He listens to Matteo and laughs, clapping me on the shoulder.

Just shy of an hour, Isma does it again: he passes to Dimas twenty-five yards out, and keeps going. Dimas knocks it back to Coly, who has advanced past midfield. Coly has the vision to pick him out with a thirty yard pass into the box, and Isma’s run is timed to near perfection. He meets the ball a few yards to the right of the penalty spot, and one times it into the net.

The celebration is only slightly more subdued—he slides at full stretch across the sidelines, arms spread wide. When he gets up, there is a long streak of green and brown down the front of his jersey, but the only one who cares is the elderly gentleman who does our laundry.

We’re up 2-1, and now we just need to hold on.

One of the keys to this year is Raffaele Baido. Last spring, he never found his footing, and he struggled with both confidence and performance. But the talent is there—he can be a piece of our future. He played well today, got involved, showed his creativity. I grab him when I take him out, and try to tell him to keep it up, that if he does more of this, he’ll see more time.

Unfortunately, Matteo is over talking to the fourth official, so I don’t know how much Raffaele understood.

Just after an hour, we look to be in trouble: a cross into the box finds Alessandro Cesca, on for Scapuzzi. His header is straight at Edu and looks to be an easy save, but the teenager muffs the catch. Luckily both Belotti and Aurtenetxe shield the ball, giving him time to gather it back in.

It’s the same duo that fouled things up on the first goal, so I’m proud of them for recovering. “Jon! Mauro! That’s it! Good job!” Roberto is just shaking his head. He turns and says one word to me: “Gioventù.”

I turn to Matteo. “Youth.” Sums it up nicely.

Isma and Coly are both gassed, but I need them to stay on. We use our final sub to replace Dimas up top with Girardi.

Matteo is back, so I tell him to go talk to Baido, find out what he heard from me. I hear them laughing, so something must have gotten lost. Matteo comes back over. “He got it. It took him a while to understand see more time, but he got it.”

“OK, good.” I motion to Raffaele, and he joins us.

“One more thing. You need to keep working on your fitness, OK? If you were in better shape, you would still be out there.” I gesture towards the field. “You play a lot of positions, a lot of roles, the flexibility is fantastic. But you need to be on the field for it to be of use.”

Matteo and he talk for a moment, and he heads back to the bench.

Portosummaga is pouring it on. They miss a great chance ten minutes from time when a player is free in the box, but all they can manage is a corner. And another. And another which is cleared long to Isma, who just abuses his man on the flank: three feints combined with a move I swear he learned from a video game—he spins one way, taking the ball with him, then sends it back the other. He keeps spinning the first way, and is around the defender.

The defender’s frustration is visible, and he reaches out and just yanks him down by his shoulders.

I’m off my bench, but the referee is already there, red card extended.

So, we are a man up for the last three minutes. That should relieve some pressure. But, more .. what was the word? Gioventù. And Sandrini, on for Pietro Maglio in midfield, isn’t even that young.

“Roberto, no! You don’t shoot from thirty yards out. Not with a minute left up by one!” I wheel around to Roberto, the coach. “You have to know the game situation! Come on.”

But, we hold on. And, since Pro Sesto beat Legnano, we qualify! Top of group, no less. It’s a good celebration, and we head onto the bus happy to be headed back home before we go out again for the start of the league season.

Serie C Cup Group B

Portogruaro-Summaga v Rodengo Saiano, Pier Giovanni Mecchia

Portosummaga 1 (Luca Scapuzzi 27) – Rodengo 2 (Isma 32 55)

MoM: Isma (9.0)

Attendance: 742. Referee: Fabio Vicinanza.

August 29, 2010

We host Sambonifacese on a sweltering day. Our first chance—and the first action of note in a horribly boring game—is over an hour in, when Marco Duravia finds Mirko inside the box. He’s clear for a moment, but Luca Milan in their goal gets down quickly to deflect it out of bounds.

Each team has a shot near the end, but a leaping save by Edu turns away a point blank shot from them, and Milan again does well to save a corner that Gasparetto meets squarely with his head.

In the end, not the best game, but we hold the points at least.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Sambonifacese, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Sambonifacese 0

MoM: Giacomo Malquori (7.1)

Attendance: 666. Referee: Flavio Battisacco.

We Have Pandas. September 5, 2010.

Today, we face Bassano Virtus at their place. If nothing else, they should be the best dressed team in the division: their owner is the founder of Diesel. Can’t say I like their stuff, but still, their uniforms are snazzier than ours.

But we have pandas. Never underestimate the power of the panda.

They don’t. Instead, they go ahead when we lose our shape in the back—the wings have to stay wide to cover the flanks and the two central defenders have to keep more space between them for us to be successful. When we don’t, we’re highly susceptible to attacking wingbacks or wingers, and they have a good one in Thomas Veronese, who comes into the area essentially unmarked. His shot is far too strong for Edu to reach, and we’re down a goal twenty minutes in.

Ten minutes from half, we come close—Isma steals a pass near midfield and just blows past their entire defense with his pace. His shot is off the post, however, and while it looks like it might roll in as it trickles along the endline, their defense gets back to clear it.

They score a second off a free kick from barely outside the box just before halftime. It is struck hard and perfectly placed—not more than a foot from the upper left corner.

We don’t create much else until there are three minutes left. Then Duravia earns a hard save with a drive from inside the box, and Gasparetto misses twice, once on a low, hard shot across goal and once on a deft header off a corner.

It is, unfortunately, our worst game yet and leaves us winless in the league.

Serie C2/A

Bassano Virtus v Rodengo Saiano, Rino Mercante

Bassano 2 (Thomas Veronese 20, Giuseppe Anaclerio 43) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Veronese (8.1) Best Panda: Marco Duravia (6.9)

Attendance: 691. Referee: Alessandro Antonsambetta.

An Impossible Trick of Perspective. September 12, 2010.

Today, Pro Vercelli, perhaps the best team in the division. They were unlucky not to win promotion last year, and are led by the best player I saw all season, a 26 year old Brazilian import named Anderson.

I believe we can win. It will take a great effort, but we can win. I said as much to Roberto and he laughed at me. “Maybe,” he said through Matteo. “But I think you may think too much of us and too little of them.” I appreciate his honesty, but I wonder if he has the belief in the squad that he needs.

Once the game begins, they have all the possession, but neither team is getting shots off, and the scoring opens with a stroke of luck. One of their defenders, Davide Brivio, launches a curving strike from twenty-five yards out or so and it takes a deflection off Isma, who thinks he has the clean block. Edu is already diving to the far post, and can only watch it as the ball bounces inside the near.

Their second goal, however, is well deserved. Gabionetta loses Isma and finds himself unmarked at the far post for a long cross. It’s an easy score, and it draws whistles from our home fans.

I had hoped to go through the year without whistles.

We play better in the second half, and have a few chances, but we can’t convert. It’s a disappointing loss.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pro Vercelli, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Pro Vercelli 2 (Davide Brivio 22, Gabionetta 34)

MoM: Brivio (8.3) Best Panda: Marco Duravia (6.8)

Attendance: 545. Referee: Fabrizio Ernetti.

He sat at the rickety table in his small kitchen, staring at the glass of scotch between his hands. As he turns the glass, small distortions appear in the dark gold surface, eddies and vortices of deep tawny. The night is quiet and Terry is more than a little drunk.

He spoke with Leti after the game, a wholly unsatisfying conversation. “This is when I need her,” he thought, taking another mouthful. Terry shuddered his shoulders as the whiskey warmed his throat and stood a bit unsteadily. He leaned forward, both hands on the table bearing his weight “But she’s not here. Why is she so far away?”

His arms felt very long, the table very far away.

He shook his head and drained the glass. It was all so distant, wisps of memory floating on a breeze somewhere in the distance. Leti, her sister, Cape Town itself. They could be works of fiction, something he read once in school without really paying attention, slips of color that drifted by in front of an overbearing grey backdrop.

He stumbled once on his way to the sink, but recovered his balance and gently placed the glass on the white enamel before heading into the bedroom.

“Get your **** together Langford. It’s just a bumpy start. That’s all it is.” He repeated it to himself over and over as he tried to fall asleep. “That’s all it is, that’s all it is, that’s all it is.” The room was twisting slightly in front of him, none of the straight lines holding their shape, and with each repetition he felt like he was receding further and further from the ceiling.

“That’s all it is, that’s all it is.”

He wasn’t falling: there was no speed to his descent, just a slow sink to the point that he was unsure if he was moving down or if the ceiling was steadily disappearing above him, fading into an impossible trick of perspective. His eyes closed thickly but the sensation remained.

In his dreams that night, he was heavy, constantly being drawn downwards as he wandered through a series of dreams with varying landscapes, moving first through sand, golden flecked with black; then through swamps crusted with a salty brine that broke against his shins with every step where strange birds watched him from the moss hung and gnarled branches of ageless trees; then through air so thick he could feel it scrape against his skin, where every breath was a gasp made bile rise in his throat.

Finally, he saw Leti, standing on a small mound of dark earth covered with light red and blue flowers. He called to her and she waved, a smile on her face. He felt his desire for her rise, and he hurried his steps but couldn’t move any closer to her. Instead, every step he took pushed the mound higher as if he were stepping on a lever. The ground around him moved higher, and he saw the bright flowers rise closer and closer to his face, the rich smell of loam getting stronger all the time.

I Suicidi. September 19, 2010.

We’re away at Casale, which means one thing: veteran striker Christian Araboni. Araboni spent most of his career with AlbinoLeffe and is still a fantastic player for this league. He has five goals on the season, and will be the focus of our defense all day.

Isma is out for this game and, most likely, the next as well. So, Marco Parolo will take on the creative role up top and try to link up with Gasparetto.

They are clearly looking to pack it in and score on a moment of brilliance from Araboni: five defenders and four midfielders, with one of the four playing up front with the striker. If we can score early, we should have the game well in hand.

Twenty minutes in, only a fantastic sliding tackle from Andrea Signorini saves us. It is, of course, Araboni, but he is turned away at the last instant.

The rest of the game is a bore. Knocking the ball back and forth, a shot that sails wide here, a possibility that fizzles out there. I turn to Roberto in exasperation.

“What is this? Why are we playing this way?” Matteo translates and he shrugs and says a single word.

“Isma.”

Maybe. Maybe that’s all it is. But if so, aren’t we a bit too reliant on one player?

Serie C2/A

Casale v Rodengo Saiano, Natal Palli

Casale 0 – Rodengo 0

MoM: Andrea Mussoni (7.4) Best Panda: Marco Duravia (7.2)

Attendance: 1927. Referee: Alessio Pedrini.

The next day we began to introduce some new adjustments.

“Higher! Push up, push up!” That was Roberto’s idea, but we’re both trying to get to the same place: we need more men in attack, and while it puts even more pressure on our wings, with three defenders playing centrally in back, we should be able to commit a little more going forward without giving up easy goals.

I blow my whistle, bringing the scrimmage to a halt and they players meet me at midfield. Matteo is behind me with a tray of water bottles and he starts tossing them to the squad as I begin.

“Good. The goal of all this is to make good choices about when to move up in attack. Choices.” Matteo catches up. “It’s not about going forward all the time, it’s about going forward when you can, when we can help the attackers out. And it means the back three need to watch and react. Watch and react. Shift towards the side where we push up, fall back.”

I pause for Matteo. “And it means if you play wide, you need to run. Run and run and run some more. So today, we all run.” Predictable groans.

“Something new today. I Suicidi.” They stare at me with a sense of dread. Anything after the words run called a suicide will produce those looks. “Come.” I head over towards the goal and stand at the edge of the six facing the byline, Matteo by my side. “Line up. It’s a sprint, then jog, OK? Jog to the edge of the box, Sprint back. Jog to midfield, sprint back. Jog to the far box, sprint back. jog full field, sprint back. OK? Questions? OK. On my whistle.” I pause. “Oh, one more thing. I lift my stopwatch. You’ll be timed. Anybody falls below the time, everyone runs again.”

More groans, and this time I hear comments aimed at the slower players—Góngora, De Pascalis, Edu. I hear a question “Goalkeepers, too?”

“Yes, goalkeepers too.” I blow the whistle, and they head off. As always, it’s a bit of a farce the first time as they figure out when to jog, when to sprint. But they learn soon enough. We have them do three sets and by the end, sweat is dripping from all of them. Except Aurtenetxe. I don’t think he’s human, actually: I’ve never seen him perspire, no matter what we put him through.

The Slow Fade. September 26, 2010.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Itala San Marco, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Abdoura Mohamed Coly 34) – Itala 0

MoM: Coly (8.3)

Attendance: 455. Referee: Giovanni Pentangelo.

Another rather drab game, but at least it brought a result with it. The goal was fantastic: Baido (who started when Isma failed his pre-game fitness test) laid the ball into space for Coly who sent it across the keeper. It hit the post and rocketed into the net—a gorgeous strike that should go down as one of the better in the league on the day, if not the month.

We struggled badly in the second half, suffering a rash of yellow cards and a general lack of fluidity. But we held on, and with that we got our first league win of the year and moved off the bottom of the table.

I celebrated with a bottle and a call to South Africa. Leti was happy enough for me, but she seemed distracted. I don’t know how this is going to work. We are so rarely in sync: one of us is happy, the other distracted; I want to talk, she needs to get off the phone. Or she is chatty and I can’t stand to listen to what suddenly sounds like empty prattle.

The bottle, on the other hand, was excellent: stable, dependable, predictable. I asked no more of it than what it gave, and expected nothing except the slow fade towards sleep it offered.

I woke up just before dawn, drenched in sweat. I couldn’t remember much of the dream. Something about the ocean, sitting in a small boat with dark red paint peeling off the sides. I am rowing up a large wave that has frozen in space. I can still see the water churning beneath, but the surface is solid, a thin membrane that I have to drag the boat up with each pull of the oars. It’s hard work.

When I row my arms back, I’m actually sitting at the exercise machine from the gym. With each stroke, I hear the high pitched whine of the flywheel releasing and when it does, the spray comes over the side of the boat, cold and salty against my skin. Slowly the boat moves up the fixed surface of the wave until I reach the top. It lurches forward and I’m thrown to the side. One of the oars pokes hard into my ribs. I gasp in pain and the boat settles. There is a moment like the top of the roller coaster, a pause of stillness. I see a large black bird distant in the sky, a vine dangling from its beak. The green trails behind it, drawing lazy arcs in the air. It has three bright red blossoms that glow like stars.

Suddenly, the wave starts to move again and I start to fall, slowly at first, then faster and faster. The boat disappears, and the ocean recedes until all that is left is me and the air. It’s dead quiet, just the sensation of speed. There’s no panic, no anxiety. I feel bored as I fall, wondering when it will finally end.

More Than I Thought I Would Get. October 3, 2010

Even before I’ve finished my morning coffee, Isma is begging me to let him start in today’s game. My phone buzzes and it’s a text from him. Am i strting 2day? I fumble with the device for a little while before managing to send a reply. no. see enrco. Between the younger kids’ slang and my inability to use these things, we have some of the least comprehensible conversations known to man.

When I get to the stadium, he’s waiting outside my door.

“You’re here early.”

His grin lights up his face. “Of course. I need to show you that I am healthy. See?” He hops a bit on his left leg. “See? No pain.” I force the door open and think, as I do most days, that I need to see someone about shaving down the top so it doesn’t stick as badly. He follows me in. “Come on, Coach T. You know you want to put me in. Come on. I’ll score a goal for you. With my head. I promise. Another cabezazo. Come on.”

I tell him to go see Enrico Castellacci, our portly physio. But I know he’s not going to start—I just need him out of my office so I can take a minute to get ready for the day. A little later, I grab Matteo and head down to the training room to talk to Enrico myself.

“Enrico, about Isma, are you sure?”

Castellacci moves his head side to side noncommittally. “He is not fully strong. But he is OK on the bench.”

I’m surprised. Castellacci is usually quite conservative, keeping players even off the bench as they work their way back to full fitness. “Really?”

He nods. “He is … enthusiastic.”

Great. The little Spaniard managed to talk him into it, too. “You sure he can go? How long?”

“You never can tell, really. Thirty minutes at most this week. Next week. Next week, he can start.”

Honestly, it’s more than I thought we would get.

Pizzighettone plays a strange formation: six at the back, with Chedric Seedorf—yes of those Seedorf’s—charging forward more often than his counterpart, Boscolo. They look to two wingers, Massimo D’Angelo and Patrick Kalambay to provide pace and width and up front, it’s all about thirty-two year veteran legend Vincenzo Maiolo. Maiolo has bounced around a lot in his fourteen year career, but he’s spent half of his time at Pro Sesto and is somewhat of a cult figure there. There are even rumors that he’ll be back there next year.

We need to build on last week’s win, get some momentum in the league and gain some separation from the teams at the bottom of the table, but the first half is mostly a bore: a few passes, then a misplay and it’s the other team’s turn.

Just before halftime, Góngora’s corner is deflected back to him. He passes sharply to Aurtenetxe at the edge of the box who slides the ball over to Esposito. Massimilliano sends it hard and low with his first touch, and it ends up in the back of the net. It’s his first goal of the season, and sends us into the locker room happy.

Well, most of us. Andrea Signorini can barely walk off the field, favoring his left knee. Enrico speaks with him for a moment and shakes his head, so we have to reach for our bench for the start of the second half.

A few minutes in, Maiolo pulls up, one hand on his hamstring and the other motioning to his bench for a substitute—with that, the outlook brightens considerably: their best player is off the field, and we have just over thirty minutes to hold on for the victory.

Isma is twitching on the bench: he can’t stand to not be out there playing and eventually I relent, sending him on to a loud cheer. And it is relatively loud—there are just shy of five hundred people in the stands. Isma does what I’ve come to expect of him: the offense is instantly more dangerous. We don’t score, but we have more life, and he creates these moments of confusion in the defense, flashes that can turn into moments that can turn into opportunities.

One minute from time, Boscolo hits the bar from thirty yards. Last year, that would have gone in.

