‘I’m not made for this. I could be more productive with my time. I shouldn’t be mopping and cleaning dishes! How do people do this every day?’ she complained as she wiped down the table one night. The first thing she’d buy here would probably be a dishwasher – the designer shops would have to settle for second place for once. It gave Grandpa a bit of light comic relief to see Mama in an apron. Grandpa told me that even as a kid she used to avoid it … she always managed to escape her chores with some excuse.
Two streets away from the shop was the heart of Kings Cross. It was known as an exciting place to party, with lots of nightclubs and trendy restaurants, but it was also deemed an unsafe area. It had a very diverse mix of people. Businesswomen and men in suits frequented the cafés, rubbing shoulders with tourists and labourers. Even celebrities tried to blend in, with Hollywood actors and champion boxers popping in for their caffeine fix.
Mama grew up in the Cross, although she liked to call it Roslyn Gardens. In fact, she grew up right here above the fruit shop. (To my absolute delight, the shop also stocked chocolates and all sorts of treats and other essentials. It was kid heaven, especially since Grandpa had a gelato bar set up at the back of the store.)
Grandpa had been operating the business for over forty-five years. He came to Australia by boat from Lebanon when he was only fifteen years old, without a word of English and only a few shillings in his pocket. That was hard to imagine – I could never be that brave.
Nanna was the next-door neighbours’ daughter. Grandpa used to persuade her to sneak off to the park with him. Whenever I spoke to Nanna, she’d tell me some story from their early days, such as how they’d happily stroll along the harbour foreshore, innocently hanging out and talking for hours.
When she was a young girl Nanna dreamt of being an actress, seeing herself on the silver screen and looking glamorous like Marilyn Monroe. She loved the romantic notion of stage and film and her long blonde hair and stunning looks proved a popular mix. Once, when I complained to her about Mama wanting me to model all the time, Nanna had laughed. ‘Times change, Lucy! My parents were so dismayed when I started to dabble in the acting world. I was in a few television commercials and TV shows, and performed on stage in theatrical productions, you know.’
‘I know, Nanna. Mama’s told me she got it from you,’ I’d said.
Nanna and Grandpa married at just nineteen years of age and had never been apart since. Two years later, their only child, my mama, was born, and Nanna gave up acting. Mama was named after Frida Kahlo, Nanna’s favourite artist. Nanna’s been painting since before Mama was born. We had many of her paintings on the walls at home. They were absolutely beautiful – I had a few of them in my bedroom. She used a stunning ruby-red colour in many of her works, and the magical thing about them was that they were so childlike and playful. They always made me feel closer to her.
Mama always encouraged my relationship with Nanna. I think the two of them quarrelled, but loved each other really. That sounded familiar. Talking with Nanna helped me get through a very difficult time after Nonno Dino passed away, and she and Grandpa shared my secret about playing football with Pino and the other guys. She always told me to follow my dreams no matter what my parents have planned for me.
Now I was here for her and that felt good. After all, family came first.
Poor Grandpa. It was killing him seeing his beloved wife fighting for her life. The store was the only thing keeping his mind off the horrible accident that put Nanna in hospital. He loved his fruit shop, meeting people from all walks of life and getting to know the locals. Many of them had become close friends, frequently popping in for a chat and asking after Nanna. He was so engaging and hospitable, it was no surprise that he was so popular with his customers.
Nanna once told me that he’d have Elvis tunes playing in the shop. He’d sing along and swing his hips while serving customers, or grab them for a spontaneous dance in the middle of the store. Nanna said she preferred to look on and admire his zest for life and love of people. She was more of an observer, very private and in her own world, even though she was a different person on stage.
When she was hit by a car while crossing the road in front of the shop, Grandpa tried to get a glimpse of the number plate but the driver sped away into the night. Now she was hooked up to a machine in intensive care. She’d already been through three operations; at this point it was still touch and go.
‘Lucy, what are you thinking about?’ Grandpa gently asked as we walked home from the hospital one evening. Mama and I had been in Sydney for three weeks and visited Nanna every day and most nights. She was still weak, but slowly improving. She was perky enough to tease Mama about her dressy outfit tonight. That was definitely a sign she was on the mend.
