(025)
“153.” Reads the text beneath Luca’s name, nothing more.
Cazzo. Ciro drops his phone onto his things on the floor, folding the sleeve of his hoodie over to cover it. The need for a hoodie had probably been misjudged today, but with this country you could never be sure.
He swipes his hand through his dark mop of hair and backheels the ball away from his stuff, making room for what must be done.
The park was especially busy today, but he’d still managed to carve out enough space – so long as he was careful. He drags the sole of his right foot along the top of the ball towards himself, flicking it up with his toe – or trying to. The first attempts merely frog-hop back away from him, and when he finally does manage to get it off the floor it isn’t in the air long.
1, 2, 3, 4- before the ball ricochets and skews off to the side, sending Ciro scampering to stop it going in the river.
He starts again, the ball close to the ground flicking to and fro in a flurry between his feet, speeding up and up and up until-
23.
Only 23.
Sweat soon catches up to his exertions and he strips off his shirt, using it to wipe the moisture from his face and chucking it towards the growing pile of things he thought he’d need. It lands well short, leaving him to trudge over and place it manually. He flips the sleeve of his hoodie and taps his phone screen to reveal another text from Luca.
“161!!”
Sta testa di cazzo!
Ciro puffs out his cheeks and shuts his eyes against the infuriation at his own incompetence. He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out a little box with his headphones in, placing one in each ear in time to hear them connecting to his phone, before hitting play on his usual playlist. The sonic ripples fade in fast to a single snare drum stop…and then it flows. Bass and melody flirt with one another in a stereoscopic merry-go-round while the drums keep the pace steady. He stands with a renewed vigour, his joints loose, his focus flat. He teases the ball with his feet, performing stepovers and feints for an invisible opponent, skipping and dancing with it like it was on a string around his ankle. The song morphs and breathes against his neck and he vibes with it, flicking the ball up to head height with one lazy motion and revelling in the sensation of it coming down in time with the music, sending it back up with a half step from his left. The ball goes where he wants it to now, or where the song demands it. Inside of the foot, outside, knees, chest, head – wherever it goes it stays within his sphere. He’s quietly conscious of the number increasing with every touch but pushes it to the back of his mind, letting the joy of the moment take centre stage.
The song shifts into something slightly slower, bass heavy with driving percussion. It doesn’t matter though, he catches the rhythm like a wave and cruises on its tempo. Even the ones that don’t go where he’d planned leave the door open for a flourish. A stray ball flicks up over his shoulder rather than straight, allowing him to spin and send it back with his left knee.
The quiet voice slips in for a moment just to say:
149
He tries to ignore it but with less success, as it ticks steadily louder over the music. His joints grow tighter. The ball becomes unruly.
156, 157, 158
Each touch is a scramble now, chasing the misplacement of the previous one.
159, 160-
He runs with wide strides to catch it just in time, sending it ballooning back into the air behind him. He turns more in hope than belief, galloping wildly towards it – but it’s too late. He throws out a leg in vain as the ball hits the ground ahead of him, clipping his toe on the upswing. All Ciro can do is watch from his lunged position as the ball pings off towards the river at pace. Against all odds the lane is unobstructed. A slipstream to the slipstream, flying past the groups congregated all around, lost in their own conversations and unaware that an errant hand could stop him going swimming.
In the end, however, it’s not a hand. Right at the water’s edge, a young boy intercepts it. He picks it up as if it has been passed to him intentionally, running onto the ball with legs that he hasn’t quite got full control over. He takes a few touches that don’t seem to impact the ball as much as he’d anticipated, chipping it lightly forwards and looking up for where it had come from. Ciro waves his hand at his side to get the boy’s attention – too subtly at first – so he corrects to an overhead wave, his arm arcing left and right. The boy sees this and begins running towards him, almost tripping at the effort to move the ball along with him. He weaves his way unconvincingly through the crowds, narrowly missing a few outstretched fingers on the floor until he’s within passing distance. He looks up again, sets himself with a big step backwards and puts his all into the kick. It lifts briefly off the ground and dribbles its way a couple of feet wide of Ciro. He jogs to stop it passing him and catches it on his instep.
“Grazie- eh, thank-a you!” He smiles.
The boy opens his body up and gestures that he’s ready for a pass, almost hopping from anticipation. Ciro swings his leg and taps the ball back to him. The boy takes his moment and slips conspicuously into attack mode. He runs at Ciro, collecting the ball while performing a few high-legged stepovers, leaving plenty of time for Ciro to stick a foot out and take the ball from him if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. The boy runs past him on his left with an added spring in his step, perhaps fearful of a late lunge foiling his plan. Ciro turns with a grin on his face to see the boy racing round to face him again, like a bull preparing to charge – and charge he does. With confidence buoying him he moves the ball quicker, not wasting energy on stepovers this time. Ciro feints to his right, sticking his leg out and feigning to block him, leaving him open to pass on the left again. The boy tries something else, however. He nears Ciro and attempts to pass the ball between his legs. Ciro instinctively stops the slow moving ball from doing so, raising his eyebrows with a laugh at the audacity of it.
“Okay,” Ciro says, though the word sounds more like occhai from his mouth. He taps the ball between his feet until the boy lunges for it, allowing him to roll it through his open legs.
“Then we play-a.” He beams, his accent spread thick over every word.
The boy chases off after the ball to claim his revenge and Ciro watches on with a wide legged stance, knowing that in this competition it would also soon be 1-1.
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