This year, after an excruciating five minutes of extra time, we win.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pizzighettone, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Massimilliano Esposito 45+1) – Pizzighettone 0

MoM: Jon Aurtenetxe (7.5)

Attendance: 477. Referee: Stefano Squarcia.

Not Used to This. October 6, 2010.

We’re not used to this: two games in a week means juggling the squad in a big way. And Jon Aurtenetxe, the one player who could play two full matches each day and not break a sweat, is away with the Spanish U21 national team.

On the plus side, Isma needs match time, so he’ll start, but there’s no way he goes the full ninety. The rest of the changes are a drop from the first team: Girardi takes Gasparetto’s spot up front, and Errasti, Weikl and the ever versatile Coly will hold down midfield.

We’re facing Lecco, who are faring worse than we are in another division in Serie C. The theme of the young year seems to be veteran strikers who have bounced around the Italian leagues forever: Lecco’s is Marco Veronese, who has played for thirteen different clubs in his sixteen years of professional football.

These cup games are one and done: ninety minutes, extra time, and then a penalty shootout if we’re still tied. It’s in the back of my head as I look at the substitute choices, and I suspect Roberto is thinking it as well.

But we don’t talk about it. We both think we’re better than Lecco, and we should be able to end the game in ninety minutes.

Early on we have one marvelous chance when Girardi passes up a shot, instead leaving the ball for a hard-charging Weikl who sends it into the side netting by only a few inches. Just before halftime, the same two combine again but this time Girardi’s shot is barely deflected around the post.

A less than scintillating first half, but we look comfortable on the ball. Before we head into the tunnel, Roberto pulls me aside with Matteo.

“Not a bad half.”

“No,” I say, “not bad. We can find a way through.” I look up just as Lecco’s manager is moving past and give him what I hope is a friendly nod. I look back at Roberto. “I think we can, at least.”

He nods, speaks to Matteo. “That’s the problem. We need to let them know to play smart, let them know to conserve some energy, that they may have to run more today.”

I smile. “Good thing we’re doing suicides.”

Matteo doesn’t have to translate: Roberto snorts a small laugh, then asks Matteo a question. “Yes. And the bench? We wait to make any changes, talk about it, yes?”

I nod. I wonder if there is some prohibition about talking about penalties, some superstition at play. But I suspect both of us are thinking that we’ll bring on Baido—who may have the sweetest penalty kick in the league, let alone the team—and that Tihomir Weikl is going to run until his lungs collapse for a similar skill.

Just after an hour, we have a gorgeous opportunity. Isma frees Girardi in the box, but his shot is deflected by their onrushing keeper. It falls back to Isma who goes for the chip—the right shot—but he can’t keep the ball down. The goal was wide open, and he is despondent on the miss.

I clap as he trudges upfield. “Isma! Great try—it was the shot. Do it again. Come on now!”

Twenty minutes from time a very nasty foul on Isma earns their midfielder, Marco Mancinelli, his second yellow card. We’re up a man for the last of the game, but our leader is done for the day.

I turn to Roberto. “Raffaele?”

Something like a grin flashes across his face and he nods, then turns to the reserves, gesturing to Baido and talking in a fast stream of Italian, his hands slicing the air in demonstration of how he wants him to play.

Ten minutes from time, Baido goes wide by no more than two feet. I just shake my head and turn to Roberto.

“You know, he’s working as hard as anyone this year.” Matteo speaks and Roberto nods. “He deserves something to bounce right. Soon.”

As Matteo finishes, Roberto watches the game for a moment and then replies, a longer answer than usual. Matteo asks him a question, then turns to me. “There is more—we should talk later. But he says that he’s a little worried about Baido, that he’s at an important time where either the work turns into … into an engine that keeps going, or he begins to question its value. So, yes, he also wants something to bounce right.”

As the clock ticks on, extra time seems inevitable. Both teams are totally exhausted, grabbing their shorts at every pause in play. And it shows on the field as well: passes are off target, rolling out of bounds well wide of any player; shots are sailing wide and more importantly are being taken when there are better options.

Roberto and Matteo come up behind me a few minutes from the end of regulation. “This is it.”

I am watching yet another string of possession fizzle into nothing. “Yes, it is.”

“What are you thinking for the extra time? And after?”

I look at him and allow myself a small smile. “Cassaro and Malquori. Duravia will slide over so Giacomo can play on the left. He’s still learning out there, but if we go … if we need him after, he’ll be there.”

Roberto nods in approval. “I’ll talk with Weikl and Girardi. They’re exhausted.”

“Good. Errasti, too.”

When the whistle blows, he gathers the players around him, exhorting them in Italian. Afterwards, Matteo tells me that he was asking them to push forward, to find the winning goal, but to remember their discipline, and to make sure that, if we went to the whistle, we still had the focus to make the penalty kicks. Sounds like as good a message as I could have come up with.

The extra time is uneventful—we could have gone straight to penalties half an hour ago. But here we are in any case: this is why we brought our players on, so now we get to find out if it works, or if we overthought the situation.

We will shoot first, and Raffaele walks up confidently. He takes his run up, and fires it low and hard to the right, but Tommaso Peresson in their goal has guessed correctly and he tips it wide. I throw up my hands in frustration.

Our best penalty taker is gone, and a player in a fragile position has another mental obstacle to overcome.

They score, and Weikl cleanly converts his opportunity. Then, a chance back in: Altobelli for them clatters his shot off the post, and we’re tied.

Girardi sends his shot right down the middle, but luckily for us Peresson has gone to his left, and the ball finds the back of the net.

Edu guesses right on their next shot, but he can’t quite control the ball and it trickles through his hands and over the line. He’s shaking his head as he walks outside the box, and I am a bit concerned. One of the hardest things for young goalkeepers to learn is how to forget, and in a penalty shootout, how to forget immediately.

His next shot is only seconds away, and he can’t think of this one.

First, though, Malquori justifies our faith in him, blasting his shot into the upper right corner of the goal. Edu is back on his line, but he’s not tested: instead, Marco Sau sends his shot high, and it bounces hard off the crossbar and out towards midfield.

That means that if we make this shot, we win. Up steps Silvio Cassaro, another of our substitutes chosen for this moment. He takes a stutter in his run up, and it throws him slightly off balance, dragging the shot well wide of goal. It’s a bad miss, and now they have a chance.

Edu goes the wrong way, and we’re tied with the sixth player for each team set to go.

For us, it’s Cameroonian teenager Nester Herve Djengoue, who has played the entire match on the right wing. He is utterly composed, and slots the ball home with confidence. Now the pressure is on them.

Edu’s heels are on his line as Antonioni carefully sets the ball on the spot. He slams it towards the right, but Edu has leapt that way. And he saves it, smothering the ball beneath his body before rolling over holding it high in the air!

Roberto screams, arms upraised and embraces me, jumping up and down. He’s ecstatic: I didn’t know this meant this much to him, but I probably should have. Cup wins are always a big deal, even at this level. The players are thrilled, even though they probably should have beaten Lecco in regulation, a win is a win.

I grab Edu as he comes back towards the bench, still holding the ball from the final kick.

“That is what it takes to be a keeper, yeah? You missed one, you guessed wrong, it doesn’t matter. Never happened. All that matters, all that happened was the save. That’s the only thing.”

He’s grinning ear to ear. I look around and find Raffaele. “Come here.” He walks over, his face a mixture of uncertainty and happiness. Before I can speak, he is talking in faltering English. “I’m sorry. The penalty. I should make it.”

I smile and grab him by the shoulders. “Raffaele. You’re a good player. You just need to keep working. The goals will come. All that matters today is that we won. As a team. We all won. You won, too.”

I don’t know how much he understands, but the uncertainty fades.

We’re through. We’re through.

Serie C Cup First Round

Rodengo Saiano v Lecco, Comunale

Rodengo Saiano 0 – Lecco 0 [Rodengo win 4-3 on penalties]

MoM: Samuele Buda (7.8) Best Panda: Jon Errasti (7.8)

Attendance: 494. Referee: Marco Barbirati.

Can We Get the Win? October 10, 2010.

The team is still excited from the cup win, but it’s another league game today, only two days later. The timing wasn’t too bad, though: we’ve been making a lot of tactical adjustments lately, and it gave us a chance to do a lot of walkthroughs, light running, and situational drills while trying to allow them time to recover for today’s game against Venezia.

It’s been a good few weeks for the coaching staff: Roberto, Matteo, and I have met a few evenings a week for dinner, spending a couple hours working through ideas about shape and formation. Roberto now understands, I think, what my vision is in a different way than he did in the spring. Amazing what you can demonstrate with a dozen salt and pepper shakers.

Venezia limps into the game in last place, winless in the league, and giving up over three goals a game. The best they’ve done in the last few years, according to the program, is to win the Ethio-Italian Friendship Cup last year. Whatever that is. How the mighty have fallen: this is a team that spent decades in the top two tiers of the Italian game. Or, sort of: this team was founded from the bankrupt remnants of that one.

A few minutes into the match Marco Parolo pulls up lame. As soon as it is clear that it’s not serious, Isma sidles up to me.

“Coach T, I don’t think he can go much longer. He’s limping out there.”

“Go back to the bench.”

“OK. I’m just letting you know I’m ready if you need me.”

“Back to the bench. Now.”

Once he’s gone, I smile. Parolo is injured, but he’ll be fine. It’s a rough game out there today: half a dozen players are carrying some sort of injury, and the whistle is blowing with every few touches of the ball.

Finally, just short of an hour, I bring Isma on, but the offense that looks livelier is theirs, not ours. Edu makes a spectacular save on a breakaway, only to see the ball fall to another player in black and wind up in the back of the net. I can’t tell who scored, only that Coly is furious that the offsides flag stayed down, and that the referee is having none of it.

So, we’re down 1-0 with 30 minutes to go.

Three minutes later, we’re even: Isma drew three defenders to him before sliding the ball to Gasparetto who found space just inside the post.

Now, can we get the win?

Five minutes on, it looks like we will: Isma takes the ball away in midfield, and finds Gasparetto who loses one defender before leaving the ball for De Pascalis. Coly is streaking down the right flank, and Alessandro finds him; he then cuts back inside and sends a hard pass into the box near the penalty spot where Mirko is making a cut towards goal. Gasparetto is free, but a shot he usually buries ends up in the side netting. A great play by Coly, but we’re still tied.

Mirko goes wide again, and for a moment Isma is free in the box but he scoops it over. And then the whistle blows.

It was a hard fought game, but that is little consolation: we left two points on the field. Still, all things considered, a tie isn’t necessarily a bad result.

But I don’t tell them that. Instead—and to Roberto’s surprise—I lay into them. “You aren’t there yet. Not even close. We beat Lecco, and that’s great, but we should have won that game by two goals in ninety minutes. And a tie against the worst team in the league? Giving them their first points in eight games? It won’t do. You can never stop working, never stop fighting for this. Today, we were mediocre. All of us. Tomorrow, it is your choice: will we be better?”

I catch Roberto’s eye and he nods in approval. He likes this kind of thing. I don’t, but sometimes I know it’s necessary. Or, at least, I think I do.

Other times, I don’t think it really matters what we say as coaches: they’ll hate us or they’ll love us or they won’t even think about us, in any case, they’ll be out there next week and the best that can happen is that they just play and react on the field, trusting their bodies and their instincts more than the voices screaming from the sidelines.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Venezia, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 64) – Venezia 1 (Simone Pagni 59)

MoM: Pagni (7.5) Best Panda: (Alessandro De Pascalis 7.0)

Attendance: 700. Referee: Francesco Saija.

Our Emerging Talisman. October 17, 2010.

I enjoy games where Coly starts on the bench. It means we’re healthy, and it means we have a superb player waiting to come on wherever he is needed.

Fifteen minutes in, Facunda Zampa—who may be the strongest talent we’ll see in Rodengo for a long time—intercepts the ball at midfield. He sends it forward to Gasparatto, who is quickly closed down and forced to send the ball back towards midfield to Duravia on the wing. Marco settles and finds Jon Errasti in the middle. He has room, and sees Isma taking off towards the goal. Errasti’s pass is perfect: any harder, and their keeper, Luca Redaelli, could get to it, any lighter, and Isma would have to slow down. But he doesn’t even break stride, and shoots it back across the goal and in.

We’re up 1-0, and again it’s through our emerging talisman.

Two minutes later, it almost happens again: this time, it’s Zampa with the pass over the top of the defense to Gasparaetto, but Redaelli is able to tip it out of bounds. Minutes from halftime, a cross from Gasparetto is deflected to Esposito’s feet, but again Redaelli is able to smother it.

Ten minutes after halftime, Isma becomes the provider: he’s practically standing on the center spot when he sends a long pass that splits the Legnano defense. Gasparetto is first to the ball and he beats Redaelli from just outside the box.

I’m not sure what’s happened, but the team looks good out there, confident and composed, and maintaining their focus through the final whistle, which comes to the loud applause of the few dozen travelling supporters.

Serie C2/A

Legnano v Rodengo Saiano, Giovanni Mari

Legnano 0 – Rodengo 2 (Isma 15, Mirko Gasparetto 54)

MoM: Isma (8.7)

Attendance: 999. Referee: Roberto Lotti.

I Was Fine During Practice. October 22, 2010.

I was fine during practice. Really, I was.

When Enrico came up to me, Matteo in tow, I knew something was wrong: his face was creased and his usual broad smile was absent. I moved away from the small squares marked by red cones where several 3v3 games were going on and towards the sidelines.

Casetllacci nodded to Matteo who turned to me. “Bad news, coach.”

“More?” We already had this conversation once this week: Mirko will be out about a month with a pulled hamstring. That will be difficult, but we knew that a veteran striker was likely to go down at some point—that’s why we brought in three of them. It’s a chance for Girardi and Dimas to show something as well.

Matteo just nodded. This was no good at all: he was usually eager to spill the beans. “It’s Isma.”

****. That was the last thing I wanted to hear. I ran my hands through my hair and stared out over the mountains. “How bad?”

Castellacci fired a string of Italian that I couldn’t follow. “It’s not good. It’s his back, he can’t really walk.”

I looked at each of them in turn. “Can’t walk? What the hell happened?”

“He was lifting weights, did something wrong.” Enrico shrugged and spoke with Matteo. “We’ll get the swelling down and see, but he’s not going to be on the field for weeks.”

“Weeks? How many?”

Matteo replied, “It’s his back. You can’t tell. He guesses four, maybe six.”

I just nod. “OK. Thank you. Let me know how it goes tomorrow, if there’s any change.”

Later, I saw Isma as he came out of the therapy room. He had one hand on the wall for support, and was bent over as he walked, taking very small steps and breathing deeply. He looked up and saw me, stopped, and shook his head, his face a portrait of despair.

“I don’t know. This … this is bad.”

I force a smile and walk over to him. “Here. Let me help. You’ll be OK. Get some rest, do what Enrico tells you to do, get it strong again.”

He doesn’t say anything as I help him into the locker room. He sitting on the metal bench, occasionally stretching and wincing and then being still, just staring into the emptiness of his locker. When I leave, he’s still there, half dressed, still staring with a desolate look on his face.

That’s the image in my head for the rest of the evening. Isma, half dressed, grimacing as he shifts his body forward and back.

I know it’s going to be a long night. I’ve lived with myself long enough to know that. I try to call Leti, but there’s no answer. So it’s just me and the bottle. Bottles. A local white which is a little dry for my taste, and then I’m down to what Americans call whiskey. I don’t know where the bottle of Jack Daniels came from, but the bitter warmth offers a little solace.

Jesus. A month without Mirko or Isma. At least a month. Including the Serie C Cup against some team with a dolphin on their logo. The dolphin and the panda. Jesus.

This is where I’m supposed to suck it up, where I’m supposed to rely on our tactics, where I’m supposed to immediately shift to figuring out how Parolo can fit in Isma’s place. But Parolo’s injured too. So, Baido. Or De Pascalis. Whatever. And Girardi up front, or even one of the kids.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to do that, maybe tomorrow the task at hand will seem like something that can be grasped, understood, managed.

But tonight, it’s just a slow, sloppy nightmare, an oozing sense of descent and the uneven rotation of the ceiling as I lie on my bed, my throat burning and sweat beginning to bead on my forehead. It’s escape, not solace.

October 24, 2010

Luckily, there was no practice yesterday. But I was still hungover this morning when I met Roberto and Matteo. I had just kept drinking after I woke up, until sometime just before sundown last night. I had emptied the last bottle in the apartment, and while I wanted to go get more, I woke after midnight, half dressed on the floor, needing to wash and change. Again.

There are moments that I hate myself.

I arrived before they did. My mouth wouldn’t work right in Italian, so I just asked Signore Pelosi for “coffee, strong, forze.” He understood: if the words weren’t enough, I’m pretty sure my red eyes and puffy face told the story. He didn’t even frown mockingly when he brought me a cup of Americano—black coffee, straight, no froth, no milk.

I was holding my head, staring down into my second or third cup of steaming blackness when they arrived. Pelosi must have given them a warning, because they eased into the chairs across from me, quiet as mice.

My head hurt, but it was beginning to clear.

“So, Terry, what are we going to do?”

The voice was Matteo’s but I knew the question was Roberto’s. I looked up slowly and stared for a moment. “Do? We have no choice, Roberto. We’ll do what we planned to do when we built this team. We’ll act like nothing happened. We planned for depth, now we have to use it. It isn’t what I want, it’s not what you want. But I’ve spent a day feeling sorry for us. Now, it’s simple. Now we go back to work.”

He grinned and laughed loudly. I winced.

“Maybe we go back to work slowly,” said Matteo.

We ended up going far too slowly: the game was endless and absent of any passion or life. Baido and Girardi were solid and dependable, but they both have to step up their game if they are going to replace Isma and Gasparetto, even in the near term. Each have a great chance in the match, but Girardi is flagged for offsides after beating their keeper with a short chip and Baido cannot quite control a long pass from Coly that found him all alone in the box.

Still, a draw is better than a loss, and we’re managing to fight through these games without giving anything up.

