Defending Irene

by Nitz, Kristin Wolden;

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “A minute ago. It’s nothing.”

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

  “Sí, but only a bit.”

  “Really?”

  Davide nodded.

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

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

  I glanced over at the mister. He was easing the shoe off of Davide’s foot. Giuseppe stood in a huddle with Werner and Manuel discussing strategies for stopping Number 22. Gianlucca, Emi, and Federico were waving their arms at each other and talking about our breakaway.

  Matteo shivered again. He could have just been cold from sitting out the second period. But what if he were having some kind of relapse? I couldn’t remember the last time I had started a conversation with Matteo, but I couldn’t leave him like that without making sure he was all right.

  I bent down. “Matteo, how are you?”

  He didn’t answer me.

  21

  Amica donna mia (a-MEE-ca DON-ha MEE-ah)

  My Lady Friend

  Was Matteo ignoring me or too sick to say anything?

  “Matteo, all well?” I said.

  “Tell me,” Matteo growled.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “That which you want to tell me. Dai.”

  “Ehm, if you don’t feel well, my parents have brought extra blankets.”

  Matteo sat up and glared at me. He hadn’t been sick; he had been sulking. From his open-mouthed outrage it looked like asking him about his health was the worst insult I could have offered him—far worse than any of the dozen slams that Giulia and I had thought up together. My concern evaporated in a hot rush of satisfaction, like the flow of lava that had swept down Mount Vesuvius and destroyed Pompeii.

  “A thousand thanks, Irene,” Matteo snarled. “So sweet. So polite. Now I know how it is to be a girl on the field: weak, slow, terrible.”

  “Ha! Obviously, you were not watching me. I can do something during a game that you cannot.”

  Matteo stood up. “Impossibile!”

  “No. It’s possibile. And it is something important. Everyone agrees.”

  “You have divided the squad. You have ruined soccer for me this year.”

  I could have spat the words back in his face, but I would not give him the satisfaction. I kept my voice calm and low. “I can pass the ball. You, no.”

  “Pffff. I can do it too.”

  “Really? How many assists do you have this fall?”

  Matteo’s eyes flickered upward, a sign that he was scanning his memory.

  “Zero,” I told him. “It’s true that you are our center forward, our striker. But sometimes, even for you, it is a good idea to pass the ball. How strange that a ragazza who spent most of her time on defense has an assist and you don’t. But there’s still one period left. You have the opportunity to make a tie.”

  “Irene, the mister comes,” Federico whispered.

  At that moment, I realized that my face and Matteo’s were inches apart. I loosened my clenched fists, took a step back, and nodded at him. “Good luck.”

  As I turned away, I caught sight of my entire family staring at me from the stands. They’d seen me arguing with Max enough to recognize the signs. Nonna’s hands covered her mouth. I could imagine what she was thinking. It was bad enough for her granddaughter to be on the field without fighting with her own teammate. Pretending that nothing was wrong, I waved. La bella figura. Appearances are everything.

  “All right,” the mister said. “Davide can continue, but must rest a bit first. The game recommences soon. Listen well.” He held up his clipboard and rattled off a list of people and their positions. Davide, Roberto, and I were not on it.

  That was okay. It gave me a chance to get my breath back. I sat down and arranged my sweatpants on top of my legs like a blanket.

  Davide paced back and forth without the smallest sign of a limp. “I’m fine, Irene,” he said as he passed me. “My ankle only hurt me for ten seconds before the end of the period. Ten seconds. It’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Patience. Don’t worry yourself. Within five minutes, you’ll return.”

  It only took four. Then it was my turn to pace. My muscles had begun to tighten up in the cold air. I walked and waited. Roberto went in for Manuel, and still I waited.

  The mister finally turned to me. “Irene, at the next throw-in, you go in for Emi. But I want you on the left wing and Federico on the right. Clear?”

  “Sí.”

  But the ball stayed in the field of play. I bounced on my toes and jogged in place. Finally, one of Bolzano’s forwards lost control of the ball, and it rolled out of bounds. I came in, Emi came out, and Federico moved over.

  Every time the ball moved into the third of the field closest to Luigi, I had to fight the urge to go down there and help. But that wasn’t my job. I had to stay wide in order to be ready for a pass, so the defenders could clear it out of the dangerous zone. But the defenders for Bolzano II seemed to feel the magnetic pull of the ball. They drifted across the centerline.

  A shot went up toward Luigi, hard and fast. Extending his arms, he caught the ball and pulled it in. He raced a few steps to his left up the field, found a small clear area, and punted the ball downfield—to me.

  A defender rushed to meet me. I faked to the inside and then drove left. With that, the player was behind me and I launched into my first breakaway of the year. His mister probably hadn’t studied me the way opposition coaches used to in Missouri. He hadn’t been told: “Attention! The girl prefers to drive to the left.”

  Not a single yellow-shirted player stood between me and my destination. The goalie wore black.

  “Forza, Irene, forza!” Nonno roared from the stands.