‘Oh, I want Nanna to be able to walk out of here with us. I just wish that I could help her,’ I replied.
‘You’re helping her by staying with me. I’m so glad that you and your mother are here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Grandpa hugged me close as Mama looked over with tears in her eyes.
Poor Mama. She and Nanna had argued over the phone just a few days before the accident, and I suspected Mama was probably feeling guilty about it now. They had been close when Mama was growing up, but when she decided to live in Italy it caused problems in their relationship. Nanna was constantly trying to persuade her to come and live in Sydney, especially after I was born. But Mama was reluctant to give up her glamorous life in Italy. She couldn’t come without Papa, either. Grandpa and Nanna visited nearly every year, but they were starting to tire of the long trip, even though Mama had them travelling first class. This time, Nanna was begging Mama to bring me over for an extended holiday and even suggested I continue my schooling in Sydney. But they ended up arguing over the idea and Mama snapped at her.
Mama spent her childhood trying to find a way out of her life in Kings Cross. She wanted something more – she felt she was destined for a more exciting life, and didn’t like living above a fruit shop and having to serve customers. When Grandpa spoke Lebanese to her in front of her friends she’d pretend not to understand. She was embarrassed! Back in her day people from different backgrounds were given a hard time and called awful names just because they spoke another language or ate different foods. Thankfully times had changed and we lived in a more tolerant society. Well … mostly more tolerant.
I kept thinking that staying here for a while would be good for Mama, and maybe bring her down to earth a little bit. Sydney didn’t seem all that bad to me. Over the past few weeks it had grown on me, especially when the sun was out. The city shone and everyone seemed much happier. But it would be even better if I could get a game of football. That thought perked me up.
I gave Grandpa an extra squeeze and then ran ahead. I was desperate to get some exercise after so long sitting in the stuffy hospital room, and I wanted to get away on my own. I bolted down the hill.
‘Lucia, you’ve run past the store,’ yelled Mama.
‘I’m getting some fresh air. Don’t worry Mama, I’ll be fine.’ I slowed down and half turned around. Mama’s mouth opened for a tirade, but I could see Grandpa put his hand on her arm and say something to her.
‘Okay then, but be careful,’ she called, shrugging. ‘Don’t stay out too long!’
I’d never ventured down this way before and as I got closer to the bottom of the hill I could hear the most familiar sweet sound of a football being kicked. My heart accelerated to the beat of my run.
And I wasn’t disappointed. At the very bottom of the street I found a gate to a park. Just inside was a bench, so I sat down, staring out onto the moonlit pitch. A few guys were getting their last kicks in before the night sky closed in on them.
This was heaven, a perfect pitch just down the road from Grandpa’s shop, and with the harbour as the backdrop. It didn’t get any better than this. Now I just needed to get my foot on the ball. But I was too late. The guys were picking up their bags and heading
off. I stayed on my bench, looking out into the night, wishing for a kick of the ball.
Suddenly I felt a tap on the back of my shoulder.
‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ came a voice from behind.
‘Oh, I was just enjoying the football.’ I turned around, slightly startled. Of course, I’d been taught never to talk to strangers but this guy looked harmless. He was around my age and really quite cute, with long shaggy brown hair and big chocolate-brown eyes. I’d just seen him kicking the ball with his friends and he was quite good – but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
‘A girl that likes football, hey?’ said the stranger.
‘So, what’s it to you?’
‘Well, you’re hanging around in my territory,’ he bit back, ‘so I want to know what you’re up to.’
‘I’m not up to anything, and who says it’s your territory, anyway? Who are you?’
‘I live here. I’m Roy Spitz. And who are you?’
‘I’m a footballer from Italy, where they call me Zeezou. But off the pitch I’m Lucy Zoffi.’
Roy couldn’t stop giggling. ‘You’re telling me you share a nickname with France’s legend, Zinedine Zidane? And I suppose you play like him?’ He laughed. ‘Next, you’ll tell me, Senora Zoffi, that you’re related to the great Paolo Zoffi.’