Serie C2/A

Valenzana v Rodengo Saiano, Comunale

Valenzana 0 – Rodengo 0

MoM: Jon Errasti (7.4)

Attendance: 463. Referee: Alessandro Antonsambetta.

Fun. Passion. Spark. October 27, 2010.

Today, we meet Pescara in the second round of the Serie C Cup. It’s been almost twenty years since the team from Italy’s east coast were in Serie A, but they have been there. Currently, they are a league above us, and it very quickly shows: they are clearly the better team, especially in the air, and only an absolutely spectacular save by Edu keeps us from going down early.

Roberto and I talk briefly and he is up on the sideline, changing our setup to be more defensive, looking to spring a counter-attack on them. We need to hope for a lucky bounce here or there, grab a goal and see what happens.

The last five minutes of the half are a nightmare: they hit the woodwork twice, Edu comes to our rescue again, and finally, finally the whistle brings some relief.

In the dressing room, I see them working hard to gain their breath, looking a little out of it. Roberto and I are encouraging: “We only need a half of football here, men. Forty-five minutes, and someone to find some space, some magic. You’re halfway home.”

Less than ten minutes in, one of their midfielders, Marco Verratti, picks up his second yellow card, so we have a man advantage for the final forty minutes or so.

It changes the game: they are no longer able to commit men forward to the attack, and while they are still quite dangerous in the air, we begin to gather more possession, build more attacking moves. But neither team is able to score, so we again begin to make substitutions with an eye towards penalties.

But the squad is tired and has pushed as hard as they can, and it begins to show: we’re fouling instead of playing defense, arriving late and flailing at players as they run by. One of their players flashes free in the box, but Edu again saves us.

There’s not much to say at the end of regulation. I let them catch their breath, let Roberto go over some tactical advice, then I gather them around, smiling at them as they look at me expectantly.

“This is fun, right? This is what you dreamed of as kids—playing a game that matters, extra time, all that? It’s wet out here, and you’re playing your hearts out. Keep doing that. But find the fun, the passion, OK? Let’s do this.”

Fun. Passion. Spark. If someone were only possessed by the spirit of a certain attacking midfielder who didn’t even make the trip.

Twelve minutes into extra time, they have a free kick from thirty yards out. It looks harmless enough, but their forward nails it, sending a spinning, curving ball into the upper corner of the goal. There is nothing Edu can do, and now we have to try to find a goal.

In extra time, Zampa is sent off to even it up, but it’s too late to really matter. Still, the performance nothing to hang our heads over. The dolphin defeated the panda, but we head home with our pride intact, and even, once the fatigue and inevitable disappointment wear off, some hope.

Serie C Cup, Second Round

Pescara v Rodengo Saiano, Adriatico

Pescara 1 (Antonio De Matteis 102) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Simone Vitale (8.4) Best Panda: Andrea Signorini (7.2)

Attendance: 1355. Referee: Christian Constantini.

November 7, 2010

Serie C2/A

Pro Belvedere v Rodengo Saiano, Silvio Piola

Pro Belvedere 0 – Rodengo Saiano 0

MoM: Amedeo Celeste (7.6) Best Panda: Edu (7.3)

Attendance: 358. Referee: Andrea Lanzoni.

“Hey, you.” Leti’s voice reaches out like a soft breeze. Sometimes when we speak I can almost smell her.

“Hiya.”

“How’d it go?”

I sigh. “It went OK. We didn’t score, but neither did they. I guess it was OK. I dunno.”

“No miraculous recoveries?”

I smile. “No. Mirko is still out and so is my favorite Spaniard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. Where are you?”

She laughs, and it sounds like a small bird in the sunlight. “Where am I always?”

“Your kitchen, with that ancient phone and the infinite cord.”

“You know me too well, Mr. Langford.”

You Don't See That At Roma. November 14, 2010.

I knew it was coming, and I couldn’t decide if I was dreading it or looking forward to it. I must have been dreading it, because I took longer than usual to emerge from my office, busying myself with some paperwork that I usually ignore on game day. The moment came almost as soon as I was on the field.

“Coach Terry, coach Terry, watch!” Isma jogs up to me then suddenly turns and cuts hard one way then the other in a tight z shape. “Impressive, no?”

“Very.”

“And this!” He jumps up and down lifting his knees high in the air as he does so, then bouncing first off one leg and then the other.

“Very nice.”

He stops and stares at me, his eyes narrowing. “You aren’t going to let me play today, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

He frowns. “Is there anything I can do?”

I shake my head and he scowls and looks away for a moment, then smiles that big grin of his. “You know I hate you now, coach Terry?”

“I know.” I nod towards the field. “Get back out there. And be ready next week. And don’t get hurt again—we’ve missed you.”

He blows me a kiss as he runs back out to the field.

Matteo has been watching and he strolls over to me. “You don’t see that at Roma.”

I shake my head. “No, no you don’t. But you probably see it in Serie B.”

He smiles. “Maybe we will.”

I shrug. “Maybe. We have to survive, first.”

It’s a true enough statement. We’re playing above expectations, but there are growing rumors of insolvency. I haven’t seen Signore Ferrari in close to a month, and even Alessandro has been absent lately. Still, the paychecks keep coming, and maybe if we can hang on to our place in the league, we can generate some more fan support for next year.

Today’s game is a replica of last week: nothing happens and nobody scores. We lose Duravia to a nasty groin injury in the first half and Jon Aurtenetxe misses an absolute sitter at the start of the second.

Once again, though, we get a point. And next week, Isma returns.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Canavese, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Canavase 0

MoM: Luca Avanzi (7.6) Best Panda: Juan Francisco Góngora (6.9)

Attendance: 557. Referee: Luca Bisceglia.

November 20, 2010

Serie C2/A

Varese v Rodengo Saiano, Franco Ossola

Varese 1 (Osariemen Giulio Ebagua 44) – Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 66)

MoM: Vinh Long Willemin (7.0) Best Panda: Jon Errasti (6.9)

Attendance: 1093. Referee: Luigi Surano.

You Cannot Do Both. November 28, 2010.

Serie C2/A

Como v Rodengo Saiano, Giuseppe Sinigaglia

Como 2 (Fabio Adobati 13, Giuseppe Cozzolino 21) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Cristian Maggioni (8.0) Best Panda: Andrea Signorini (6.9)

Attendance: 1105. Referee: Umberto Cucè.

The two men sat on the patio under the waning moon. They had been silent for a long time when the younger one sighed and stretched and began to speak in fast, clipped Italian. “Alessandro … we can’t keep doing this.”

Alessandro Ferrari shook his head. “There has to be something. We can’t just drop them, Marco.”

Marco Lissandro stood up, walked over to the edge of the balcony, and looked out over the Italian countryside. It was a chilly night lit only by a sliver of a moon. Clouds danced across the horizon, creating ribbons of gray in the distance. Marco pulled his overcoat more tightly around him against the wind before turning around to face his boss.

“We don’t have a choice. You already dumped another two hundred thousand a few months ago. We’re losing money and we’re not good enough to make any. And after today …” Both men were chilled by what they had seen this afternoon, when two of Rodengo Saiano’s best players had gone down screaming on the field, clutching at their legs.

You lose that noise in large stadiums, but when there only a few hundred in the stands, there is a moment that feels almost too private, when you almost look away in shame at the intimacy of pain being shared with a player who has just dropped in mid stride or after a collision where both players were stretched at full exertion. Sometimes, you go through a season never having these moments; today there were two, first when Isma began to sprint upfield and screamed, hopping on one leg and flailing at the back of his calf. The scream quickly subsided, but it seemed to echo through the stadium, ringing in the cold air even after the diminutive Spaniard had been carried off the field.

As always at sporting events, though, the event slowly faded from memory and the game, thoroughly dominated by the home side, again took precedence in the minds of the spectators until, just minutes before the end of the game, Abdoura Mohamed Coly collided with Giovanni Bruno near midfield and beneath the expected wet thud was another sound, like a log snapping in two and Coly collapsed in a heap, his hands wrapped around his ankle, his mouth twisted open but emitting no sound. The stadium fell silent in the aftermath of the initial noise, everyone frozen having heard something that did not belong, and then you would swear you could hear the wheeze of Coly’s breathing as the stoic Senegalese struggled to compose himself.

Alessandro rubbed his eyes. “It’s not really fair.”

Marco exhaled heavily. “Fair? Fair to who? You know the man who was our best player before the Irishman showed up? Coly is out for the rest of the year most likely. And the best player he brought in? He’s out, too. And without Coly or Isma, what do we have? A drunk for a manager and a bunch of players that aren’t even ours.”

“Marco, you were there. You heard them, both of them. Isma tore his calf muscle. The doctors say that Coly has a broken foot. They did it for us. And for Langford. And Langford … I like him. You liked him.”

Marco crossed over to the table and sat down again. “I like him, I still do, sure. This has nothing to do with like. This has to do with money. And I like money more.”

“My money.” Alessandro’s voice was stern, and Marco paused before acquiescing.

He raised his hands. “OK. OK. We can get by for another month or two. But not much longer. You have a choice, Alessandro. You can remain a rich man or you can own a soccer team. But right now, you cannot do both.”

Ready for Your Day In Exile? December 12, 2010.

“You ready for this, Roberto?” He looks at me, a sly smile on his face, and nods. I clap him on the shoulder as I motion to Matteo to accompany me as I walk away.

It’s a profoundly odd feeling: we’re forty minutes to kickoff, and instead of heading into the locker room, I’m trudging up the concrete stairs of the stadium to the owner’s box. As we enter, Marco glances up and closes a file on the chair next to him before walking over to greet us in his faintly British, clipped English. Alessandro, I notice, remains seated.

“Matteo, welcome. Terry, all ready for your day in exile?”

I force a smile and shake his hand. I’m not sure what it was, it may just have been a general accumulation of outbursts, but after complaining about an offsides call last week, I was banished from the touchline for one game. Today, Roberto will lead us against Pavia by himself. We reviewed the gameplan obsessively over the past few days, but I’m still nervous.

I’m not sure what worries me more: Roberto failing or his succeeding without me.

I’m pretty sure the folder, now well out of sight, held financial data. All of the rumblings I hear point to the club going broke in the near future. I take my seat and lean over towards the chairman. “I just wanted to apologize again, Alessandro. I should be down there, not up here, and I need to do whatever is necessary to stay there.”

He waves it off. “Don’t worry about it, Terry. We like a little fire in the belly, yes, Marco?” Marco is silent, which is more and more the case lately.

It’s an uncomfortable atmosphere, and I’m happy when the whistle blows for kickoff.

Just under twenty minutes in, the sideline referee is holding up the numbers board, signaling Djengoue on for Claiton at right wing. Marco looks at me questioningly, and I shake my head. There is nothing in the Brazilian’s demeanor that would indicate he’s injured—he looks as confused as we do. I turn to Matteo, but before I can say anything, Marco is jabbering at him in Italian, and he’s halfway out of his seat before I can get a word out.

“Matteo, why don’t. You going? Yeah, good. Check on … ask Castellaci, yeah?” I only feel more awkward after the interchange, and fumble out loud more before sitting down and lapsing back into the uncomfortable silence.

Moments later, Matteo reappears. He looks at me quickly when he enters, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Djengoue, he’s fine. Roberto, he, he wouldn’t talk to me. I talked to Enrico, he just said that Nester, that Djengoue, that he’s fine.”

“Really?” Marco’s voice is thick and questioning. Matteo just shrugs as Marco turns to me.

“I’m sure Roberto had his reasons. Claiton has struggled some with transition, he may have seen something we missed from up here. It’s different down on the sideline.” Marco’s eyes don’t leave me, and his face is expressionless.

I turn back to the game, which is becoming a classic low level Italian affair, with both teams content to defend and hoof the ball forward. Then, just after the half hour mark, the numbers board is up again and this time I can’t help by react with a confused exhalation. “What?”

Marco leans forward. “It looks like Baido is coming out. Yes, for Parolo.” I can feel my jaw tighten. I knew damn well what it looks like—they’re my players and I do know their numbers. Roberto has never been sold on Baido, and has in general questioned my giving him or Isma their freedom up front. But with Isma, he couldn’t say anything—the performances were too good. With Baido, however, he never really hid his skepticism.

But, this? Bringing him off this quickly with no reason? One is a strategic choice: two is a public affront. I don’t want to hear insinuations, so I speak: “I don’t know, Marco. I don’t know what Roberto is doing. I believe Raffaele needs time on the field, time to grow, time to learn. Parolo, he may be better right now, but he goes back to Chievo in June. Baido stays here.” Marco just nods, so I turn to Alessandro.

“I am not happy about this, Alessandro. But you know I believe in Roberto. What he just did, that is a mistake. But we have to learn from our mistakes. I will speak with him, but I can’t say I know what will happen.”

Alessandro’s face is equally unreadable for a moment, and then something like sadness crosses his eyes. “You are the coach, Terry. You need to do what is best for all of us.”

I turn back to the field, but it’s hard to concentrate: the anger, mixed with something akin to humiliation is pouring through my body, and I feel my leg shaking, my heel vibrating above the ground. There are a few minutes of silence, or maybe more. I’m not sure how much time passes, am only dimly aware of the rhythm of the ball moving around the field, and then the shrill whistle for halftime.

“Terry.”

I look up, and Alessandro is standing, a hand outstretched with a tumbler of clear liquid and a few ice cubes in it. I take it: the glass is chillingly cold, a refreshing sensation. He raises his. “I was in Moscow last week. This is the best thing to come from the trip.”

I raise mine in thanks and take a sip: it’s vodka, high quality vodka, clean as moonshine on a chilly night as I drink it. I lean back, savoring the feeling, and take another sip. “Not a bad first half.”

Alessandro smiles. “No, not bad. We shouldn’t lose today.”

I can’t help but smile. “We may even win.” Alessandro nods and raises his glass silently before turning to talk to Marco I his native tongue. I lean back and close my eyes, and try to resist the desire to gulp down the cold, colorless liquid.

My glass stays full, no matter what I do and the second half slowly fades into a blur of noise and disjointed moments. But not before I see Mirko settle a ball neatly at the edge of the box, turn, and lash the ball beyond the reach of their goalkeeper, to the delight of the home crowd. The four of us are up and clapping and yelling, and while I’m not sure what happens in the last thirty minutes of the game, I know the score holds.

At the final whistle, I motion for Matteo. “Matteo. Go down and tell Roberto. Tell him.” I pause, searching my young translator’s face for a moment. “Tell him congratulations. And that we will speak tomorrow. And that he can choose whether the players practice. His choice. Not mine. His. But we’ll, Roberto and I, we will speak tomorrow.”

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pavia, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 58) – Pavia 0

MoM: Dario Campagna (7.4) Best Panda: Gasparetto (7.2)

Attendance: 313. Referee: Alessandro Costanzo.

A Blanket Against the Winter Cold. December 19, 2010.

“So what are you going to do?”

The question hangs there, settling somewhere in the air between Italy and South Africa. There are so many possible answers. I don’t even know for sure what she’s asking. It could be so much. I don’t know what to say. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I can do.”

Leti is quiet for a moment. “You could come here. For Christmas and for New Year.”

My voice drops. “Leti.”

“What? You said your next game isn’t until January. Ours isn’t either. You’re off, Terry.”

She’s right in a way: after today the squad is on their own for the winter holidays. I didn’t really have any plans, but going to Cape Town seemed pointless. I was there a year ago, and all that did was get me here. “Yeah, I know. I just …”

“What? We had talked about doing this long distance until January. It’s almost January and I’m pretty tired of it, honestly. I miss you, Ter. I miss us being together.”

“So do I, love, so do I.” A pause. “You could come here.”

“After what happened last time? I love you, I do, but I don’t think so.”

There is only silence for a little while. I move the phone to my other ear and rub my eyes until blue and yellow shapes start rushing at me. My voice is quiet when I speak, and I have to clear my throat before she can hear me. “I don’t think I can stay here.”

“At Rodengo?”

“No. I mean, yes, but, in Italy.”

“Really?”

I look out the window. It’s a lovely view. It’s always been a lovely view—rolling hills, snow-capped mountains in the distance, a sense of history enhanced by the mixture of agriculture and industry, old church crosses rising beyond the motorway. “Yeah. I don’t know. It’s … I just don’t belong here.”

“And you did here?”

I laugh just a little. “Maybe it’s that I only half belong here, and I would rather be a stranger than halfway somewhere. Or whatever.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if the club will survive the year.”

“Would you come back here?”

“I don’t think anyone there would have me.”

“I would.”

“You planning to buy a football team?” She laughs. “I don’t know, Leti. I was, I was thinking about America.”

“America?” Her voice raises up, lilting skywards, curious. But not dismissive. Not like I feared.

“Yeah.”

“America.”

I don’t know if she doesn’t believe me or if she’s testing the idea for herself. “You ever been?”

“Once. To Florida, a few years ago. Disney had a tournament. We stayed in this hotel that looked like a castle.”

I can feel myself smiling. “A castle? Did you see Mickey Mouse?”

The warmth floods her voice as she remembers, and I want her to keep talking, want to let her words surround me, drawing them close like a blanket against the winter cold.

“Nombi was with me and we all went to Disneyworld for a day. It was the strangest place I’ve ever been. But it was a lovely day.”

I don’t even hear the rest, just the sound of her, the rhythm. I close my eyes and lose myself in it until she pauses. “You know they have a few teams there. In Florida.”

“Really?”

“Yeah … the … Sunshine, maybe? The Rowdies are there. Miami has a team, too.”

“You want to go to Florida? You think you would belong there?”

“I don’t know, Leti. I know I don’t belong here. Not alone.”

“And you don’t think you would be alone there?”

There is a slight challenge to her voice, a new undertone. “I. Well, I hope not. Not if you were to, you know, come with me. I wouldn’t be alone then.”

“Come to Cape Town for Christmas, and we can talk about it.”

It wasn’t a no. “You are relentless.”

“You’re the one who, I think, but I’m not really sure, just asked me to move to America.”

“OK.”

“OK, you’ll come?”

“I don’t know, Leti. OK. Let me go—I have to get ready for the game. I’ll call you later, yeah? And, I’ll think about it.”