  “Lengthen the legs, Irene! Dai! Dai! Dai!” the mister yelled.

  I drove my arms, clenched my teeth and dribbled the ball downfield. This was my chance to score. Under the shouts and cheers from both teams, I could hear footsteps behind me.

  “Dai, Irene, dai!” Matteo shouted. It sounded like honest encouragement, but he was probably just letting me know he wasn’t far behind. Good. If the goalkeeper deflected my shot, someone would be there to tap in the rebound.

  The goalkeeper stayed in front of the net. With two of us pounding down the field toward him, he wouldn’t come out and commit to me too soon. Would he come out at all? Well, if he stayed there, I could put the ball anywhere I wanted.

  “Dai, dai, dai, Irene!” Matteo shouted. He was somewhere to the right of me, somewhere just behind the range of my peripheral vision, so he wouldn’t be offsides in case I wanted to pass him the ball. Dreamer.

  Finally, the goalke
eper made his move, rushing forward like a spider. Decision time. I could loft it over his head with a chip shot, smash it into the right corner, or fake my way past him. But there was one more option: a way to take the goalkeeper out of the play and give our team its best chance to score. I passed the ball to the right, to Matteo. He surged into view. With grace, speed, and an almost unimaginably light touch, he shot the ball into the empty net.

  “Goal!” Nonno shouted, his voice carrying above the crowd. “Brava! Bravi!”

  “Brava!” The shout came from my teammates all around the field. “Bravo!”

  I walked over to congratulate Matteo. It was a matter of la bella figura. Not to mention a chance to show my nonna that I was gracious and my nonno that I was a good sport. At least it would look that way from a distance.

  I smacked my right palm against his and asked, “Two assists to zero. Did that pass please you, Matteo? Want another one? Maybe in March when we begin again.”

  “No. I will never play with you anymore. Never. I have finished with the Esordienti. I promise you.”

  That stopped me. My eyebrows pulled together. Nothing I said had been that awful, had it? A few snotty comments from me should not have been enough to drive a player with a future like his off the team. But I choked back questions. I had once made a promise of my own: that I would never believe Matteo again. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t the U.S., where he had tons of other options. Somehow I couldn’t see him joining a local German club. How could he give up soccer just to avoid three months on a team with me? The answer was…he couldn’t. And then, I understood.

  “Ah, you go on to the Giovanissimi in the spring. Complimenti.”

  Federico arrived just in time to hear my guess. “Really, Matteo? What good news. Without you, I will start every game.”

  Matteo looked like a boy whose lit firecracker had landed in a puddle. “Without me, you will lose every game.”

  I shrugged and started my walk back to the centerline. “We did not have you last week.”

  Matteo stayed even with me. “Others will probably move on too: Emi, Manuel, Werner, Davide, Luigi.”

  My smile slipped. I would still see Emi, Manuel and Luigi in school, but not Werner or Davide.

  “Poverina. But how darling,” Matteo crooned in a sarcastic falsetto. “Irene and the piccoli pulcini.”

  Irene and the little chicks.

  I straightened my shoulders. “Someone must give them a good example. I will miss my friends. But I will not miss you. Not even if we lose every game.”

  “Irene!” the mister shouted. “On defense, Irene. You will be the stopper.”

  I nodded. While the other defenders would go up to the centerline, I would stay back in the penalty area to keep the other team from making a breakaway like mine. Like mine. I shivered, but not from the cold. On the way to my new position, I collected complimenti from Davide, Werner, and my other tired teammates, who had decided to save their energy instead of coming forward for the celebration.

  My new position was so far back that Luigi stepped out of the goal to meet me. “So, Irene, why didn’t you take off the head of the goalkeeper?”

  I grinned at him. “It was more important that someone make a goal. Even Matteo.”

  “Amica donna mia!” He hugged me. I hugged him back, not worrying about my bruised ribs or what Nonna, Max, or Matteo might say later. Luigi’s words, taken separately, meant “friend, lady, my.” But together they were the title to a song by my favorite Italian singer, Eros Ramazzotti, about a girl who wouldn’t let anyone stop her. She would change the world because she knew what she wanted. I had never gotten a better compliment.

  Luigi thumped my back twice and pulled away. “All right. Now we must stop them. And it will be the best season the mister has ever had. Ever. Even better than that of Renzo.”

  Bolzano attacked, but we didn’t let anyone, not even Number 22, close enough to shoot. The final whistle sounded, ending the best season the mister ever had. And ending a lot of other things too.

  After we shook hands with the other team, the mister called us around him.

  “I could tell you about a hundred different mistakes. But today, no. I am very proud of you. I am proud of how you worked together. I am proud of your energy and determination. And this came after injuries and influenza. Complimenti!” He paused to take a breath. We applauded ourselves and cheered.

  “Brava, Irene,” the mister continued. “Two assists!”

  More cheers. Hands patted my head and shoulders and tugged at my braids.

  “Bravo, Matteo, we are very glad you could catch up to Irene on the breakaway. In such a case, two are always more dangerous than one. It pleased me to see you work together so well.