‘It’s Signorina Zoffi,’ I corrected cheekily.
‘Oh, so now you’re going to teach me Italian.’
‘No, I’m going to teach you how to play football. One day I’ll be one of the best. Come on, I’ll show you.’
‘You’re confident, but you look like you belong in some silly fashion magazine, not on the football pitch.’
I could feel my face turn red. ‘Well, we’ll see about that. How about I challenge you to a one-on-one? Then we’ll see who the poser is.’
Roy looked a bit shocked, but quickly covered it up. ‘Why would I accept a challenge from a girl? Football’s not for girls. I don’t need to prove myself to you. Go and play dress-ups or whatever you normally do.’
‘You sound just like so many other silly boys. Come on, let’s play so that I can prove you wrong. I dare you!’
‘Go and cry to Daddy. I suppose he’s Paolo Zoffi … and I’m Zinedine Zidane,’ he laughed.
I was tempted to tell him the truth. That would have shut him up, but I didn’t want to be known just as Paolo Zoffi’s daughter. In fact, this was really my chance to go undercover – to be just me, Lucy. I shouldn’t have used my surname. From now on I’d be Lucy Zeezou, on and off the pitch.
‘Let’s see, are you a footballer or a pretender? Take me on. What are you afraid of?’ I taunted.
Next thing I knew he’d shrugged and kicked the ball back onto the pitch. There was just enough light for us to see what we were doing, thanks to the parade of street lights alongside the park and the adjoining tennis courts.
‘Game on, Signorina Zoffi. Let’s see what you’re made of!’ he shouted.
We chased the ball, nearly tripping over each other. He got there first and made a run for the goal but I managed to tackle him from the side and win the ball.
He paused momentarily. A look of utter disbelief crossed his face.
‘What’s up Signor Spitz?’ I teased.
‘It’s getting too dark. I lost sight of the ball but you won’t have it for long.’ He chased me to the other end of the pitch.
He caught up with me, but not before I took a shot from thirty yards … it headed straight for the goal. Roy dived to stop me, catching my ankles and bringing me down, but it was too late.
‘Referee, did you see that? An illegal tackle … a red card!’ I yelled.
Out of nowhere a little dog ran onto the pitch and stopped the ball centimetres from the goal line.
‘No, that was about to be a goal!’ I bellowed.
We broke into laughter as the cute dog played with the ball. He reminded me of Gigi – he had the same funny run. I missed my little treasure.
I jumped to my feet and made a run for the ball. The dog had managed to dribble it back to the halfway line. I chased it down like my life depended on it and regained possession. The dog wasn’t happy and gave chase, biting at my feet, but I managed to keep the ball, although I was giggling so hard I was barely in control.
I kicked the ball up into the air and volleyed it into the back of the net. Whoosh! Oh, that felt so good.
I celebrated in typical goal-scoring fashion without thinking. I lifted my top up and ran around the pitch as if I’d just won the World Cup. Of course the boys at home were used to my antics, but I’d kind of got swept up in the moment.
Just then I could hear Mama yelling, ‘Lucia? Lucia, where are you?’
I came to a very quick halt – I couldn’t let her see me on the pitch. I pulled down my top. Thankfully I had my singlet on underneath.
‘I’m coming, Mama, I’m coming.’ I turned to Roy and said, ‘Um … I’ve got to go. Ciao, Signor Spitz.’
‘That was a lucky goal, Signorina Zoffi. Ciao!’ He looked stunned.
‘Maybe next time the ball will roll your way, if you’re lucky like me. See ya!’
‘Yeah, Zeezou … see you at the next session.’ He gave me a little smirk and walked off.
Wow – the next session? Cool. I didn’t know what to say, but then Mama appeared. I sprinted up to her with a smile etched across my face and a tingling tummy.
‘Lucia, what were you doing?’ Mama asked.
I looked around, but luckily Roy wasn’t anywhere to be seen. ‘I was just exploring the neighbourhood,’ I replied innocently. ‘And Mama, can you please call me Lucy?’