“OK. Good luck tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pro Sesto, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Pro Sesto 1 (Dario Drago 44)

MoM: Alessio Bugno (7.4) Best Panda: Edu (7.0)

Attendance: 536. Referee: Giovanni Quartarone.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. How’d you do?”

“They were better for Roberto. We lost, another poor game.”

“Oh. Oh. I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you needed. Not after last week.”

“Yeah. Well. We didn’t do enough to win. You know how it is. We yelled at them a bit and wished them a happy new year. I thought about it. About coming to see you.”

“And?”

“I’ll come.”

“Really?” Her excitement is a wonderful tonic after a miserable game.

“Yeah. You’ll make the reservations, yeah? I need a day or two here first, back a few days after New Year.” Leti knows I freeze up trying to do complicated things on the computer—one of the things I love about her is that she manages to not make me feel useless for it.

She laughs. “I’m on it.”

I Would. January 3, 2011

January 3, 2011

We’re in a small café with red and white plastic tablecloths and Chianti bottles topped with mountains of wax. There are ceiling fans that are slowly turning above us, giving a soft metallic groan with the effort of each revolution. But we’re also in Cape Town, so a smiling portrait of Mandela oversees the room from behind the bar, and the soft jazz on the radio has a faint township beat beneath the blare of the horns. There is bread on the table, and Leti is dipping a piece into a small saucer with oil and salt.

Her hands won’t sit still and she keeps smoothing out the tablecloth, running her fingers along a crease that refuses to submit. I think I know what’s coming, but I wait, pretending to dither between choices on the menu.

It’s been a good week, full of holiday cheer and a quick trip to the De Hoop nature reserve, where somebody she knew from work had a cabin generously described as rustic: a sink, a table that was only level due to a folded matchbook under one leg, a scratched dresser of hard, dark wood. We were supposed to be watching for whales, but spent most of the time underneath the worn blue coverlet on the bed, adding to the significant sag in its middle, rediscovering each other’s bodies with the intense focus of the reunited.

“So, Terry. What’s it going to be?”

I rubbed my head. “I think I’m still hurting from New Year’s. Maybe just wine?”

“OK. But you know that’s not what I meant.”

I put the menu down and take her hand, stroking it lightly before looking at her face, the open roundness of her eyes, the sliver of reflection at the edge of her glasses. “I know. Leti, I love you. I loved you two weeks ago, I love you now. And being here. Being with you. Well.” I smile, trying to express what slips beyond my words.

She smiles back, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “And?”

I’m saved by the waiter, and then the arrival of the wine—not a Chianti. But it’s only a slight delay, and she is looking expectantly at me again.

“I don’t know what to say, Leti. You have so much here. Family, the job. A life. I can’t expect you to just drop that and go gallivanting around the world with me.”

“So come here and be with me.”

I shake my head slowly. “I just don’t see it. There’s not a lot of places to go here, love. Your lot won’t have me back. Supersports? Sundowns? Orlando? I don’t see it. Even if things turn around in Italy, I’ll need to start over, build up from somewhere. And if it ever breaks right, I want to be someplace I can move up—that’s Spain, England, America.”

“Spain?” Her eyes brighten.

“My Spanish is worse than my Italian. And they would hate me in Spain. Hate.” She nods. “You don’t have to agree so quickly, you know. And England is too close to home.”

“Still?”

“Still. Maybe forever.”

She nods and inhales deeply, pauses, and lets it out before reaching for her glass and raising it slightly. “America, then?”

I touch my glass to hers. “America.” I look at her closely. There is something still bothering her, something that is pulling at the corners of her eyes. “What is it?”

“What if things do turn around in Italy?”

“What?”

“I know you, Terry. You’re all gloom and doom right now just because it feels bleak and that little Spanish guy you like so much has an ouchie. But what if they pull it together, win a few, enough to bring some money in. Then what?”

“It’s not going to happen, Leti. And even if it did, the players aren’t really mine. Half the squad is on loan from somewhere else.”

“What if it does happen?”

“Well, I mean, wouldn’t that be great?”

She shakes her head and as she speaks, a rare anger creeps into her voice, a steel that convinces me there is no room for argument by the time she is finished. “Not for us, no. I can’t move to Italy, Terry. Not there at least. I won’t have people staring at me that way when I walk down the street, won’t have signs made that show me as a goddamn monkey.”

I’m quiet for a moment. “How about this. I promise that it’s my only season there. No matter what we do. I’ll resign after the season, and start applying for jobs in the states. Something will come through, and we can start over there.”

She holds my eyes. “Promise? I can’t keep doing this, Terry. I can’t keep being at the mercy of how well you do from week to week.”

“I know. And sure, if we pull something amazing out this season, it will be hard to walk out on them.” I take a long sip of wine, relishing the flavor as it hits the back of my throat, the growing warmth as I swallow.

“But I’d do it for you. I would.”

Kissing Your Sister. January 9, 2011.

January 9, 2011

Her voice is bright and it lifts him up, carrying him into the air where a small crescent moon hangs nestled in a night sky flecked with whispers of clouds against a backdrop so dark it is almost blue. It is cold and clear, barely above freezing, and the slight wind cuts like clean steel.

Terry holds the phone to his ear and turns slowly, looking out over the town. The players and coaches have all left, and as the last one pulled away, he took out his phone to call South Africa and, as the phone cracked and pulsed, began the long walk home.

Her voice warms him, and his shoulders drop slightly, losing the appearance of being hunched against the cold. His other arm comes out of his pocket, and runs briefly through his hair as he smiles into the phone.

He turns and heads back towards his small apartment, his progress marked only by the iridescent glow of his phone, a small illumination moving irregularly down the street as Leti asks, “Did you win?”

“No, of course not. To win, we’d have to score.”

“Did you lose?”

“That’s the thing. To lose, we would have to let them score. We’re not a big fan of the ball in the back of the net, theirs or ours.”

“So another draw?”

“Yeah. We were storming the gates at the end though, you know? Someday we’ll figure that out. I don’t know. You know what they call those in America?”

“What, draws?”

“Yeah. Kissing your sister.”

“Kissing your sister? That’s gross.”

“You’ve never seen my sister.”

“Terry!”

“It just shows they don’t understand Italian football.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Americans. Draws there are seen as bad, as settling. Here, I keep having them happen and they’re beginning to talk well of me.”

“Really?”

“Really. I came back to two articles in the press, both praising my ability to keep getting results.” The line goes silent momentarily. Terry stops—he is at the church now, and he leans against the tall metal bars that form its gates. “Leti, it doesn’t change anything. It just makes me feel good.”

She is clearly relieved, and a playfulness comes back into her voice immediately. “I thought that was my job, making you feel good.”

He laughs and continues on his way. “It is. And nobody has ever done it finer.”

“Where are you?”

“Just past the church.”

“I did like that church.”

He turns, and the dark spire and cross of the church is a shadow cast against the sky. He walks backwards for a few steps, and a slight vertigo sets in: as he moves away, the church seems to grow bigger, blotting out more of the stars beyond. Terry stumbles slightly and drops the phone, which skitters away from him against the curb.

When he picks it up, the screen is dark, and it’s not until he gets into his apartment that he remembers how to lever open the back of the case and remove the battery. When he replaces it, the phone trills to life, and he sees a dozen missed calls from her. Hurriedly, he calls her back.

“Terry! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, love, fine. Fine. I just dropped the damn thing and couldn’t turn it on again. That’s all. I’m fine.”

“I was so worried … I thought something happened to you.” Her voice catches in her throat and he can hear a muffled sob. “Terry … I can’t … I couldn’t. Nothing can happen to you. Nothing.”

He sinks to the floor in his kitchen, cradling the phone to his ear, repeating again and again, “Hush now, I’m fine. I’m fine. Hush. I’m fine.”

Serie C2/A

Sambonifacese v Rodengo Saiano, Renzo Tizian

Sambonifacese 0 – Rodengo 0

MoM: Daniele Gasparetto (7.4) Best Panda: Andrea Signorini (7.2)

Attendance: 805. Referee: Umberto Cucè.

January 15, 20011

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano – Bassano Virtus, Comunale

Rodengo 2 (Roberto Sandrini 81, Domenico Girardi 90+4) – Bassano 0

MoM: Girardi (7.8)

Attendance: 503. Referee: Andrea Lanzoni.

The Reason Why. January 17, 2011.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I am at that,” I answered with a smile. I was on the practice ground, phone to my ear and a ball at my feet, lazily tapping it around as I waited for the squad to arrive. The air was crisp and clean, and while perhaps a little cold, felt refreshing. A flock of birds wheeled in the distance, and I could hear the dull hum of cars on the motorway on the other side of the hill.

“That simple, huh?”

“I guess so. It’s a good day.”

She laughs. “You know that’s not it.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ve been on cloud nine ever since you won. Two goals! A victory! And suddenly your life is sunshine and flower. You’re fickle.”

I stopped the ball from rolling away from me and stood, one foot lightly resting on it. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. I’m … enthusiastic.”

I heard her take a deep breath. “Yes, you are. But you’re fickle, too. I worry about you. You need to find some center, something to keep you from soaring so high or sinking so low.”

I looked out over the mountains, and blew out a mist of white breath that dissipated quickly into the sky. “I have a center, Leti. You’re it. But you’re too far away right now.”

I heard her breath catch. “What?”

“You heard me. I mean it.”

“I know you do. Soon. Soon.”

I hear the faint clap of car doors closing in the parking lot. The sound collapses on its way to me, smothered by the cold, a gesture half-finished.

Suddenly, I feel like a balloon after the air has left. I was floating up there, over the stark winter landscape, and now I can feel myself deflating, falling, making slow, lazy arcs across the sky as the wind blows me according to its whims.

“Terry?”

I don’t know how much time had passed in silence. “Yeah. Sorry. I just … I don’t know. I was so happy when I called you.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I feel ….” I kick at the ball, sending it spinning into the air with enough backspin that it rolls back to me. “I don’t know. The team is coming, I need to go.”

“Terry, wait. Look, I’m sorry that saying that does that to you. But it’s true: you swing back and forth with your team. You did it here, you do it there. It’s just you, Terry. But you know what?”

There is a tear in my eye. I blame the cold wind that is coming across the field. “What?”

“It’s just part of you. And you know what else?”

Her voice is shaking. Maybe it’s not the wind. “What?”

“I love you for it, Terry. I love you.”

Now I could hear the laughter and shouts of the players as they headed towards the field. “Damn you, Leti,” I breathed into the phone, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “They really are here, and you’ve left me a wreck.” I turned my back to the squad as they approached, tapping the ball in front of me and moving after it, trying to gain some more distance between them and me.

“Well, I’m sorry for that I guess. But it’s all true.”

I took a deep breath, composing myself and trying as unobtrusively as I could to wipe my cheeks. “I know, Leti, I know.” I exhaled slowly, and turned around, giving what I hoped was a casual wave to the approaching pack of men before sending the ball over to them in a high, spinning arc. “I really do have to go.”

“OK. Call me tomorrow, yeah?”

“I will. Love you. Bye.”

Before I started across the field, I realized that I felt fine, solid. Happy, even. There was a faint trace of adrenaline, and, in the background of my mind, a sense of confusion, of not quite understanding what the last five minutes were.

But I was happy. And I knew that she was the reason why.

Suddenly, the weight of the next few months hit me. Five months. Five months of lying, five months of acting as if I’m a panda forever, as if this team is all that matters to me. I realize I don’t care, that whatever I needed to do in order to be with her was well worth it.

I blew my whistle and jogged over to the sidelines. “OK, everyone, circle up! Let’s get stretched out …”

January 30, 2011

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Casale, Comunale

Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 54) – Casale 2 (Christian Araboni 37 65)

MoM: Araboni (8.8) Best Panda: Gasparetto (7.1)

Attendance: 502. Referee: Giovanni Quartarone.

Careening Out of Control. February 6, 2010.

Leti thinks it began with this game. She may be right. It was a hard match to lose. Just before halftime, Casale’s Christian Araboni hit what may very well be the best ball he strikes in his whole career to score their first. He had no angle, no space, two defenders on him, and dozens of yards between him and goal, but somehow he squeezed a hard knuckling drive that just beat a diving Edu. The home crowd loved it of course, but it left us doing little more than shrugging in disbelief.

Gasparetto tied it for us with a shot from distance in the second half, then, twenty minutes in, the entire stadium thought Araboni’s second goal would be called back as he was well offsides when he took the pass.

But the flag stayed down, and we were unable to summon a comeback. Another loss. This time, to a team that had been winless in their last dozen games.

So, maybe she’s right. Maybe that was the beginning.

I was certainly in a foul mood at the start of the week. Our conversations were short, clipped things, full of heavy, evasive silences as she tried to draw me out. But something shifted, and as the days edged by, I found myself coming out of it. Usually for me that is marked by optimism, by happiness and a sense of possibility. This week it was just, well, empty.

I mean, it was busy: they’re all busy, these weeks. Meetings with the staff, reports to review, reports to file, talking with the scouts. And of course training. But through it all part of me was elsewhere. Part of me was thinking about America, about Leti, about the news I read online the night before about whether Baggins’ position in Florida was really safe or if the jobs in San Francisco or Oakland would open up.

We trained, and I praised and prodded, whispered and yelled. But afterwards, I didn’t review the session again and again in my mind, rolling it backwards and forwards and searching for smaller and smaller details, didn’t fret over telling Girardi to move a few yards to his left or Aurtenetxe to pay more mind to the angle of his instep as he received the pass.

It’s not that I didn’t care, I did—I do. But it no longer felt like a life or death struggle.

Most evenings, Leti and I spoke for hours, wandering conversations that roamed freely across the contours of our lives, the distant pains of the past, the twists of the present, and the wide open vistas ahead.

I asked her, “You still fancy Florida?”

She laughed. “Sure. But you know what I think?”

“No idea.”

“I’d like someplace with a touch of winter. Not too much. But I would like to see it snow. You would just be done with the season, basking in the glory of promotion.” I laughed and made a dismissive noise. “Shush, you. Not a bad winter. Not Denver or one of those places in Canada where you have to get up hours early just to shovel out the drive. But a little snow.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You know what I’d like?”

“Tell me.”

“What about one of those teams from the islands. White sand, blue water, palm trees.”

She exaggerated a yawn. “I have palm trees here.”

“You have snow there, too.”

She paused, considering. “Hmmm … not really. I can go to the mountains and see snow, but that’s not what I mean. I want to stand somewhere and see it coming down, I want to watch it from inside by a fire, to hear it crunch when I walk.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

I’m incredulous. “You would prefer freezing your butt off tromping through the snow to lying in a hammock on the beach?”

“I would.”

“You’re daft. Totally insane. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I bet you don’t even think you’ll have to shovel the snow.”

She laughs, a tinkling sound that reminds me of bells and of birdsong. “Of course not. That’s why I’ll have you with me.”

“To shovel your snow.”

“To shovel my snow.”

I thought for a moment and laughed. “OK, I’ll take it. You drive a hard bargain, though.”

“Bargain?” Her voice was a model of disbelief. “And what do you think you’ll be getting out of the deal, Mr. Langford?”

“Well, after shoveling all that snow, I’m sure to need some warming up.”

“Oh really?”

“Definitely.” There is a pause, as if she is considering.

“Well, we’ll just have to see how good a job you do.”

I found myself almost floating through the week, not knowing what to do with my newfound detachment. I read more than usual and drank less; I ate more but also—for the first time in months—ran with the team when they did their conditioning work.

It felt good—the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground in rough staccato time with the others fading into a constant backdrop, the breathing of the dozen of us tightly clumped together as we circled the field, the occasional jibe tossed at each other. At some point, you stop thinking, you are just moving in time with the other runners, your focus diffuse throughout your body: the burning in the back of your throat, the dull pain in your left ankle, the tightness building in your calves; none of it is able to move to the foreground, instead the motion of the group, the momentum of carrying each other along, keeps it all masked, forcing thoughts of stopping at bay.

Afterwards, sore and tired, I spoke with Roberto about Itala. We were going to keep tweaking our offensive play, keep trying to get a second and even a third player involved. But it was slow going, especially with Isma still sidelined.

The choices were either Baido, whose immense creativity was still unfocused, just as likely to leave the defenders behind as the ball or De Pascalis, who was predictable as the seasons, a solid performer who could put a good turn in but was unlikely to make the difference we so sorely need. That left Parolo, who was certainly a solid option, but had yet to really click and had openly talked about his desire to return to Chievo as soon as he could.

Roberto had been sending me puzzled glances all week, but I had no answers for him and when he asked if I was OK, I just shrugged and nodded.

Today, we would go with Baido, and everything was moving along until, thirty-five minutes in, he and an Itala defender went up for a high cross. Their heads met with a deep, dull sound and both players collapsed to the ground. As the referee’s whistle blew, the defender sat up, rubbing his cheek, anger flashing in his eyes. Arms already outstretched he moved to the prone Raffaele to protest the challenge, but as soon as he turned his head, he froze and then began screaming for the medical staff.

Raffaele had not moved: he lay on the ground, liquid and limp as if he had been poured from a bottle. I heard the medical staff yelling, first at the players crowding around to move away and then towards the sidelines. Long moments later, an ambulance drove onto the field, red and blue lights flashing as it left a deep furrow in the turf.

I turned to Roberto and Matteo, whose faces were strained, tightly etched with worry.

“**** it,” I thought to myself, knowing that coaches were not, strictly speaking, allowed onto the field. I took a few steps, and then almost unconsciously broke into a jog. When I arrived, Raffaele had still not moved, but I could see his chest rising and falling gently beneath his uniform.

One of the medical staff had a pair of light blue gloves on his hand and was feeling around Baido’s skull. As I moved around the tight circle of people around the body to the other side, I suddenly stopped, seeing the blood. There was a lot of it, pooling in the grass by his head, trickling down the side of his face, around his ear. It was crimson on his skin, and almost black against the grass, and the amount seemed to be increasing.

I felt sick.

