novelraw Chapter 908 - 1: 1988—A Five-Year-Old's Dream of Taking It Easy
Chapter 908 - 1: 1988—A Five-Year-Old's Dream of Taking It Easy
"What's wrong with being the third goalkeeper? I earn a salary of half a million euros and watch football for free every week!" — Bell.
...
In the summer of 1988 in Florence, the afternoon sun resembled melted honey, thickly splashing onto the red brick stands of the Franchi Stadium.
The cheers of forty-three thousand fans surged like waves, causing the rusty iron railings to vibrate and hum.
Five-year-old Tommaso Bellini clutched the hand of his father, Old Bellini, his nose brushing against the sweaty jersey backs of the crowd in front. The stadium was a blend of buttery popcorn aroma and the scent of grass heated by the southern European sun.
Little Bellini curiously surveyed his surroundings. It was his first visit to the stadium, marking the beginning of his football experience.
Having been a member of Florence for many years, Old Bellini sat with his son in a forward position in the stands.
Almost next to Florence's substitute bench.
With an excellent viewing angle, the scene was very lively. Both sides were dynamic, with plenty of appeal for young Bellini, who, though he couldn't quite understand the spectacle, was still deeply impressed by the sight of over twenty people chasing a single football.
"Daddy, why are so many people fighting over one football? Wouldn't it be better for each to have one?" Little Bellini asked innocently, his eyes clear.
"Haha, son, that's the charm of football. You'll understand it later!" His father replied, smiling and patting his son's small head.
The 1988-1989 Florence and Inter Milan season was star-studded.
"Look, the one with the ball is Baggio, the most talented forward in Italy! Watch him dribble, he's amazing!"
"This is Antognoni, the soul of our team and the main midfielder when our country won the World Cup in 1982!"
"Now the ball is held by a Brazilian, called Socrates. We call him Doctor, haha, he's also a tough player!"
Having introduced Florence, the father then began about Inter.
"The opponent's number 10 is a German named Matthaus, a player with both offensive and defensive capabilities, a real key player."
"See that blonde over there? That's Klinsmann, also German. He's very good at headers in the box, we need to be careful! Oh dear, that was close, he missed!"
"Ah, the one I feel most sad for is Berti, technically comprehensive, very tough. Unfortunately, he transferred from our team to Inter last summer. He's on the field as well. Everyone boos him, but I won't."
Under his father's guidance, little Bellini nodded in half-understanding.
Yet he thought to himself, "On such a hot day, with all this sun, it must be tiring for those twenty people fighting for one ball!"
Suddenly, little Bellini noticed something. He shook his father's hand, pointing at Florence's goalkeeper, and asked, "Daddy, why doesn't the man standing by the goal join in the ball chase?"
His father, absorbed in watching Baggio and Matthaus duel, gently pushed his son aside and casually replied, "That's the goalkeeper, no need to chase the ball, just stand there."
Little Bellini's eyes widened with surprise.
Why does everyone have to run and chase the ball, but not the goalkeeper?
Doesn't that make them relaxed and comfortable?
Little Bellini thought about this throughout the entire first half.
In the second half, the sun slanted a bit, giving the substitute bench's sunshade a golden edge.
"Daddy, look," Bellini discovered anew, excitedly turning his head, "there's a row of men sitting below, wearing football jerseys too, but they don't chase the ball, just sit and watch!"
Little Bellini's excited call drew laughter from the surrounding fans.
His father also laughed, pulled his son back, and said, "Silly boy, that's the substitute bench. Those men will get on the field later."
Sure enough, Florence used three substitute slots in the span of 30 minutes.
However, little Bellini noticed that one substitute player persisted in sitting still on his seat, unmoving, even when his teammates went for warm-ups. He just sat there.
His sneakers hadn't touched any grass, his gel-fixed curls remained perfect, as he held an orange sports drink bottle, swaying it back and forth.
When the players on the field collided in the penalty area, he even took out a chocolate bar and broke off pieces to eat, with a nonchalant demeanor.
"Daddy, who is that guy sitting still and eating? He looks... looks like he's sitting in a café reading a newspaper!" Little Bellini asked curiously.
"Oh? You're talking about our substitute goalkeeper, Toriso," said his father.
"Why doesn't he move? He keeps sitting," Bellini persisted.
"Oh, substitute goalkeeper, move for what? He wouldn't get a chance to play anyway, just like watching football with pay," the father joked half-seriously.
Little Bellini nodded with half comprehension.
His gaze lingered on this substitute goalkeeper Toriso, noticing his very leisurely expression.
Sipping his drink at intervals, waving his towel, standing to shout a few words, then sitting back down, feet propped on the seat, whispering with teammates, and occasionally chatting and laughing with passing blonde female staff.
Eventually, Toriso simply laid both hands behind his head, crossing his legs, looking as if he was waiting to clock out.
Bellini grew increasingly curious.
Why is everyone else tense, but this person is so relaxed?
Bellini went over to the stands above Inter Milan's substitute bench, tiptoeing to peek down, discovering a similar person on Inter's bench.
The match ended.
Florence lost 0-2 at home to Inter Milan.
His father carried the boy on his shoulders, strolling along the cobbled streets of Florence.
Bellini sat there, unable to see his father's expression, but he sensed from his tone that his father was not too pleased.
"Son, you need to strive harder in the future. Become a top forward and top midfielder, play for Florence. We're just lacking in midfield and forward lines, that's why we lost. If there's no surprise, Inter will likely clinch the Serie A championship this season."
Bellini said, "Daddy, you told me before that I'll need to work and earn money when I grow up. If I play football, how will I earn money?"
This five-year-old's understanding of football was still at the level of viewing it as a game among friends.
His father laughed with a chortle, his upper body swaying slightly, scaring little Bellini seated on his shoulders to grab his father's neck tightly.
"If you can play for Florence, you'll earn good money. If you go to Inter Milan, you could earn even more. You wouldn't need to work. Neither would daddy, mommy, grandpa, or grandma."
The fountain at the street corner sprayed water, reflecting the last of the evening glow.
As they passed by a villa, his father pointed to it:
"If you went to Inter Milan, your annual salary could buy this villa, and we wouldn't need to squeeze into an apartment."
Bellini's eyes widened like saucers.
Going to Inter Milan, an annual salary could buy a large villa?
"Daddy, I must become a professional player, earn lots of money, and make sure daddy, mommy, grandpa, grandma, and both grandpas and grandmas live in the big house I buy!" Little Bellini declared proudly while sitting on his father's shoulders, his hands on his hips.
Old Bellini stopped, taking his son down.
The streetlights had just turned on, their glow melting at the feet of father and son.
"Being a player means running all day under the big sun," his father pinched his little arm, "falling on the grass can scrape your knees, and in winter training, your hands can freeze from holding the ball. Wanting to earn big money isn't easy, child."
Little Bellini, however, stared at the distant lights of the Franchi Stadium, those beams piercing the deepening night.
He thought of Toriso lazily rocking the drink bottle on the substitute bench, sitting cross-legged chatting; also recalling Inter's substitute goalkeeper yawning leisurely—
"I want to be a substitute goalkeeper," he suddenly exclaimed, his eyes shining like stars, "just like Toriso, sitting under the sunshade watching football and still earning a lot of money!"
The evening wind swept up the leaves on the cobblestone road, and Old Bellini hesitated a moment before bursting into laughter.
"What nonsense! My son is meant to become a front-field player like Baggio and Matthaus, and you actually want to be a goalkeeper, a substitute goalkeeper at that, how hilarious!"