100 Days of Happiness
Page 30
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Today the Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight is playing the most important match of its short team history: the very last game of the playoffs, which determines access to the provincial series. I’m there in my heart.
In the first quarter we hold out heroically: 2 to 2. Martino gets two points. The Santos are having a run of bad luck: they hit an upright and two crossbars, but that’s just how the game goes.
In the second quarter we collapse miserably: now the overall score is 7 to 5. It’s a great game to watch, lots of goals, lots of excitement, but by now our team seems tired and listless.
Come on, guys, fight!
The third quarter is when we regain our momentum. We outscore them in that quarter by 2 to 1 and bring the total to 8 to 7. We’re trailing by just one goal at this point.
Please, just don’t give up now.
The last quarter begins promisingly. A courageous lob by Martino slips sweetly under the opposing crossbar: 8 all!
We actually have a shot at victory.
But of course it’s too good to be true. Their star player scores an incredible goal with three minutes remaining. Score: 9–8. We are heartbroken. But, when all seems lost, Martino makes us shine again. Just one minute from the end, Martino intercepts the ball, turns it around, and scores a goal, humiliating the opposing goalie. Fifty seconds from the end of the game, we realize we can still do it—we can still push this into overtime.
Fifty seconds in which we all hold our breath.
This is the final assault. We pass the ball around, hunting for a good shot. Finally Martino takes the responsibility on himself. He shoots a straight shot from fifteen feet out, directly across the surface of the pool. Unstoppable. At least by the goalie, but not by the top bar of the goal. Our fans shout a collective “No!” of disappointment, and the other fans applaud and hug as if they’d just won the World Cup.
The referee whistles “game over.”
We fought and we lost. That’s all right. I’m proud of the boys. They tried right up to the last second, and they never gave up.
The audience gets to its feet. Everyone heads for the exit, including Paola, arms around the kids’ shoulders. Before walking out the door, she stops and turns around.
Only then does she notice an eight-year-old boy watching her, sitting in the farthest row of bleachers.
Our eyes meet for a long moment.
She recognizes me, I know it.
I smile at her.
“Ciao, amore mio. And thanks.”
She returns the smile, uneasily. Then she shoots me one last glance and hurries to catch up with Umberto, who’s calling her name. I see him take her hand and lead her out of the building.
I sit there, watching Paola’s shadow as it follows her out the door, just a couple of steps behind her.
When there’s no one left in the pool and the lights buzz and go out, one after the other, I strip naked and let myself slip into the water.
I’m still a champion at the butterfly stroke.
And I swim and swim and swim and swim and swim.
Finally light as a bubble.
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