Not just at what I saw, but sick at myself, sick that I would allow myself to drift away from these players, these young men who were putting so much at risk every week for us, for me. I felt a cold anger build, its force doubled because its source and target were identical: I was furious at myself.

When I looked down again, they had a white bandage wrapped around Raffaele’s head, and while there was already a coin-sized spot of darkness above his year, it did not seem to be growing any larger.

Two of them spoke in rapid Italian. I couldn’t catch a word, but suddenly there was activity all around and I stepped back out of the way. A half dozen men were gently lifting him up and onto an immobilization board, and then onto a wheeled stretcher that had been fetched from the back of the ambulance.

As they did so, something like a convulsion rippled through his body, a loose wave of muscle contractions that ended with his eyes opening wide. He moved his head against the bright orange padding, clearly trying to find a focal point. They stopped the stretcher and someone spoke to him, their voice low and reassuring.

I took a step towards him, and stopped, my hand dropping back to my side. What could I do? I don’t speak his language. So I just stood there, stewing in my own juices. Somehow, it was clear that if something had been different this week, anything, this moment would have been avoided.

I saw Raffaele’s eyes focus, the tension go out of his neck, and as they lifted him into the ambulance, he raised a hand in a small wave to the crowd, who clapped along with the other players in appreciation.

Eventually, the game started again, but there was a nervous energy in the air, an anxiety that quickly dissipated into unwarranted aggression of which, unfortunately, we bore the brunt. By the end of the half, both Tihomir Weikl and Facundo Zampa had to come off as well, both with leg injuries.

I felt ashamed by it all, my anger at myself steadily increasing and spent the final five minutes of the half standing in front of the bench, my arms crossed. Roberto and Matteo each came to talk to me, saw my face, and quietly slipped away.

When the whistle blew, Roberto finally grabbed me by the arm, his face apprehensive. “Terry, you can’t go in and yell today.”

I shook my head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs, confused. “What, no, no. I’m not angry at them.”

“At who?” His voice held a note of concern.

“No, not you either. At me.” I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, watching the last of the players move into the tunnel. “At me. We’ll be okay, yeah, go on.”

He stared at me. I felt my phone vibrate and took it out. It was Alessandro, who had accompanied Raffaele to the hospital. I motioned Roberto away as I heard the smoothly accented English on the other end.

Minutes later, I walked into our dressing room. Their faces were anxious as I stepped up to address the team.

“I just heard from the hospital. Raffaele’s fine.” I could hear exhalations of relief. I looked at my phone, reading the message. “He’s got full movement, he’s sitting up. He needed stitches in his head, and they’re going to keep him there overnight. He has.” I paused for a moment, re-reading, then looked around the room. They saw my eyes, and fell deeply silent. “He has a broken bone. He broke a bone in his skull.”

The players looked at me, then at Matteo, who touched his head with a puzzled look on his face, then asked, “His skull?”

I nodded, as did Matteo, saying “Si, il suo cranio. Si, cranio.” Italian fills the air momentarily before Matteo raised his hands in a calming gesture and turned to me. “Is it bad?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. We won’t know anything until the morning.” I gestured back to my phone. “They say he’s fine, though. If it were serious, they would tell us. It must be a hairline fracture.”

Matteo stared at me, confusion sketched across his eyes. “Airline?”

“No, hair. Hair.” I touched my own. “Hairline fracture. When a bone gets a crack in it, not a break.”

The confusion didn’t go away. “So he didn’t break his skull?”

The players were looking back and forth between us, trying to follow the exchange, and I felt the whole thing careening out of control. “Look, we don’t know. All we know is what I told them, okay? Go ahead and tell them that, that we’ll know more tomorrow, and that right now, we have forty-five more minutes of football to play.”

He stared at me briefly, nodded, and began to rattle off Italian to the team. I turned and drew some shapes on the board, preparing to go over some notes from the first half. Once the room fell quiet again, I turned back around.

“Before we do this.” I gestured to the board. “We have forty-five minutes, and the eleven of you out there are who we’ll finish with. Play smart. Pick your spots. You need to finish the game strong, yeah?” Matteo talked for a moment and they nodded, somewhat somberly. I turned back to the board. “OK, when we are defending the left wing …”

They were focused and attentive, and the second half began full of promise. Five minutes in, De Pascalis fired a shot at goal from twenty-two yards out. Itala’s keeper got his hands on it, but was unable to turn it around the post. We were ahead!

It didn’t last, however: Góngora, who was struggling all day on the left wing, gave the ball away in the box and they were able to seize the opportunity to tie the score.

Fifteen minutes from time, Góngora made up for it with a great cross into the box. Gasparetto jumped higher than three defenders plus their keeper to nod it home—a powerful jump and a deft touch gave us the lead.

The end of the game was too eventful for my taste: despite screams from all three of us on the sidelines, they kept trying to make plays instead of just killing the clock, and each time we lost possession, Itala would surge forward keeping Edu far too busy. Finally, Itala stalled their own attack with an offsides call, and the final whistle blew.

The win moved us up two places to 9th place in the league.

While the injuries to Weikl and Zampa were minor, my thoughts were with Raffaele as the bus wound its way back home to Rodengo. The last I heard, he would come home later that week. That must be a good sign, but there was no news at all on his prognosis.

The noise on the bus was subdued, but happy: we had won, and we had come back well after a difficult first half. I tried to stay quiet, knowing that I didn’t share those emotions, and that anything I said would only work against them. They deserved some satisfaction, especially Gasparetto and Errasti, who had splendid games.

I stared out the window at the white lights of the oncoming traffic, each pair tearing apart the darkness like illuminated wounds. It started to rain, and everything blurred through the dirty glass. My eyes unfocused until they held the reflection of my own face pock-marked with drops of rain, floating disembodied against the vague darkness of the night beyond.

I needed to be alone, and I needed to drink.

Serie C2/A

Itala San Marco v Rodengo Saiano, Gino Colaussi

Itala 1 (Alessandro Moras 53) – Rodengo 2 (Alessandro De Pascalis 50, Mirko Gasparetto 75)

MoM: Gasparetto (7.5)

Attendance: 520. Referee: Flavio Battisacco.

February 13, 2011

Serie C2/A

Pizzighettone v Rodengo Saiano, Comunale

Pizzeghettone 0 – Rodengo 0

MoM: Alfonso Longobardi (7.8) Best Panda: Jon Aurtenetxe (7.1)

Attendance: 1214. Referee: Marco Croce.

Come To This Again. February 20, 2011.

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Legnano, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Legnano 2 (Silvio Pagano 27, Emanuel Spinale 73p)

MoM: Nandi (7.7) Best Panda: Jon Errasti (7.0)

Attendance: 587. Referee: Giovanni Pentangelo.

Terry pressed his cheek to the tile, allowing the cold to spread into his body. As the coolness ran down his spine in gossamer tendrils, he felt the back of his neck loosen, felt the dull ache in his head sharpen into a single point of misery behind his left eye, felt his stomach roil and contract. “Not again. Uh oh. ****. Again.” He hoisted himself up and vomited into the toilet, wiping away a long stream of dark spittle with the back of his hand.

He thought to himself, “****ing hell, Langford. Come to this again, have we?” A grim smile crossed his face as he sunk slowly back to the floor, onto his back. The ceiling wavered, sliding this way and that but it did not spin. “Thank god. Worst is done.” His shirt was soaked and he wasn’t sure where his pants were, although he was grateful for the cold against his thighs. He shifted his hips, pressing them against the floor. He could feel the pattern of edges and icy surfaces and it seemed to anchor him in place: his legs were still and cool, no matter what else.

As he stretched, his foot tangled in some cloth, and with a grunt and a convulsion he managed to grab his jacket. The room swam from the effort. “Easy. Easy.” He felt in his pockets until he found a pack of Linda, not too badly crushed, and a lighter. A moment of fumbling and a deep inhale. “That’s it. That’s it.”

He exhaled the smoke in a steady grey plume and watched it curl around the bare ancient yellow light above the sink. The ceiling seemed to extend beyond the haze, and as the smoke dissipated, he felt the edge of vertigo returning. “No, no, no more of that.”

He inched his back against the tub until he was seated, sniffed the air and scowled, then reached out and pulled down the toilet seat. “That’s better.” Another long drag and exhale. He could see the bedroom through the door, the dark sheets crumpled to one side and beyond that, the archway into the kitchen. Things were, at last, still.

“I like this apartment. Be sad to leave it. Sad to go away,” he thought. He closed his eyes and nodded forward, his head jerking against his chest. “Horrible ****ing day. Too much rain. Too much mud. No goals. Played two ****ing forwards up top. No goals. Played that new guy from Argentina. No ****ing Messi, that one. Did nothing. Not even Isma. Isma.”

He smiled and awkwardly patted his head with one hand. “Cabezazo. Cabezazo. Heh. Need to tell Leti about that. Phone.” He patted the pockets of his jacket a few times and looked around the bathroom, blinking rapidly. “Wait. Told her already. Good. No idea where the phone is.”

He opened the toilet an inch and dropped the cigarette in. It fizzed momentarily before the lid clattered down. “**** me, that’s loud.” He rubbed his face. “Awful. Awful, awful. Couldn’t clear the ball. Zampa gets sent off. Awful.”

He exhaled hard, slapping both palms on the floor. “Time to get to bed.” He didn’t move. Moments later, he felt wetness on his cheeks, and thought, “This is you. Drunk. Not even drunk. After drunk. Sick. Throwing up on the floor. Pretending to coach. ****. All you’ve done is send players to the hospital. ****ing menace.”

A voice, not entirely his own, rang inside his skull. “Do you really think anything will be different in America?”

A Question Has More Than One Answer.

February 27, 2011

It’s a wet, sloppy day in Venice. The sky is an unbroken slab of gray and the water pours off the edge of the metal stands in torrents, pooling on the cracked, faded pink concrete that marks the entrance to the dressing rooms. It’s almost unbearably loud: the constant slapping of water against the floor, the metallic echo as it hits the stands.

Even before the game starts, I’m in a foul mood.

Nothing is more annoying than wet socks in dress shoes and with every step, my toes feel like they are pressing against a sodden loaf of bread. I look at the edges of the pitch, where dark pools are slowly growing, reaching out as if they are attempting to slowly take over the playing surface. It’s hard not to think of Venice itself and its doomed battle against the encroaching sea.

But that would be overthinking it. It’s just a rainstorm, and it’s just a soccer game.

I shake the water out of my eyes and chide myself. “Come on, Langford. Get out of your ****ing head.”

The opening whistle helps: the sound always focuses me, giving a clean line between all that leads up to a game and what actually matters. All the rest of it fades with the whistle, and then there is a clean geometry to the task at hand: movement, space, a round ball bouncing around a green rectangle. Usually. Not today. Today, the ball hits the ground and stops in an explosion of water, droplets scattering in small arcs as it’s kicked. Today, the players spend as much time sliding on the pitch as they do making contact with the ball.

We’re tentative, waiting for the ball to settle predictably before attacking it, and it’s costing us initiative. Not to mention possession. “Marco Parolo! Marco! Come on! Play strong! Forze!”

I realize suddenly that I’ve stopped learning Italian, that I did so long before Leti and I began to talk about America. That’s odd.

I turn to Roberto and shake my head. He just grimaces. Something bad is coming, we both can feel it.

Ten minutes in, we’re proven correct: the ball bounces around our box for a very long time before one of their players casually lobs it into the far corner over Edu’s head. Our young Spanish goalkeeper dives, but all he gets is a face full of mud. Maybe it keeps him from seeing the ball cross the line.

It’s just sloppy. The play, the field, everything.

“Jon, what the hell is that? Come on!”

The rest of the half is better, but by no means good. We’re playing down to their level—again—and if we don’t get our heads out of our ass, we’ll come out with nothing against one of the few teams we should dominate. I try to tell them as much at halftime, but my words seem empty, lacking the force to actually be heard. I don’t know. I think they’re listening to me, but it’s hard to tell: they’re all drying off their hair, changing into fresh socks, getting their ankles re-taped.

Finally, Roberto knocks a chair over and yells for a bit in Italian. That seems to work.

I grab him as we head back out. “Thanks.” He looks at me quizzically, and I jerk my head back towards the changing room. “For that.”

He nods. I don’t ask him what he said.

We tie it up with a bit of skill and a bit of luck. The skill comes from Marco Duravia who uses a fantastic first touch to corral a long pass before it dies in a puddle. His cross is perfect, and—and here’s the luck—Girardi knocks it in despite his plant leg slipping on the pitch. He catches the ball on his shin, but it still rolls across the line, and we’re tied with thirty-five minutes to play.

As we slowly find our footing in the match, picking up possession and generating more chances, the field is continuing to decompose beneath us. There are two puddles just inside midfield that lie right in Duravia and Djengoue’s path as they move up and down the wings, and the two of them are covered in mud up to their waists.

We come so close to taking the lead: a ball squirts loose in the box that Girardi cannot get to; a shot from Góngora clatters off the post just before he’s pulled off, drenched and exhausted; a header from Djengoue skims off the top of the bar. But we’re minutes from the end and I am preparing myself for yet another tie, another opportunity to improve wasted, when, just into stoppage time, Marco Girasole turns away a shot from Girardi, but the rebound falls right to Gasparetto, who taps it home and then slides a good twenty yards on his knees, leaving twin wakes behind him.

I can’t believe it—I check the linesman three times to make sure his flag stays down before I let myself scream in support of the two forwards who have worked their asses off in the rain today. Roberto and I are sharing a hug when I spin around to follow the flight of the ball from our pass downfield after the kickoff. Roberto stumbles, thrown off balance and I reach back to steady him, but my head is turned the other way, watching Duravia drive into the far corner and send a looping cross in to the box. Djengoue heads it back across the six yard box just as I hear Roberto hit the ground and feel a wave of water against my pants. The ball bounces, and Girardi is there to hammer it home.

Roberto is on the ground, his face splattered with mud from the fall, looking at me. My arms shoot up and I yell, “Goal!” at the top of my lungs. Roberto scrambles up, saying “Chi? Chi?”

“Girardi!” Roberto hugs me, and I know that when we step back, the front of my shirt is now covered with water and mud.

I don’t care. I would run and slide through the puddles on my belly if I thought I could get away with it.

Serie C2/A

Venezia v Rodengo Saiano, Pierluigi Penzo

Venezia 1 (Giovanni Volpato 10) – Rodengo 3 (Domenico Girardi 54 90+3, Mirko Gasparetto 90+1)

MoM: Girardi (9.2)

Attendance: 3733. Referee: Luigi Surano.

March 7, 2010

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Valenzana, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Valenzana 0

MoM: Jake McEneaney (7.5) Best Panda: Marco Duravia (7.4)

Attendance: 525. Referee: Giovanni Pentangelo.

I take a breath. “You’re impossible.”

He is startled and his voice shows it. “I am?”

I twirl the yellow phone cord around my foot, one way and then the other. He’s used to me comforting him, letting him run through his ups and downs while I remain constant, his center. I am the anchor of his orbit. Does that mean he needs me or that he yearns to escape?

“Yes, you are.”

“Well it was a miserable game.”

“And?”

“And nothing. It just was. We should have won, we didn’t. It seems to be what I do.”

I pick up the cord with my toes and smile. I remember the first time Terry saw me pick up a sock with my toes. It bothered him. Only one of my brothers could do it, and none of my sisters.

“Leti?”

“I’m sorry. Look, it’s not what you do. It’s just what happened today. Last week, you win and you call me, and you’re practically giggling with joy. You could barely contain yourself. Then during the week you become anxious and nervous. You do that every week. And now, you’re just miserable.”

He blathers for a bit, incoherent noises as he tries to think of what to say. Finally, he’s quiet for a moment, and all I hear is the ghost of a distant conversation. I can’t tell if it is somebody in the distance where he is or another conversation bleeding into our line. The language sounds European, but I can’t tell what. His silence touches me. In the end, he shares his vulnerability with me and I feel like I have been granted a glimpse of something precious, a jewel-winged butterfly cupped softly in his hands, only shown to a few people.

I realize that I don’t mind, that I just want him to be happy again. “It’s OK.”

“It is?” Again he is surprised, but also hopeful.

“Yes, it is. It’s just you.”

“And you don’t mind?”

It’s not really a question. A question has more than one answer. “No, not really. Sometimes …” I take off my glasses and squint through them at the streetlight outside the window, then look around for a cloth. “Sometimes it’s a little intense. Up and down. But it’s who you are, and I do love you so.”

I can hear his relief. “I love you too, Leti. Really, I do. And I’m sorry … I just, well, I think that when we’re together, when we’re in America, it’ll be different. It won’t be these damn phone calls, won’t be just the game.”

I wonder. I hope he’s right. But I wonder.

Did He Play?

March 13, 2011

Serie C2/A

Carpenedolo v Rodengo Saiano, Mundial 82

Carpenedolo 0 – Rodengo 0

MoM: Facundo Zampa (7.2)

Attendance: 100. Referee: Graziano Ritorto.

March 20, 2011

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Pro Belvedere, Comunale

Rodengo 2 (Mirko Gasparetto 23, Domenico Girardi 44) – Pro Belvedere 2 (Matteo Perelli 56, Amedeo Celeste 88p)

MoM: Perelli (7.5) Best Panda: Facundo Zampa (7.3)

Attendance: 581. Referee: Andrea Perissinotto.

“So, did he play?”

“Not even a hello?”

She laughs. “You clearly don’t know how much you’ve talked about it for the past few days. Isma this and Isma that and if we had him we would have beaten Carpe Diem or whoever it was last week.”

“Carpenedolo.”

“Whatever. I swear you should just move to America with him.”

“Leti!”

“Teasing, Terry, teasing. Did he play?”

I can’t help but smile a little. “He did.”

“Then why do you sound so down? Don’t tell me he didn’t play well.”

“No, no, he was good. Fantastic. Set up one goal, was creative. A little rusty. But fantastic.”

“But?”

I grimace and shake my head. “It’s the Ides of March in Italy. You know what happened. We were up two. Up two, and then we gave them back. Last was a stupid ****ing penalty. So, we tie.”