‘What’s this Lucy business? Your name is Lucia and you should be proud of it.’ Mama put her hands on her hips dramatically.
‘Yes, but in Australia the translation is Lucy and that’s what I want to be called. I just want to fit in. It’s hard enough being Paolo Zoffi’s daughter. I want my own identity and my own life. So please, Mama, just call me Lucy,’ I stressed.
‘Lucia, you silly thing. How can Paolo Zoffi’s daughter blend in? You should be proud to be a Zoffi and proud to be Italian. And you know you’re named after your father’s late mother. Lucia is a beautiful name and very sophisticated.’ She sounded quite huffy now.
‘I know that. I’m proud of all those things but I want my own identity. I want you to call me Lucy. Why is it so hard for you to support me?’ I howled.
Parents just had to take control. I always had to fight for what I truly wanted. I wasn’t giving up. I’d give anything to get back onto that pristine pitch with Roy and fight for the ball. At least there I could be Lucy Zeezou and nobody else – just me. Even Roy called me Zeezou! I wondered when I’d see him again.
‘Hey, Lucy, would you mind helping me out a little bit in the shop today?’ Grandpa asked. ‘I could do with an extra hand.’
‘I’d love to but I was just about to –’
‘My helpers are always given extra servings of gelato,’ he added.
‘Now you’re talking. Sure, Grandpa, I’m all yours.’
I started working, stacking the shelves with big, colourful oranges, shiny apples, mandarins and mangoes. The smell of the fresh fruit made me hungry.
I’d taken a big bite on a juicy apple when my first customer walked in, a scruffy-looking boy around my age in a school uniform.
‘Hi, can I help you?’ I asked.
‘Yep. Just the chips and drink, thanks,’ he replied, smiling at me.
‘Hi, Harry,’ Grandpa called out.
‘Oh! Hi, Mr Dib. How’s Mrs Dib getting along?’
‘She’s getting better every day, thanks. How are the Lions going?’ Grandpa asked.
That pricked up my interest in my customer. The Lions? Sounded like a football team. Probably one of those dodgy Australian codes of football, I told myself. But just then I glanced down at Harry’s bag, sitting on the ground. Guess what was peeping out of it?
Now I was jumping out of my skin. This was my big
chance to get a kick around and maybe even find a team.
‘We’re doing really well, sitting at second spot on the league table. But we’ve just lost Gadi, our top goal-scorer. He tore his hamstring after a massive tackle last weekend. He’ll probably be out for the rest of the season.’ Harry made a face.
‘That’s no good. Don’t you have someone to replace him?’
‘Nah, we’re trialling for a new striker on Friday after school. If you know anyone who can score lots of goals, please tell them to come to the Reg at four o’clock. But they’ve gotta be fourteen, turning fifteen next year to qualify for our age group.’ Harry picked up his bag and put it over his shoulder.
No – don’t go! This was my big chance. The right age group and everything. I would have loved to trial but he was probably looking for a guy. So what, I had to try. I had to think of something before he left.
‘Um, maybe I can help you,’ I bumbled, without knowing what I was going to say next.
‘Oh, silly me, I haven’t introduced you. Harry this is my granddaughter, Lucy. She’s over here from Italy with her mum, helping me out while Mrs Dib recovers.’
‘Hi, Lucy. You’re lucky to have such nice grand parents. You reckon you can help me find a striker? Who do you have in mind?’
Think quickly, Lucy. I couldn’t tell him it was me. I was always putting my foot in it. ‘Um, a friend of mine called L … Lucas,’ I lied.
‘Is he a local?’
‘Well, kind of. I think he lives around here,’ I said tentatively. Keep it together, Lucy.
‘Funny, I don’t know a Lucas and I’ve lived here all my life. Anyway it doesn’t matter, we’re desperate. Bring him down to the Reg on Friday for a trial and we’ll see how he goes. If he makes it, he’ll need a photo and a guardian to sign the registration form.’
‘Yes, I’m … um … he’s the right age and I’m sure he can sort out the rest,’ I stumbled.
Lucy Zeezou's Goal Page 3