  “I think about this season and see two things that make it different from all the others. First, we had a fan—a fan who came to every game. Rain, wind, cold—nothing has stopped him. Because of him, we had fourteen on the field today. It was important. A thousand thanks to the papá of Irene.” The mister stepped out of the circle and waved his hand at my dad. “Hip hip—”

  “Hurrah!” we said like a well-trained chorus.

  Dad rubbed his forehead and shook his head. My nonno grinned.

  The mister turned back to us. “All right. There is a second difference between this season and all the others: You have not lost a game!”

  Whoops and applause.

  “You have not won every game, but one tie is not so bad, eh? To tell you the truth, I don’t know how you did it. Certainly, it was not always bella. But you were determined and stubborn. Bravi! Well done.”

  The mister let us applaud ourselves one more time. Then he waved us to silence. “All right. Enough. It’s cold. Dress yourselves. Soccer is finished, but I still don’t want you to become sick. Dai.”

  Shoulder to shoulder with my teammates, I dug through the pile of sweat suits for my jacket and sweatpants. I couldn’t stop smiling. We had won. I had two assists. Matteo was leaving. And having me, a calciatrice, on the team had not made the mister’s list of things that made this season unusual.

  By the time I had changed clothes and collected everything, my family had already walked on without me. I was grateful that I could be part of the team for a few more minutes instead of having my nonna rush me over to the Advent Market. The hand-carved manger scenes, ceramic angels, and blown-glass ornaments could wait.

  Luigi, Manuel, Werner, and I walked together, analyzing the game and describing the plays to each other. Was this really for the last time? Since not trusting Matteo was one of my policies, I waited for an opening to ask: “So, who else besides Matteo goes on to the Giovanissimi in the spring?”

  “Matteo already knows?” Manuel shook his head. “Typical.”

  “Matteo thinks the three of you will move on too,” I said.

  “I hope so,” Manuel said.

  Werner nodded. “Me too.”

  “For me, it depends,” Luigi said. “If Antonio Verdi moves onto the Allievi, the Giovanissimi will have need of a good goalkeeper. Otherwise, no. It would please me to play for the mister one last time.”

  That would have definitely pleased me too, but I said: “Even if you do not play every game, you would improve more with tougher players, no?”

  Luigi tilted his head. “I have Renzo at home in the garden. It’s enough.”

  “I believe you,” I said, remembering the scorching shots from Luigi’s older brother before our last game.

  “Not only that, but if the weather is nice enough, the friends of Renzo come to play a couple of times a week during the winter.”

  “Bello,” I said.

  “You are invited,” Luigi said. The Italian word he used, invitata, was singular and feminine. Before Manuel’s lips could finish curving for the inevitable “Oooooo!” Luigi added, “All of you are invited.”

  “That would please me,” Werner said.

  Manuel nodded. “Me too.”

  “I will come. Thanks,” I said.


  “It’s nothing. We must stay in shape.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “Without all of you, we Esordienti must work hard.”

  “Ma dai, Irene,” Werner said. “Maybe you will go on too.”

  I shrugged. “The mister already asked, ‘Are you playing with us next spring?’”

  “Has he said ‘with me’ or ‘with us?’” Luigi asked.

  I thought back. “With us.”

  “Madonna! With us means with the club, not just the Esordienti. Maybe you’ll go on. We’ll see.”

  We reached the van. The mister had already unlocked the doors and most of our teammates had piled inside. My family stood waiting on the sidewalk nearby.

  “Ciao, Irene,” Federico said. He leaned toward me, holding up his hand. I gave him five.

  Other blue-sleeved arms reached out. I slapped their hands too, climbing halfway into the van to finish the job. Matteo sat in the backseat with his arms crossed.

  “Ciao,” I said. “We’ll see each other later.”

  “Until Monday, Irene. Ciao.” Luigi pulled himself into the front seat, humming. As he slammed the door shut, I recognized the song by Eros Ramazzotti.

  Yours will be the right step—the new way.

  Amica donna mia.

  Acknowledgments

  Grazie mille to the players, coaches, parents, and support staff at U.S. Sinigo for giving me a window on the world of Italian soccer. Another thousand thanks to Marina, Tina, and Mara for their additional insights to the culture of the South Tyrol. This project could not have been completed without the help of Gretchen, Sara, and Calvin Nitz—my able team of in-house research assistants—or my husband Kurt who gave me encouragement, time to write, and the chance to live in the Alto Adige for three years. The generosity of other writers helped me over the rough spots. Jeanie, Debbi, Terrie, Pat, Tovah, and Julia followed Irene every step of the way. Darcy and Terrie talked me through the ending one night in Arkansas. Stephanie, Donna, and Sue checked out the big flick issues. Erin, Vicki, and Sondy provided unrelenting support and key insights into the writing process. Gary taught me about generating conflict. Isi, Dorothy, and Lisa helped me off the ground at the beginning of my writing journey. And thanks finally to my editor, Lisa Banim, who asked, “Why don’t you send me what you’ve got?”