“Again?”

The word cuts, a harsh and unexpected judgment. “Jesus ****ing Christ, Leti, what do you want? Yes, again.” Silence. “I’m sorry. I just … this team doesn’t know how to win yet. And that’s on me.”

“Yet?”

“Yet. Look, just because I won’t be here doesn’t mean they won’t.”

“OK, OK, I don’t want to fight tonight, Terry. I was so happy when I saw your call. I just don’t want to fight.”

“Well, I don’t either. But when you … I just.” I can feel tension at the base of my neck, a spider web that is slowly expanding up and out, encircling my head with a cold and painful crown. I press between my eyes with my thumb. This is not what I want. “Look, never mind. Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Anything. Tell me anything.” I hear her click her tongue, a soft sound that seems to travel slowly across the line. The sound makes me think of her face, her lips, and the warm depth of her eyes. It helps.

“I saw Nombi yesterday.”

“Yah?”

“Yeah. She looked better. I mean, she hates being in the hospital. Hates it. She makes faces at all the nurses and mocks all the doctors and she won’t shut up about the food. Calls it Colonial Plastic. But she looked better.”

“Well that’s something. Do they, you know, do they know what it is for sure now?”

There’s a pause. “We’ve known all along, Terry. It’s AIDS, it’s HIV. We knew from the beginning.”

“But she wouldn’t go to a doctor.”

“But we live with it all the time. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t know someone who died from it. We knew.” I can’t think of anything to say. I feel like a scolded pet. “Terry?” I make a sound, something that falls short of a word. “You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“So, I saw her. And she looked better. She even remembered your name.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she asked if I was still living in sin with you. So she got the name right, but not the life.”

I smile a little. “It’s a little funny.”

“It is. It’s a little sad, but it’s a little funny, too.”

I feel a sudden surge of longing, of hope, of desire. It burns through me, and I almost feel dizzy from the force of my need for her. “How much longer?”

“What?” There is a hint of panic to her voice.

“No, no, no. God, no. I’m not that … no, for us. I used to think I was good at this thing, these calls, the rest. But I’m not. I’m just not.”

​He Broke His Head

April 3, 2011

Serie C2/A

Canavese v Rodengo Saiano, Franco Cerutti

Canavese 1 (Marcello Koffi Teia 2) – Rodengo 1 (Mirko Gasparetto 87)

MoM: Koffi Teia (8.2) Best Panda: Andrea Signorini (6.9)

Attendance: 375. Referee: Fabiano Preti.

April 17, 2011

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Varese, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Varese 1 (Andrea Alberti 28)

MoM: Vinh Long Willemin (7.2) Best Panda: Edu (6.8)

Attendance: 555. Referee: Francesco Saija.

April 23, 2011

Serie C2/A

Pavia v Rodengo Saiano, Pietro Fortunati

Pavia 1 (Ivan De Vincenziis 84) – Rodengo 0

MoM: Dario Campagna (7.3) Best Panda: Claiton (7.2)

Attendance: 715. Referee: Stefano Squarcia.

The last month has been a blur. The team just keeps doing what we do: a tie here, a loss from a late goal there, wandering between tenth and thirteenth in the standings. It all seems so futile. About the only bright spot happened about a couple weeks ago, when I saw a familiar figure walking towards the field during a training session.

He stopped at the sidelines and embraced Matteo who had just emerged from the tunnel, having escorted another of our youth players into the physio’s office. I left the game of rondo and headed that way.

“Raffaele!” He smiled sheepishly at me, while Matteo was grinning broadly.

“He says he’s sorry for interrupting practice.”

“Sorry!” I clapped Baido on the shoulder. “We’re thrilled to see him.” I turned to look at Raffaele directly. “Come stai?”

“Buona. Molto buona. Grazie.”

“Magnifico!” I turned and blew my whistle hard, waving the rest of the team in. As they headed towards the sidelines, a few of them broke into a jog at seeing Baido. I gave them a few minutes of hugs and rapid Italian, with smiles all around. I began to move back into the group and then hesitated.

Here they were, welcoming a teammate back who had broken a bone in his skull. His skull. And I was leaving in a few weeks, something none of them knew.

It was their moment. I motioned to Roberto. “We’re done for the day. Finito.”

He looked at the group and nodded. When he turned around again, I was already forty feet away, and I pretended not to hear him call me the first time. He didn’t call out again.

May 1, 2011

Serie C2/A

Rodengo Saiano v Como, Comunale

Rodengo 0 – Como 2 (Daniele Schiavano 19, Giuseppe Cozzolino 82)

MoM: Giovanni Bruno (8.7) Best Panda: Mirko Gasparetto (6.9)

Attendance: 490. Referee: Paolo Bernabei.

“Hey.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah.” There is a moment of silence where I am, not for the first time, amazed at how well Leti has learned to read the contours of our conversations. I take a deep breath. “It was … I don’t know. They were better. But we were awful. Just awful.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I shrug and wander over to my kitchen window. I lean on the counter and stare without really seeing anything through the mottled surface of the dirty glass. “Baido wanted to play.”

“The one who broke his head?”

I laugh at that. “Yeah, him.”

Leti let out a low whistle. “That’s insane, Terry. He broke his head. I wouldn’t want to get on the field again. Ever.”

“Yeah.” There is something of a challenge in my voice, an assertion of solidarity. I hear her intake of air, caught behind her teeth in a shushing sound.

“You would?”

“Course I would. It gets in your blood. You spend so much time on the field, it’s like this thing in the middle of your life, this space that you’ve cared for and lived in for so long. If he didn’t come back, there would just be, I dunno’, a hole. Empty space.”

“So is that what you’ll have?”

“Huh?”

“When you resign. Until you find a job.”

I’m silent for a moment, putting it together. “I guess. I mean nobody likes not having a job, right?”

I can almost hear her shaking her head. “Well. That’s not quite it. Most people lose their jobs, they don’t talk about having a hole in their life they can’t avoid.”

“Is that what I said?”

“Pretty much.”

“Guess I better get a job pretty quick then, yeah?”

Minsk (Rodengo v Portosummaga). May 8, 2011.

“Terry?” Her voice was concerned and elevated as her finger flicked over her the surface of her iPhone. He usually didn’t call during the day before one of his games. “Is everything OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, no worries. Everything’s good. Real good.” She noticed something different about his voice—something that had been missing for months. Not quite joy, but at least the possibility of joy, an opening that seemed to make his words fuller, his pauses more stable, the rhythm of his voice less anxiously staccato.

“What is it?” She had an idea, but she wanted to hear it from him, in his way.

He took a deep breath. “You know what you were saying last week?”

“About what?”

“About the game, the hole, having nothing left after I leave Italy?”

“Yes.” She had thought of that often, had wondered whether the Terry that would come to South Africa would be the confident, energetic man she deeply loved or the anxious, defeated man who, it must be admitted, she also loved, but who she found far more difficult to be with. As his belief in himself dropped, a small meanness in him would grow, slowly seeping into their conversations like venom spreading out from a wound.

“Well, there’s nothing to worry about.”

She couldn’t contain herself. “You got it? You got it? I don’t believe it!” There was a pause that extended into awkwardness. “Terry? You did get the Nigeria job, right?”

He sighed to himself. He didn’t understand her fixation on that job. He had told her his application was really a lark, something so improbable that it moved beyond the possibility of long shot into something astronomical. But as soon as he mentioned it, she had begun talking about Lagos, about the Golden Eagles, about the World Cup.

“No. I got the other one.”

“The other one?”

“Yes. I am the new head coach of the national team for Belarus.”

There are moments whose importance is unknown to us, moments where we can inadvertently lose an opportunity long-hungered for or where we can break something in such a way that it can never be mended, not fully. But sometimes, even if we cannot sense the moments, even if we remain dumb to their approach, we can still elude them, letting them pass without so much as a soft rustle of wind to mark them.

Leti’s voice had lost none of her enthusiasm. “You are? That’s wonderful!”

Terry felt a lifting that seemed to begin somewhere in his stomach and rose like a flush through his neck. “Yeah, well, it was pretty much a shock.”

“I knew you would get something! I knew it!”

Terry laughed. “Well, that makes one of us.”

“When do you start?”

“Well, that’s the thing, yeah? I need about a week here after today. Then they want me there. They have games the first week of June.”

“The first week of June!” The excitement in Leti’s voice was marked by disappointment as well. There was a small pause, and the disappointment faded away entirely, giving way to acceptance and understanding. “Of course. European Championships. Everyone at the club is talking about Holland’s game with Sweden. Well. That’s that, then. I guess I don’t have to get things cleaned as fast as we thought. Do you know when you’ll come?”

“After the games. I should be off duty by the twelfth, the thirteenth, something like that.”

“And then?”

“And then I’ll come to you. If you have the place clean, that is.”

“Clean enough for you? Yeah, should have.”

Terry exhaled softly to himself. He had worried about this phone call, the anxiety building in his chest to the point he had dialed her number twice before actually sending the call through. But here they were, again, nestled gently in the false silence of the phone, the ghosted conversations and faint noises weaving around them like dust floating in a beam of sunlight.

“Terry? Where is Belarus exactly?”

There was a soft pause, and when he answered there was a rhythm to it that spoke of phrases newly memorized. “Eastern Europe. It’s surrounded by Russia, Ukraine, Poland, and … oh ****. They start with L.”

Leti smiled, her amusement showing in her voice. “Wikipedia?”

“Wikipedia.”

“L, huh? Maybe Lithuania?”

“That’s it. Lithuania and … Latvia.”

“You better keep reading. I’m so happy for you. It makes me sad not to see you for a little longer, but I’m so happy. Hey! Where are your games?”

“Um. At home.”

“You don’t know yet do you?”

“Just a sec. I wrote it down. Minsk. Both games at Minsk. Why?”

“Well, someplace closer and maybe I could come. Do they have a chance in the group?”

“Like I know. I doubt it. France is in there. Maybe at second place.”

“Do they know?”

“Who?”

“Anyone.”

“No. Nobody. I haven’t even started packing. Today is the last game. I’ll tell them next week.”

“They aren’t going to be happy.”

“Maybe. It’s not like we’re charging up the table.”

“Terry. You’ve done fine there. But it doesn’t really matter, I guess.”

“No. Not really.”

Serie C2/A

Portogruaro-Summaga v Rodengo Saino, Pier Giovanni Mecchia

Portosummaga 0 – Rodengo 0

MoM: Denny Cardin (7.7) Best Panda: Andrea Mei (7.2)

Attendance: 919. Referee: Flavio Battisacco.

Terry sat on the wooden bench, staring into his duffel bag. He had thanked the team for their work through the year, congratulated them on a stronger season than had been expected, and reminded them of the last few practice sessions before they were set free for the summer. He had been carefully neutral, working hard to give a sense of continuity without revealing his plans.

Now, everyone else had already headed out to the bus, but he remained behind, feeling a heaviness that seemed to keep him from getting up. It wasn’t how he wanted to go out—he had dreams of a final game of triumph, a single game where everything came together, where Góngora and Duravia were sweeping forward on the wings, where Isma returned to his early season form, where their defense was solid as usual but had the extra spark, the extra creativity in getting the attack going.

Instead, it was a game that, he had to admit, was consistent with the rest of the year: another draw, another scoreless affair, another uninspired, drab footnote of a game never to be recalled by the players, the press, or the almost one thousand spectators.

Still, it wasn’t a bad result: Portosummaga had qualified for the promotion playoffs, far above Rodengo’s twelfth place finish. But it was not a game he could point to that showed success in what he was trying to accomplish on the field.

“Terry? Andiamo. Ora.”

It was Matteo. Terry nodded at him, picked up his bag, and hoisted it over his shoulder, trying to think of what he and Roberto would talk about for the three hour ride back to Rodengo, back to his small apartment, the kitchen window, the tiled floor, the small bedroom. Now that the season was over, he felt an instant nostalgia settle over him like a thin blanket. He was already building a scrapbook of memories, a series of “when I was in Italy” moments.

“Minsk,” he thought to himself. “Minsk and Latvia and Lithuania.”

It Didn't Make It Any Easier. May 15, 2011.

As I entered the familiar coffee shop, I saw three heads curving above the row of booths like brown, sandy hills. Alessandro and Marco were waiting for me, as was Matteo. I know they were curious when I called them yesterday to arrange the meeting, and my suspicion was that, in the intervening hours, they had probably at least considered the possibility of what I was about to say.

It didn’t make it any easier.

I found my way through the maze of dark wooden chairs, nodding a greeting to Signore Pelosi behind the matching bar. “Il solito,” he asked? I nodded, and as I slid into the booth where the three Italians waited, I heard the rude exhalations of the coffee machine behind me.

“Good morning, Terry.” It was Marco, his English perfect and clean as a close shave.

“Buongiorno, Marco. Alessandro.” I clapped Matteo on the shoulder. “Matteo. You made it!”

He looked at me sheepishly—last night, he and I were the last to leave the bar, and he was tilting dangerously as he walked away. I smiled and turned to face my employer, pausing while Signore Pelosi placed my espresso in front of me, with an extra sweet biscuit on the side.

“Grazie, Signore. Grazie.”

Marco was slightly unsettled, a state I hadn’t seen him in before. He cleared his throat and looked at me. “Well, Terry?”

“Right to it then, ok.” I dipped a cookie into the dark liquid, and nibbled off a bit, collecting my thoughts. “I wanted to meet with the two of you before I told the players.” Alessandro raised an eyebrow and exchanged a quick glance with Marco. Good. They had discussed the possibility. “I am grateful for my time here. You took a chance on me, and you supported me in what I wanted to do. And you have a decent foundation. But it’s time for me to move on. I wanted to tell you as soon as I could so you had plenty of time to prepare for next year.”

Alessandro spoke first. “Really, Terry? Are you sure? You know we would be happy to honor your contract for next year.”

I nodded. “I know. I just … I need to. Well. It’s just time.”

Marco leaned in. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with some news from Belarus, would it?”

I looked at him quickly. “How did you know about that?” No formal announcement had been made yet—the Belarus Federation of Football had politely agreed to delay discussion of my hiring until tomorrow.

Marco smiled. “We have business interests in Russia.” He shrugged. “We hear things.”

I laughed. “You are a … fascinating man, Marco. But no. I had made this decision before that. I was pretty shocked they gave me the job, to be honest.”

Alessandro interrupted, “No, Marco, I believe him. I think this has more to do with the heart. With a woman from South Africa, yes?”

I tried not to blush, but wasn’t sure I was successful, so I turned my attention to my drink before looking up. “Yes, actually. Yes, it does.”

“And you plan to go back to Africa?”

I shook my head. “Maybe for a little while, but no. I hope to find a job in America.”

He smiled. “Ah, America. In the end, we all go there for our fortune it seems.”

Marco asked if my decision was final. “Yes. I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

He nodded and continued. “You know you are breaking your contract, yes?” He checked his watch. “That means you will be paid at the end of the month, but that’s it—everything else stops as of tomorrow.”

Marco was like that: once a choice was made, he was all business. I nodded my understanding. He tapped a finger on the table. “Is there anything else?”

I fixed Alessandro’s gaze. “Yes, there is. I want to make sure you hear that I think Roberto is ready. He may not know it yet. But you have your next coach right here.” Alessandro inclined his head. “Alessandro, Marco. I mean it. I’m not just trying to leave on good terms. He’s that good.” I paused and glanced at Matteo next to me. “And this one, here.”

Matteo looked up quickly. “Terry, no. Don’t.”

“No, really. Matteo, you’ve done everything asked of you and more. You’ve been a great help to me, and you deserve something for that.” Matteo blushed and thanked me. I looked at the two men across from me. “Now the hard part.” Marco looked at me. “The team. We have to go and tell them.”

We did, me in some broken Italian and more English, Matteo translating. There was some anger in the room afterwards, along with the handshakes and hugs and wishes for success. And there were two other conversations that were important.

I told Roberto how good I thought he was, and how I had recommended him for the job. He glowed at the compliments but laughed at the suggestion of taking the position. “It will never happen,” Matteo translated for him. “Alessandro will want to bring in a name, I would guess some Italian player who the town can rally behind.”

I shrugged. “That may be. But you deserve it. If not now and if not here, somewhere.”

The other conversation was with Isma. It wasn’t much of a conversation, really. I just tried to thank him the best I could. Afterwards, he grinned at me. “Coach Terry,” he said, “we will make you proud next year. You watch. And I’ll score more.” His eyes twinkled.

“With my head.”

He walked away, patting the top of his head and calling back to me, “Cabezazo. Cabezaaazo.”

The adventures of Terry and Leti will continue here until he gets a new job. It's sort of a purgatory, but it also looks like this will be the first 5m1w stories that finishes, which is bittersweet, but exciting in a way.

Some Vague Promise. May 25, 2011

“Where are you?”

Terry looked around the room: pale and faded curtains blocked the afternoon light, allowing in only a weak stream that faded almost instantly when it touched the stained carpet. He could see flecks of dust floating without purpose, their movements calm, as if there was nothing that could happen in the room they hadn’t seen before. There was a pale path the color of bone from the door past the edge of the bed, and every few feet a few strands of red fabric stood on end like blades of grass struggling to push through the cracks in a sidewalk.

His eyes grew wide momentarily. “I’m not sure. It’s … “ His voice trailed away into silence, and he leaned against the dark comforter, a faint smell of bleach rising off the rough surface of the blanket.

Leti laughed. “OK. I’ll try something else. How are you?”

“I’m good. Good. It’s Brest. No, wait. Brest was yesterday. Or the day before. Grodna. That’s it. It’s over on the Western edge. Near Poland.”

“And?”

Terry looked at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the outline of a faint water stain that ran across the ceiling like an old scar. “It’s good. We’re watching players every day, film, talking tactics. We’ll have a few days with the team to practice. They have players I need. It’s good.”

“Really? Belarus is ready to play the Terry Langford formation?”

Terry smiled wryly. “I guess. I mean, as much as anyone is. I saw how you finished.”

