this time. âLuigi and I both stand around a lot during the scrimmage. He is our goalkeeper.â
Nonno nodded. âMmm, good idea to practice during the break. So dedicated. All right, how many hours of soccer on Monday afternoon?â
âThree and a half,â Mom answered.
âI fear that is too much for your back, caro ,â Nonna said.
âYou could go to half of one and half of the other,â Mom suggested with an air of polite helpfulness.
âA good plan!â Nonno said. âVa bene.â
On Monday afternoon, a bank of clouds had once again settled over the mountains surrounding the town. A light mist was falling, but Mom and the nonni sat in the stands just the same. Nonno had joked in the car on the way to the field that if he hadnât seen postcards of Merano, he would never have believed we had a mountain view.
Mom had insisted that I ride with the family. She didnât like me biking on wet, crowded streets. But instead of joining the others in the stands to watch Max, I sat in the car writing about just how stupidly all the characters were behaving in
I promessi sposi
, a classic novel that every Italian student learns to know and hate. I didnât know how I would ever make it all the way through this long boring love story set in the 1600s. Momâs Italian grammar handbook lay on the seat beside me to help with the special verb tenses Professoressa Trevisani had warned me about.
The clock on the dashboard read 16:09. Almost ten after four. Time to go. I stuffed my essay, grammar, and
I promessi sposi
into my backpack and stepped out of the car.
I peered over the laurel hedge at the two fields below. My brotherâs group was playing on the smaller one, which was covered by a pale green artificial turf. Carpet, they called it here. The playersâ damp hair and identical uniforms made it difficult for me to spot Max. In contrast, the lone girl on his team, with her long, dark braid, was easy to find. I wondered what had happened to the other two. Maybe the wet weather had kept them at home.
A grandfatherly mister , whose sweats matched those of his players, supervised. He coached, refereed, and sometimes even played. A broad grin lit up his face each time he trotted stiffly to the ball for a demonstration of precision passing.
I studied him suspiciously, watching for signs of sexism or favoritism. Did he leave the girl out? Did he ignore her? Did he criticize her more than the boys? Less?
I saw almost no difference in the way the way he treated her except that his smile seemed to broaden and soften each time she handled the ball. The cucciola effect? Yes. Add seven or eight years to her age and a foot or so to her height, and the effect would not be so adorable. I knew.
According to Giulia, it had been this way for years. Girls from the first, second, and even third class of the elementary school would play with the boys. Eventually, they dropped out for dance, swimming, volleyball, basketball, figure skating, riding lessons, or tennis. At least they did here in Merano. It was different in other parts of Italy.
The ball popped out of the cluster of players and rolled toward the sidelines. The mister reached it first. Instead of letting the ball roll out of bounds, his foot connected with it for a kick that Werner would have been proud to claim. It sailed directly to midfield where the girl stood waiting near the centerline.
â Dai , Angelica,â he shouted to her.
I grinned. Dad used to reward players for staying in position in the very same way. Most kids seemed to hover near their teammates instead of sticking with their assigned positions. The herd instinct was hard to overcome. Little kids couldnât seem to help chasing after the ball instead of sticking with their assigned areas.
Angelicaâs braid flicked back and forth as she ran to meet the ball. Her pace slowed as she dribbled the ball upfield.
âDai, Angelica! Forza, forza,
Nonno nodded. âMmm, good idea to practice during the break. So dedicated. All right, how many hours of soccer on Monday afternoon?â
âThree and a half,â Mom answered.
âI fear that is too much for your back, caro ,â Nonna said.
âYou could go to half of one and half of the other,â Mom suggested with an air of polite helpfulness.
âA good plan!â Nonno said. âVa bene.â
On Monday afternoon, a bank of clouds had once again settled over the mountains surrounding the town. A light mist was falling, but Mom and the nonni sat in the stands just the same. Nonno had joked in the car on the way to the field that if he hadnât seen postcards of Merano, he would never have believed we had a mountain view.
Mom had insisted that I ride with the family. She didnât like me biking on wet, crowded streets. But instead of joining the others in the stands to watch Max, I sat in the car writing about just how stupidly all the characters were behaving in
I promessi sposi
, a classic novel that every Italian student learns to know and hate. I didnât know how I would ever make it all the way through this long boring love story set in the 1600s. Momâs Italian grammar handbook lay on the seat beside me to help with the special verb tenses Professoressa Trevisani had warned me about.
The clock on the dashboard read 16:09. Almost ten after four. Time to go. I stuffed my essay, grammar, and
I promessi sposi
into my backpack and stepped out of the car.
I peered over the laurel hedge at the two fields below. My brotherâs group was playing on the smaller one, which was covered by a pale green artificial turf. Carpet, they called it here. The playersâ damp hair and identical uniforms made it difficult for me to spot Max. In contrast, the lone girl on his team, with her long, dark braid, was easy to find. I wondered what had happened to the other two. Maybe the wet weather had kept them at home.
A grandfatherly mister , whose sweats matched those of his players, supervised. He coached, refereed, and sometimes even played. A broad grin lit up his face each time he trotted stiffly to the ball for a demonstration of precision passing.
I studied him suspiciously, watching for signs of sexism or favoritism. Did he leave the girl out? Did he ignore her? Did he criticize her more than the boys? Less?
I saw almost no difference in the way the way he treated her except that his smile seemed to broaden and soften each time she handled the ball. The cucciola effect? Yes. Add seven or eight years to her age and a foot or so to her height, and the effect would not be so adorable. I knew.
According to Giulia, it had been this way for years. Girls from the first, second, and even third class of the elementary school would play with the boys. Eventually, they dropped out for dance, swimming, volleyball, basketball, figure skating, riding lessons, or tennis. At least they did here in Merano. It was different in other parts of Italy.
The ball popped out of the cluster of players and rolled toward the sidelines. The mister reached it first. Instead of letting the ball roll out of bounds, his foot connected with it for a kick that Werner would have been proud to claim. It sailed directly to midfield where the girl stood waiting near the centerline.
â Dai , Angelica,â he shouted to her.
I grinned. Dad used to reward players for staying in position in the very same way. Most kids seemed to hover near their teammates instead of sticking with their assigned positions. The herd instinct was hard to overcome. Little kids couldnât seem to help chasing after the ball instead of sticking with their assigned areas.
Angelicaâs braid flicked back and forth as she ran to meet the ball. Her pace slowed as she dribbled the ball upfield.
âDai, Angelica! Forza, forza,
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