Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz Page A

not believe you about Matteo. She never believed me.”

11
Brutta strega (BROO-tah STRAY-gah)
Ugly Witch
    The clock was winding down in our third game. But how much time was left? Three seconds? Thirty seconds? More? I only hoped that the whistle blasts signaling the end of the game would come before the team from Appiano erased our one-point lead. I was tired. Our team was tired. The air, thick with pollution and humidity, was difficult to breathe. Low clouds hid the four old castles that perched a few hundred feet above the river valley.
    The Appiano team attacked again. Giuseppe challenged the forward, who dribbled down his sideline. I backed toward the penalty box. My attention shifted between the ball and the players pounding up the field. When would the crossing pass to the middle come?
    Instead, the ball spun out of bounds. I couldn’t tell whether Giuseppe had touched it or the player from Appiano had lost control.
    With the action stopped, both of the coaches sent in their substitutes.
    Werner, who had been out for a short rest, loped onto the field. I trotted toward him, knowing that I was being replaced.
    â€œNo! Stop yourself, Irene!” the mister called. “Giuseppe, come here.”
    I was still in the game? In the last critical seconds? Me? I felt a rush of unexpected energy.
    Giuseppe, who had been resting the heels of his hands against his lower thighs, straightened. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. A protest? Or a complete lack of air? He walked to the sidelines, his head down, his hands clutching his sides, his cleats kicking up swirls of dirt.
    The mister put a hand on Giuseppe’s shoulder and said a few quiet words. Giuseppe shook his head. The mister spoke again, patted Giuseppe’s back and gently shoved my teammate in the direction of the bench.
    In the meantime, Appiano finished rearranging itself for the throw-in. The referee handed the ball to one of Appiano’s midfielders, Number 10. He held the ball above his head with both hands. His eyes flicked up and down the field, looking for an open player.
    Werner marked Appiano’s best forward, matching the shorter, thinner player almost step for step. He looked almost as fresh as when he started the game. That couldn’t last long, but all we needed was another minute or maybe two. But not three. Please, not three.
    Number 10 threw in the ball to a midfielder who had been hanging back by the centerline. The boy drilled the ball downfield into an empty space on the field ten feet in front of me.
    This was not the time to move the ball slowly up the field. A booming kick with plenty of power—that’s what was needed.
    A midfielder from Appiano was closing rapidly, but I was sure I’d have time to launch it over his head. I planted my right foot. My left foot swung forward, catching the ball with the top and side of my shoe to give it lift and plenty of forward momentum. Whump.
    But I miscalculated. The ball slammed into the midfielder’s face like a cannonball that didn’t make it over the castle wall. He staggered back a step or two as the ball ricocheted off his forehead—no, his nose, I realized as a burst of crimson stained his jersey.
    I kept going and played it off his face the way I would have played it off a cement wall. I could make sure he was all right once the ball was safely on the other side of the centerline. Again came that satisfying whump . A successful takeoff this time. The ball’s flight lacked the height and distance of one of Werner’s better efforts, but as the ball came down, our side of the field emptied.
    Davide positioned himself under the ball. It bounced up and off his head like a flat rock skipping across a glassy pond. This was not just a lucky move. It was a skillful one known as fare il ponte , making the bridge. The ball sailed over a line of defenders and landed at Matteo’s feet.
    Matteo dribbled rapidly down the field. Only one defender stood