Ajax Cape Town had clinched re-entry into the South African Premiere League after a single year of relegation. “People are pretty happy about it. Even Old Man Comitis was smiling.” Terry was silent a moment. “What,” she asked?

“Nothing. Really. Just the only year Ajax spends in relegation is my fault.”

“Terry. At this point it’s distant history.”

He was silent a moment. “I guess. Did you really just call him Old Man Comitis?”

Leti laughed. “I guess I did.”

“We’re insane, Leti. Both of us giving up good jobs for some vague promise of America. What the hell are we doing?” A pause. “Alessandro hired someone to replace me, too.”

“Roberto?”

Terry rubbed his eyes. “No. Unfortunately. No. A journeyman player. Chianese, Vincenzo Chianese.” He sighed, images of the players he worked with in Italy flashing through his mind. “Hey, you hear about Lewis?”

“Lewis?” Leti racked her brain momentarily. “Oh, Stanton. No, what?”

“He caught on with that other team in Houston. Not the one from MLS, the new one. The Astros … no … that’s the baseball team. Comets. The Comets. Anyhow, he’s been playing out of his mind there—scored a few goals, seems to be pressing for a starting role.”

“Good for him.”

“Yeah. I always liked him. Hard worker.”

There was a moment of silence. “Terry?”

“Sorry, hon. I’m exhausted.”

“That’s OK. Here, you all ready for bed?”

Terry laughed lightly. “No. But I’m not moving.”

She smiled. “OK. Here, hold the phone and close your eyes, OK?”

He rolled onto his side, curling into a compact position, his knees drawn up and his phone cradled against his ear. His eyes fluttered and slowly closed, and as they did, Leti began to sing softly in a language he did not recognize. The sounds were soothing and repetitive, a lilting memory that spoke of endless skies and the brilliant African sun, of people clustered around a fire, of herds of cattle flowing like water over a dusty land.

June 4, 2011

European Championship Qualifying Group D

Belarus v Albania, Dinamo

Belarus 5 (Syargey Kornilenko 18 29 48, Aliaksandr Hleb 27, Isli Hidi 40og) – Albania 0

MoM: Kornilenko (9.7)

Attendance: 39,308. Referee: Peter Gagelmann.

June 8, 2011

European Championship Qualifiers, Group D

Belarus v Bosnia & Herzegovinia, Dinamo

Belarus 1 (Maxim Skavysh 90) – Bosnia & Herzegovina 2 (Edin Dzeko 19p, Ermin Zec 43)

MoM: Ermin Zec (7.5) Belarus’ Best: Skavysh (7.3)

Attendance: 39,108. Referee: Nicolás López.

Soft and Hopeful. July 4, 2011

Terry looked around the room one last time. His bag sat near the door like a sentry, guarding against any possible intrusion. The drawers of the short dresser were empty and slightly open and the scarred and chipped top was bare of anything except a thin layer of dust that never seemed entirely to disappear.

He sat down gingerly in the brown padded chair that perched unsteadily on a swivel that groaned like a wounded beast if you leaned too far forward or back. He ran his fingers over the base of the lamp, feeling the rough grooves and wondering, as he had for weeks, as to their cause.

He sighed, and rearranged the small stack of rectangles in front of him on top of a well-worn piece of paper: an envelope containing a tip for the hotel staff, his cell phone, and the tickets for his flight to South Africa. He clicked his phone on, tapped in his code, and checked the time and his flight status.

Fifteen minutes until Leti was supposed to call, and his flights were still on time. He stacked the phone on top of the two envelopes and moved the pile to the side, considering his past month.

It had been good enough: a decisive win against Albania that saw a hat trick from Syargey Kornilenko was followed by a close defeat against Bosnia & Herzegovina. It left his Belarus side where everyone expected them to be: laying a strong claim to second place, clearly behind France, but also ahead of Romania and Albania, their only real competition in their attempt to gain one of the coveted second place slots in the next round of the European Championships.

He drew a pen from his pocket and made small circles next to four words on the paper: Luxembourg, France, Romania, Albania. Those were the four opponents for Belarus this fall. He wrote numbers by the words, thinking to himself, “Assume three points from the first two, and the key will be the last two. If we get seven points from those four, we should be through. Nine and I think it will be guaranteed. Six or fewer, and I may be looking for a job again.”

He drew a larger 7, embellishing it with a ring of dots that followed its outline. “Seven points.”

The sudden vibration of his phone startled him, and as he lunged for it, the chair gave one of its screams, the metallic groan drowning out the syncopated beat of his ringtone.

He fumbled the phone on and raised it to his ear. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

A silence hung between them, a heady mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

Terry was the first to break it. “About Mexico … you were right. Are. You are right.”

Terry had started an awful row the last time they spoke. Three jobs had opened up in Mexico, and he wanted to apply. He even thought he would get an interview for one of them, but Leti had exploded in protest: they had discussed a move to America, not to another place where she couldn’t speak the language. She had enough of that in Italy.

He knew she was right, but didn’t want to admit it, and began to talk about how the clubs were still part of North American soccer, an argument he knew was disingenuous at best.

Leti exhaled sharply. “It’s not a matter of right.”

“No, it is. We had talked about it and we had made a decision together. America.”

He could hear her smile through the phone. “America. But you know you will get to visit all those places in Mexico. I may even take Spanish classes.”

“Muy bueno.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You would do great at Spanish.”

“You heading to the airport soon?”

“I am. Car should be here in twenty minutes, something like that.”

“All packed?”

“For hours. I cannot wait to see you.”

“You, too.”

“You get the cabin?”

“Yeah, for next week. A week here, a week there, a week to pack …”

“And then, America.”

There is another pause, warmer, like a meadow drenched in sunlight, and finally Leti’s voice, soft and hopeful. “America.”

How Little He Understood. July 29, 2011

Nombi’s decision to move into Leti’s apartment was initially something to celebrate: it showed a recovery of sorts: regaining enough strength to sit, to walk a few steps, even to contemplate the choice itself was a source of joy, and Leti’s sister even took a few sips of wine the evening it was decided.

It hadn’t been easy: Nombi was reluctant to leave her home and even more so to depart the area where she has worked and lived for so long. One tear-filled afternoon, it all spilled out of her, leaving Terry stunned and mute. He was frozen in the presence of her clarity, struck by how little he understood of his own life, let alone those of others.

Nombi had already made the decision that she would die within the small tin walls of her shack, that her final breaths would be taken there, and the last sounds she would hear would be that of children running through the alley to the side, loudly banging a stick against the metal walls, throwing echoes everywhere and sounding like a momentary coming of the apocalypse; or of women gossiping loudly in English or Xhosa on their way back from the water pump, complaining about the rains or the drought, their being alone or their no-account men; or of an argument spilling out of a shebeen and into the street, curses a steady counterpoint to the muted sounds of scuffle or the heavy crash of bodies; sounds that had formed the backdrop of her life for decades, and sounds that would usher her into the next world.

Later that afternoon, back home, a bottle of chardonnay half finished, Leti turned to him, asking, “You’re quiet. What’s going on in there?”

Terry shook his head. “It’s just. Everything. Nombi, that place. Coming here.” He gestured emptily around the apartment. “And seeing the two of you like that …” The conversation this afternoon had ended with the two sisters wrapped in each other arms, crying. They looked to Terry like a single thing, two bodies merged together by the heaving rhythm of their sobs.

It wasn’t the first time he had been exposed by their intimacy; but each time it happened Terry felt similarly unsure as to what he should do. Usually, he would find something else to occupy himself: a loose thread on his shoes, the texture of the hard-packed dirt floor beneath his fingertips. Today, he just sat, transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away from the two sisters.

Leti smiled softly. “I get the distinct impression your family rarely cried together.”

“A firm handshake was about the most of it,” replied Terry with a snort.

“Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“The whole hand shake thing?”

Terry shrugged. “Dunno, really.” He swirled the wine in his glass a moment. “Heard someone say once it was to make sure there wasn’t a weapon in the hand.”

“That much of a concern with your family?”

“What?”

“Them having a weapon?”

Terry laughed. “You haven’t met my family.”

Leti considered for a moment but remained silent. This was not the time to press Terry on when exactly that meeting would occur, nor to try yet again to encourage him to reach out, to be the one who bridged the estrangement. Instead, she put her glass down and took his hands in hers, gently kissing his knuckles.

As her lips brushed the back of his hands, Terry felt something loosen in his chest, and a tear slowly ran down his cheek. Leti saw it and leaned closer to him, tasting the salt on her lips as she kissed it away.

He stopped her and repositioned himself on the couch, drawing his legs beneath him. “Leti, do you need to stay here?’

She looked at him curiously. “Why?”

He raised his hands, palms up. “To help with all this. To be here for her. I don’t …” Terry felt his emotions rising again and took a breath before continuing, “I don’t know that I’ve seen her or you ever be braver than today.”

“Braver?”

He nodded. “She had decided that she was going to die in that place. To change your mind about a decision like that, to make another choice …” His voice trailed off.

“You know I love you, yes?” Terry nodded. “Good. That’s why I’m coming with you.” Terry leaned over and refilled their glasses, handing Leti hers with a silent toast.

The next days were spent packing and, in consultation with Nombi’s caregiver, Naledi, preparing the apartment for Nombi’s arrival, an event that passed with little fanfare. Suddenly, though, there were four of them in a space clearly made for two and Terry and Leti both began to realize they needed to finalize their plans to move on.

They were in the bedroom, taping up the last of the boxes there, when Terry asked in a low voice, “You sure she’ll be OK here?”

Leti glanced nervously towards the kitchen, her voice low. “I think so. She’ll have Naledi with her.”

“Where’d you find her?” For Terry, Naledi appeared just over a week ago, when they returned from the cabin. She was a large woman, quiet and taciturn, but monstrously efficient. She moved with a determination that intimidated him, and he found himself sliding towards the walls when she moved through a room, doing whatever he could to stay out of her way.

Still, she seemed both devoted and firm with Nombi, and the gentleness with which she spent hours braiding the frail women’s hair was in stark contrast to the iron will used to convince her to drink just a few more sips of broth each afternoon.

Leti shrugged. “I don’t know. I went to visit her a few months ago, and she was there. She had brought a sleeping bag, and had already moved in.”

“In the township?”

Leti nodded. “I think she knew Nombi from her work, but I never asked.”

“I never saw her there.”

“She would vanish whenever we were coming.”

“How did she know?”

Leti smiled. “A handsome umlungu like you walking through the township. Everybody knew.”

Terry shook his head and moved on. “You like her though, right?”

Leti laughed. “Like her? The woman is a godsend. I don’t think Nombi makes it here without her. I don’t think she would even be …” Leti’s hand flew to her mouth like a wounded bird and her eyes began to glisten. She wiped at one with the back of her hand and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

Terry crossed to her, and held her in his arms, gently stroking her cheek. “It’s OK. I know.”

That evening after dinner, after Naledi had gone to settle Nombi in her room, Terry and Leti were sitting in the kitchen. She slid her iPad to him, saying “Look here.”

He took it and looked up. “Really?” The tablet displayed a website devoted to the Immigrant’s Cup, currently in the fourth round of qualifying. On August 18^th, Serie B side Bari from Italy were travelling to Boston to take on the New England Revolution, currently sitting near the bottom of the table in the North American Select League.

She nodded and leaned over his shoulder. “Two of your players could be there. Wait, three. Stasevich is yours, right? It seems a good start.”

He considered a moment. She was right: while Igor Stasevich hadn’t figured for me yet, he was on the fringes of the squad. And his teammate at Bari, veteran attacker Vitaliy Kutuzov, could play a key role off the bench in our European Championship qualifiers. New England had secured the services of young defender Ryhor Filipenko on loan from Spartak Moscow, and while Terry wasn’t sure he was eligible for this competition, he would probably be there so at least he could have a quick word.

“OK. So I’ll head to Switzerland on Tuesday. You’ll finish here, and we’ll meet in Boston. And I think you know more about where players from Belarus are employed than I do.”

Leti laughed. “Terry, you know we’re mad, yeah?”

“Quite. But as long as the federation is good with the companion tickets, we might as well. Get a chance to see some of the country, maybe talk to a few of the clubs.”

She stretched and crossed the kitchen, putting on some water to boil. Terry fiddled at the screen, his fingers moving uncertainly over the smooth surface. “Hey, check this out.”

“What?”

“Raffaele Baido scored twice for Rodengo this week. Just a friendly, but still.”

“Baido? Which one was he? The one who broke his head?”

Terry laughed. “Yeah, the one that broke his head.”

August 10, 2011

Friendly

Switzerland v Belarus, Stade de Suisse Wankdorf

Switzerland 1 (Eren Derdiyok 60) – Belarus 1 (Sergey Krivets 34)

MoM: Anton Putsilo (8.3)

Attendance: 23,659. Referee: Roberto Amat.

Where They End Up. August 17, 2011.

“What is this again?”

I stare at Leti for a moment. “You’re the one that picked the game. What do you mean?”

“This tournament. Cup. Whatever. The Immigrant’s Cup. What is it?”

I look over the field where the New England Revolution and Bari are warming up. “It was created a couple years ago. It’s huge: dozens of clubs. I dunno how they pick them. Huge. I think the goal was to make money.”

She laughes. “Really. Who’d have guessed?”

I roll my eyes with an exaggerated motion. “OK, fine. The goal was to have teams that represent major new communities in American cities. Hence the name. And,” I say, motioning towards the Italian visitors, “them.”

“Bari?”

“Italians.”

She’s flipping through the program for the game for a few minutes, then looks back up. “You know the same teams have played in the finals both years?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Both years. Rangers and Liverpool. Both won one.”

“That’s a little weird. They still in this year?”

She flips a few pages. “Don’t think so. Some good teams are, though. Barcelona. Roma. Arsenal. Real Madrid.”

I look over her shoulder. “Yeah, and Fátima, Oulu, and Mahindra United, too.”

She looks up blankly. “Who are they?”

I laugh. “****ed if I know.”

She smiles, and snuggles up against me, and we sit in silence, watching the pregame unfold in its slow regularity: stretches and small group drills, handshakes and conversations, the unfolding of loops of dark cable across the field for interviews, then the slow retraction as the dark lines are coiled back towards the sidelines.

The game is exciting enough: injury-plagued veteran and local hero Taylor Twellman scores to tie the game at two, much to the delight of the fans that are scattered through the mostly-empty stadium. It goes to penalties, and again the key man is Twellman, but this time it’s not good: he shanks a penalty kick mightily, and when Michele Anaclerio scores, Bari moves on.

It’s a game that shows where the North American leagues are right now: the best players on the field are Michael Chidi Alozi for New England and Raffael for Bari. Both are international players who have bounced around a bit trying to find a home. Not good enough for the top leagues in Europe, on the fringes of their own international teams, this is where they end up.

And, maybe someday soon, I will, too.

September 3, 2011

European Championship Qualifiers, Group D

Belarus v Luxembourg, Dinamo

Belarus 2 (Maxim Skavysh 23, Vitaliy Kutuzov 90+1 – Luxembourg 0

MoM: Timofey Kalachev (8.7)

Attendance: 38,686. Referee: Andrea De Marco.

September 7, 2011

European Championship Qualifiers Group D

Romania v Belarus, Steaua

Romania 1 (Adrian Mutu 70) – Belarus 0

MoM: Mutu (7.6) Belarus’ Best: Sergey Sosnovskiy (7.3)

Attendance: 23,484. Referee: Peter Gagelmann.

Just Happy to Be There. September 14, 2011

“Why are we here again?”

We’re walking towards Reggie Bush Park—what used to be known as Tad Gormley Stadium—in New Orleans after a wonderful day wandering the French Quarter. Even on a Wednesday, there were performers in Jackson Square and tourists all around, us included. Watching Leti in America has been a revelation: she seems alive in a different way, living in the space between belonging and being a visitor.

She doesn’t look American, but she doesn’t look like she’s not American, so she can slip by unnoticed here in a way that she never could in Italy. There is a comfort in her as she walks the streets, and the warmth of her smile draws people in: she already has the phone number of a waitress from a coffee shop, with a promise to go shopping together the next time we’re in town.

It has made things clearer: not only do we need to land in America, but we need to land in an urban America, an America where there are enough people with skin the same color as hers to let her slip into this boundary zone.

That’s a bit of a shame: Mexican clubs seem to be holding a fire sale on managers at the moment and, surprisingly to me at least, jobs keep opening up in England as well, with rumors around both Leeds and Sheffield United. We talked about it. Sometimes it seems like we talk of little else.

For now, though, it remains America or nothing. Which means nothing—and that’s fine as long as I manage to stay in good graces with the Football Federation of Belarus. I take her arm in mine as we stroll on. “We’re here to enjoy a fine day with each other.”

“Other than that.”

“Ah. We are here to watch the final of the prestigious Gulf Coast Club Championship.’

“The what?”

“The Gulf Coast Club Championship.”

“What’s the Gulf Coast?”

I gesture back behind us, towards the harbor where we walked that morning. “That is. Or, beyond that. It’s clubs from all along the coast. Here, Texas, Florida, Mexico. Probably a few other places, too.”

“And this is the final?” We walk on a little further, to where Esplanade dead ends into City Park. We’ve been seeing people dressed in motley for quite a few blocks, outrageous combinations of purple and green, letting ourselves be drawn along with the general flow of humanity.

Leti giggles and points to her right with her chin. Two men are walking side by side, each adorned with massive headdresses of purple, green, white, and yellow feathers. One’s shirt is emblazoned with the letters CR; the other EW. We found out in a bar last night that only out-of-towners call the team FC NOLA: to everyone else, they are just “the Crew,” or “the football Crew.” Most of them didn’t know there was a team with that name in Ohio; the rest didn’t care.

“How do they keep those balanced when they walk,” she asks. “And, what if you sit behind them?”

I squeeze her hand. I know nothing of New Orleans beyond what some time online could surface, but I know that the team has been remarkably successful in garnering community involvement, quite a surprise in a city still recovering from a series of tragedies.

There is evidence of that everywhere, from signs advertising various claims of rebirth and renewal, to the blocks that are largely deserted, dusty windows that open onto what used to be shops, sunlight casting murky shadows on their interiors.

The Football Crew of New Orleans were a feel-good story their first year, earning promotion to the third level of play. But NADI proved too much for them, and this year they are back in the fourth division, although they again look poised for promotion. Still, that makes them quite the underdog for today’s match against the Houston Dynamo in the final of the Gulf Coast Championship Cup.

Leti has slowed her pace, allowing the men with the massive headdresses to move ahead of us slightly. “And we’re here to see the keeper, yes?”

“Yes. Sergey Veremko. The pride of Belarus, and current starting goalkeeper. Well. Sometimes starting.”

“Who do you have next? France?”

“Yeah, France.” I grimace. “****.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to change your mood.”

I wave away her protests. “No, no. It’s not like I didn’t know it.” And, in fact, it has never been far frommy mind since last week: we did well against Luxembourg but the loss to Romania not only takes away any decent chance at the next round, but also sets them up to slip past us into second place in the group.

I shrug and smile at Leti. “It’s just going to be hard. We have France and Albania, and Romania has Luxembourg and then France. We’re two points up with only an outside shot at the next round. So … yeah. If we can find a point against France and beat Albania …”

Leti is quiet. She knows that a loss against France is the likely outcome, and that Albania will be far tougher for us than Luxembourg for them.

We come up to the stadium and head in, the passes sent to me from the BFF taking us to seats at midfield just a few rows behind the team officials.

As usual, Leti has been poring over the program. She flips it onto its back and looks at me, lowering her glasses to peer over them, a hint of challenge in her caramel eyes. “So, we’re here to see Veremko?” I nod. “Really?”

I lean in towards her conspiratorially. “Well. Sort of. See that woman down there? The one with the brown hair in the purple shirt? That’s Emmeline Pankhurst. She manages FC NOLA and is rumored to be likely to move on at the end of the season.”

Leti turns to me, her eyes a little wide. “You could work here?” Her voice drops. “We could live here?”

I laugh and hold up my hands. “Who knows. Maybe, though. Maybe.”

There’s not much to the game: Houston comes in up by two goals, and is clearly the better team. Pankhurst’s side has the look of a group that is just happy to be there, and it shows: their only standout is Daniel Checketts in goal, who has a fantastic game to preserve the scoreless draw.

It’s hard for a team to celebrate after such a drab affair, but Houston does, and the smiles on the faces of the players in the postgame trophy ceremony seem genuine enough

The crowd has emptied out, and we decide to take a cab back to our hotel. As we slide through the New Orleans night, waves of people flow around us, small groups that separate around our yellow taxi and reform on the other side. All we can hear of their conversations through the windows are inarticulate sounds of laughter and voices raised in discussion. Leti’s eyes don’t leave the side window, drinking in the neon scenery and stoplights.

As we get out, she kisses me on the cheek. I smile back at her. “Was there a reason for that?”

She shakes her head. “No. Just a thank you to the soccer gods of Belarus for a few days in New Orleans.”

It's Just Now. September 21, 2011

We had been in Brooklyn for a few days, having seen a game between the Bushwicks and the Philadelphia Union on Sunday. Brooklyn were an emerging darling of the New York media: while the Red Bulls’ success this year was a surprise, it was also taken in stride. They were, after all, New York’s dominant team and, as such, it was expected that they would take their ordained and rightful place at the top of the league.

Brooklyn, however, was a new team, only in its third year of existence. In that time, they had moved from Division One up to the North American Champions League, and despite finishing near the bottom of the table, they did look safe to remain there another year.

We were staying at a friend of a friend’s while they were out of town, which was typical for these weeks between the scouting trips I am able to arrange through my Belarusian backers. Our lodging here was more luxurious than usual: after a parade of fold out couches and dusty futons, we had the fourth floor of a recently renovated brownstone, complete with a lovely view of Prospect Park.

We spent yesterday in Manhattan behaving like gawking tourists; today we had planned to get up, have a leisurely breakfast, and spend the day exploring Brooklyn. The plans had been derailed slightly with the morning’s news: Sigi Schmid had been announced as the new head coach at Real Miami.

That was a bit of a surprise, as Sigi was probably slumming it a little, taking over a Division One club after running things with the Galaxy, Columbus, and Seattle.

The larger surprise was that nobody knew the job was even open. Kirk Payne—who, granted, was clearly over his head—had left without a word and none of my sources, not even Baggins in Tallahassee, had given me a heads up. I looked at the paper and cursed.

Leti had just gotten up, and was sleepily pouring coffee into a large, hand-thrown mug. She scratched at her hair and tied it up in a bright bandana. “What, love?”

I tossed the paper in her direction. “Look at this *****.”

“What?”

“There, below the thing on High School football kickers.”

“Oh.” She read, her brow furrowing as she did so, glancing up at me quickly every few lines before returning to the story. “Oh.” Softer, this time, more a question than a statement. She leaned against the island in the middle of the kitchen. “You didn’t apply?”

“****, hon, I didn’t know. Miami? Hell, course I would’ve tried. I mean, sure, if I do Sigi gets it every time. But still.”

She frowns, a distortion pulling the left side of her mouth down into a stern and judgmental look. “Yeah, but, I mean. How did you not know?”

I just shrug, gesturing openly with my hands. There’s no answer, really. We finish our coffee in an uncomfortable silence, her flipping through the New York Times with an air of careful distraction while I pretend to be busy on the iPad. I had already e-mailed some of my contacts, and had yet to hear back, other than Lucas Radebe, one of Schmid’s assistants who I knew from my time in Cape Town claiming to be as surprised as I was at his hiring.

We finally headed out, window browsing on our way to the park, people-watching once we got there.

We had moved to a seat on a small grass-covered rise, the jagged peaks of the city fading fuzzily in the distance through the haze. Even though summer had surrendered her stranglehold on the city, it was still warm and beads of sweat clung gently to Leti’s upper lip, salty-sweet when we kissed. She didn’t pull away as much as pull in—there was no response, no gentle yielding of her lips to mine, no pressure from her arm as she reached it around me.

I drew back and looked at her inquisitively. She just stared at me, then turned, shielding her eyes and staring into the distance.

“Leti?” She looked down and smiled, but it was forced and thin, limp imitation of her usual grin. “I’m hot. Let’s get something to drink. Maybe eat. But definitely something cold.” It was hot, and a light rivulet of wetness wound down my back as I leaned over to extend my hand and help her up.

We exited the park hand in hand, in silence, and made our way to a small café whose outside tables were well shielded from the sun by large, lime green umbrellas.

I had expected Brooklyn to be full of artists and noise, young hipsters and street scams. But instead as I looked out onto Prospect Park West, I saw a metropolitan version of the American suburbs I had gotten so used to in my soccer travels: SUV’s with baby seats in the back parked by expensive sports cars (although there were fewer pickup trucks in the city); expensive strollers pushed by women who were either dressing to impress or dressing in the ultimate practicality of the exhausted Mom: t-shirts that had lost their shape over sweatpants chosen for ease instead of style.

There were some young hipsters: women with long, toned limbs wearing yoga pants and showing off their midriff tattoos, casting glances full of dreadful anticipation at the infants in the strollers as they smoothly swiveled their hips to avoid contact.

I looked back towards Leti, who was staring at a menu, a slight frown on her face.

“Anything look good?”

She shrugged, closed the menu, and placed it on her plate. “I’m not really hungry. The mango tea sounds good.”

I looked at her warily. “You sure?”

When she looked back at me, her eyes were wet, their surface glistening as she fought back tears. “No, really. It’s just that we’re never going to be able to have that are we?”

“Have what?”

“A place like whatever their names are. Mike? Mike and Bonnie?”

“Ronnie. I think. Whatever. But, what do you mean?”

She shook her head and wiped at her eyes, looking away as the waitress brought her a tall glass of tea, frosted with sugar at the top. She took a sip with her eyes closed, a single tear clinging to the corner of her eye dropping onto her cheek when she finally looked at me again.

“Terry, these houses are so beautiful. But they cost so much. So much.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I asked dumbly, “How much?”

“Five, six million. Maybe more. Million.”

“And? I mean, do you really want to live in Brooklyn?”

She laughs, but there is a hint of panic in her voice. “No, I mean, sure, but no. But that’s not it. I mean, what were you making in Italy? A few thousand a month?” Her mouth squeezes together, a sharp line across her soft face.

The whole scene feels surreal, like I am fading away from her as she speaks. I nod mutely and stammer in response. “It’s just for now. Really. I’ll have a job by the end of the year, and then we’ll be fine. It’s just now.”

“A job where, Terry? Some town in Mexico where I don’t speak the language? Someplace buried in America where I’m the only African around? And how will we live? What life will that be?”

She may have kept speaking. I’m not sure. All I could hear was the oscillating hum of the cars as they moved by. I remembered a trip my family took to Galway when I was a child. The boardwalk was an immense and foreign world, with the cries of gulls overhead and the briny smell of decaying fish floating occasionally over from the side of the bay still used for commerce. We walked across the light stones of the beach and out into the ocean, a forest of white sails thinning from our right into the empty blue horizon ahead.

I remember the lurching vibration of the waves as they pulled at me, and the overwhelming roar that rose louder and louder just before I was knocked over by the force of the water, spinning helplessly in the rough arms of the sea.

I flag our waitress down and order a beer and a whiskey chaser.

A Knife of A Whisper. October 1, 2011

Things got bad after Brooklyn.

I’m not even sure I could say what happened: we both were drinking a lot and arguing most of the time, quickly slipping into a morass of easily-sparked discontent waiting for the smallest thing—a look, a tone, a slight furrow of the brow or narrowing of the eyes—before exploding into another fiery clash. It peaked our first night in Portland. We had almost missed our flight and we had to sprint through the terminal at O’Hare to make the connection.

Or, I had to sprint. Leti did the best she could, but I made it to the gate a few minutes before she did and was already pleading with the agent to keep it open when Leti turned the corner, sweating and breathing heavily. When we got settled in our seats, I turned to her and said, “That was fun.”

We were in a smaller plane for this flight, only two seats on each side of the aisle. She was in the window seat, and turned her attention away from the ground crew outside to glare at me. “For you, maybe.”

“What, I didn’t mean that.”

She stared at me and, her voice tight and angry, said, “Just because you can run.”

“Leti.”

“Don’t Leti me.” I saw the top of the heads in front of me turn towards each other at the sharpness of her tone. She held my gaze for a moment, then put her head in her hands. I stared at her arm, at the patch of lighter skin that ran down its back like an island of cream. Her green blouse was stuck to her back, her bra straps outlined like girders, and I could see damp spots of sweat still spreading beneath her arms.

I reached over to pull her shirt away, and she stiffened as if shocked by a live wire. I jerked my hand back and, as soon as we were in the air, purchased three beers and a small plastic bottle of Jack Daniels.

I had finished the beers, and was halfway through the Jack when I felt her hand on my arm.

“I’m sorry,” was all she said, and her touch was plaintive, searching, shy.

I wanted to turn to her, to smile, to take her in my arms, to cry. But I didn’t. Instead I shrugged off her hand and drained the rest of the whiskey, relishing the hard burn as it went down. I shifted in my seat to face her. Her face was carefully composed: I could almost see her receding, a spark of light disappearing behind a carefully created mask with only a slight widening of her eyes betraying a faint edge of fear in her attitude.

“Do you want a house in Brooklyn?”

Her face caught momentarily, a slight shudder that seemed to ripple across her: whatever she had been expecting, that wasn’t it.

“What?”

“A house. Brooklyn.”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“What do you want?”

She drew her lower lip beneath her teeth for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said, her eyes beginning to shine with tears.

I felt like I was caught inside multiple versions of myself, nested like a Russian doll. At the center was a small child, carefully painted in bright colors, crying with joy and love for her, absolutely in love with this woman who was staring uncertainly at me. But the child was muffled, trapped in the layers of increasingly hard and brittle wood, each more chipped and worn than the last until, finally, on the outside there was only raw timber, the paint worn, flaking with splinters, painful to touch.

“Well,” I said, my voice clipped and cold and distant, coming from someplace else, “you should probably figure that out, shouldn’t you?”

She made a noise, soft enough that only I could hear, a whimper of accusation that cut through me, through all of the layers of pretense and alcohol, to my core. I gasped from its force, but it was too late: she had turned, curving around herself towards the window. Tremors shook her body occasionally, the flesh of her arm rippling with their force.

We spent the rest of the flight in silence, and didn’t speak in more than inarticulate grunts until we were safely in the bland confines of the hotel room. I was sitting on the bed, staring at the floral pattern on the tan curtains, trying to remember if they matched the rooms I stayed in while in Belarus.

I remember thinking that she had been in the bathroom for a very long time, and when the door finally opened my head jerked up in rapt attention.

I moved to the side and motioned for her to sit next to me. She shook her head and leaned heavily on the wall, placing her phone in her purse as she took a deep breath. “I just got a room for myself.”

I was dumbfounded, unable to respond coherently. “No. Please. Stay.” I tried to come up with a reason she should, anything, but I just sat there, mute.

She nodded slowly, as if finally convincing herself of a great truth and moved past me to lift her bag to her shoulder. She moved in slow motion, as if the effort were almost more than she could take, and her shoulders sagged under the weight of the strap across her back. As she walked past, I reached out for her hand. She squeezed mine briefly and continued out the door.

I didn’t move for a very long time, and when I did, it was just to lean back on the bed, my thoughts empty and dry.

I drifted in and out of sleep, but spent most of the time thinking of the past year, of Leti’s face, of simple things: breakfast in the cabin in South Africa, her wrapped in an old green army blanket, frayed at the edges; the night I arrived from Italy and how her eyes glowed like pools of amber when I saw her at the airport.

A few hours later, there was a soft knock at my door. I sat up with a start at the sound and moved hurriedly to undo the chain and bolt, running a hand through my hair.

Her face was wrecked, the gold of her eyes shot through with lines of red, her makeup smeared darkly like Egyptian kohl. She was holding a wad of tissue to her nose, shaking her head, not saying a word.

I moved out of her way as she entered. She paced a while, making the short, L-shaped circuit around the bed and back a few times before speaking. “I can’t do this.” She stopped and stared at me, her hands on her hips, as if she just realized I was there watching her. “I can’t do this without you. And I can’t keep doing …” She stopped and stared at me for a moment before lifting her hands in a gesture of infinite sorrow. “This. The way we are right now.”

“I don’t want it to be this way either. I don’t.”

She sat on the bed, and it squealed softly in metallic protest. She dropped her head and said softly, a knife of a whisper aimed at herself, “How could you want this?”

I crossed to her quickly, falling to my knees on the thin carpet, my arms around her waist. “How could I not? Look at me.” She did. “I love you. I love all of you, and I love that there is all of you.” My hands were moving over her legs, her thighs, the softness of her sides, her breasts. “Leti. This was never about your body. I love your body. Love it.”

She grabbed my hands and held them tightly in her lap. “Then, why? What is it?”

I looked at her for a moment and shook my head, then placed it gently in her lap. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” She lifted one of her hands and ran it through my hair, and it felt like a spark coursing across my scalp. Each pass of her fingers sent a small line of fire from the crown of my head down my neck. I closed my eyes, and the feeling intensified, extending down my arms, my spine.

I was on fire.

I turned my head and kissed her thighs through her skirt, and when she pulled me to her, we were both crying softly as we embraced.

# # #

We only had three days in Portland before I leave for France, where Belarus faces Les Bleus on the eighth. I will treasure those days, no matter what the future brings. For three days, we were wholly, ridiculously focused on each other, swallowed by each other. Our worlds ended at the edges of each other’s eyes, and we spent far too long just staring and giggling with joy.

We saw a game and I spoke to some people I knew with the Timber, but I couldn’t have made a very good impression: all I wanted was to end the meeting to return to Leti.

The Boise Steelhead fired Brad Johnson, but we discarded the notion of moving to Idaho almost as quickly as we first discussed it.

And then I spent a day and a night in the air, stopping in Toronto before finally landing in Paris. The team is in a hotel, just twenty minutes from Saint-Denis, and we are practicing at a local university. We seem well-prepared: a point from this game and we were quite likely to make the group stage of the European Championships, something that would be considered akin to a miracle in Minsk.

October 8, 2011

I’m surprised, and a little disappointed by Raymond Domenech’s team. I had hoped he would opt for younger players, trying to build for next spring, but instead we are facing a group of grizzled veterans: Evra, Mexès, Flamini, with Anelka and even Sidney Govou on the bench.

The one exception is their starting striker: a big kid who plays for Chelsea named Ishak Belfodil. I don’t know much about him—with Chelsea picking up Fernando Torres, I can’t imagine he sees the field much there. But here he is, making his debut.

Four minutes in, the kid punishes us: Like he’s been doing for years, Evra beats Sergey Sosnovskiy on the wing and Belfodil pushes Kirill Pavlyuchek out of the way before slamming the ball past Zhevnov with a powerful header. It wasn’t a foul, just superior size and technique.

Maybe we’re better off facing the veterans after all.

The game settles down from there: don’t get me wrong, France are better and we’re completely helpless whenever Franck Ribéry has the ball, but we manage to hold on, and Hleb even has a couple of dangerous looking attacks on Hugo Lloris in their goal.

But I’m not really sad to see Belfodil substituted at halftime, as we seem to contain Bafétimbi Gomis much more easily. One point would put is in a good position, so the game is always in question, and five minutes from time, we get the break we’ve waited for all game: young Dmitriy Mytnik is set free on a break from an outlet pass from Sisnovskiy, but his shot, which beats Lloris easily, bounces off the post and away from goal.

That was it: six inches, a different bounce, whatever, and we get the tie. Now, we need to win our last game, and we need this same French team to look better and beat Romania.

European Championships Qualifying Group D

France v Belarus, Stade de France

France 1 (Ishak Belfodil 4) – Belarus 0

MoM: Franck Ribéry (8.5) Belarus’ Best: Aliaksandr Hleb (8.3)

Attendance: 77,657. Referee: Nicola Rizzoli.