Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
In the United States, football is religion, culture, ritual, and county fair all rolled into one whistle.
In Italy, on the other hand, American football is like pineapple on pizza: some people mention it, a few actually try it, and most don’t even know it really exists. It’s there. Technically. But maybe it shouldn’t be.
And yet, somewhere along the Romagna coast, one thing is certain: Italian football does exist. Chaotic, improbable, and louder than anyone asked for— especially during All Star week.
Marinella a Mare — the kind of name you only come up with after too much cheap white wine at a neighborhood meeting —was about to become the center of the universe. Well, for a few die-hard fans and a couple of maniacs, anyway.
A couple of seaside hotels that had seen their glory days back in the ’70s, a roundabout once inaugurated with great fanfare featuring Bobby Solo—except it wasn’t really him, just a cover singer—and a supermarket that closed at 7 p.m. because “after that, nobody buys anything, miss.”
As if it were a scientific fact. Like photosynthesis.
But now, everything was about to change.
Seven days of pure madness in flip-flops: games, practices, shaky Instagram lives, coaches in baseball caps and sandals, players with more followers than rushing yards, and a handful of officials moving with the strategic grace of men who’d lost their IDs days ago.
Why here, of all places?
Because Marinella had the theme park.
And not some sad little playground with rusty swings and a broken spring horse. No—this was the real deal: a massive amusement park with roller coasters skimming the highway, a water park where the music started at nine in the morning and only stopped if the power went out, and—the crown jewel—an open-air American football stadium that could make you believe it mattered.
No, seriously: a proper stadium. Covered stands, state-of-the-art turf, locker rooms with working hair dryers (a minor miracle), digital scoreboards, and even the bright orange pylons lined up as if someone actually knew how to use them.
A sports nerd’s amusement park.
Las Vegas, if it were hosted by a Romagna village fair. Of football.
On the boardwalk of Marinella a Mare, two people were walking.
Just arrived.
Or maybe arrived far too long ago.
Amy had mahogany hair, tied up in a way that suggested no real plan, bitten nails, and a phone case that read:
“Of course I’m right.”
Nobody knew if it was a joke or a legally binding statement.
Next to her walked Luca, handsome in that quiet way of people who don’t realize they’re attractive. He always dressed like he was just stepping out to take out the trash. When self-confidence was handed out, Luca had gone for coffee. Amy had picked up his share too, but hadn’t given it back yet.
He played linebacker and still didn’t know why he’d been called to the All Star Game. He said it was a mistake.
Amy said it was because his mom baked pies for the coaches.
He never confirmed, but he never denied it either.
They walked.
They observed.
They judged.
«This place—is it a town or a social experiment?» Amy asked, staring at an ice cream shop closed at six p.m.
«People live like this all year round, you know,» Luca replied.
«You live on Viale Marconi. If you forget to write down where you parked, you call the cops because you think the car’s been stolen,» Amy shot back.
She spoke fast. Always. One of her greatest talents was starting an argument, being right, and winning it through sheer exhaustion.
«I didn’t say I’d do it,» he muttered.
Amy and Luca walked without enthusiasm, but with the kind of determination reserved for missions that didn’t matter. Their mission: finding an aperitivo.
«That one looks like a bar.»
Amy pointed at a sign in antique cursive: Blue Moon.
On the closed shutters, a laminated A4 paper read:
“CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. WILL REOPEN. SOMEDAY.”
Two steps ahead, another place. It was called La Sirena, but the only mermaid in sight was printed on a slot machine dumped in the veranda. Inside, it looked like a retirement party from 2004 that had never really ended.
One gelato shop was open. Inside, a woman stared out with the look of someone who had figured life out and decided not to participate.
The flavor of the day was stracciatella. The flavor of the day is always stracciatella in the kind of places where happiness goes to die.
Amy started to think there wasn’t much chance she could last a whole week here. Aperitivo was a must.
Whiskey was a reason to live. But that was another story.
And then—salvation.
At the end of the avenue connecting the beach to the amusement park stood a kiosk, probably once a flower shop. Around it: faded Coca Cola chairs, Christmas lights bought at a clearance sale, and a bartender with more chest hair than emotions.
The speakers blasted the kind of reggaeton that makes aunts dance at weddings.
And, strangely enough, the place was packed.
Players in sweaty tank tops sprawled across chairs like happy hour sea lions. Sunburned tourists laughed too loud, children screamed with melted ice cream dripping down their elbows, and a woman with a perm smoked next to a cage holding what Amy hoped was a hamster.
«Do they realize this is supposed to be a sports competition and they’re not supposed to be drinking?» Amy muttered.
«I’m a player too, and we’ve been walking around for twenty minutes looking for a spritz,» Luca replied.
«That’s different. This is survival,» she declared with resignation.
There was only one table with two free chairs at the back, facing the sea.
At the table, a girl stared gloomily at a nearly empty glass of white wine.
Blond hair tied back, a white dress, heels way too high for coming from the beach, and makeup just slightly smudged, perfectly matching her red eyes.
She kept checking her phone, sighing, and scanning the place with the same lost, overly bored expression Amy and Luca were wearing.
She looked perfect.
Amy dragged out a chair, placed her phone and cigarette pack on the table, and sat down.
«I still don’t get how they organize an event with this many people in a place this dead. First All Star Game for you too?» she asked, as if she’d known her forever—though she’d never seen her before.
The girl looked up, surprised but not annoyed.
She gave the half-smile of someone who’d just been waiting for an excuse not to look at her phone.
«Yeah, I got here this morning. Still figuring things out.»
Luca joined them with three spritzes, carried with the ease of someone who had known Amy forever. «Spritz?» he asked, sitting down. «I’m Luca. The one already acting like your best friend is Amy.»
«Thanks, that’s really kind,» the girl said softly. «I’m Valentina.»
Amy poured herself some water from the bottle already on the table, like she owned the place.
«I work for the federation. Stats, media, babysitting when needed. He plays. Don’t ask him why. You, on the other hand, are way too hairless to be a player. What brings you here?»
«Girlfriend,» she admitted, with a touch of guilt in her voice.
Amy nodded, already amused.
«So, girlfriend of a player.»
«Yes, it’s his first time playing this tournament. Says this is the year to win it and move on to the European championship. Personally, I think he just wanted a free vacation.»
«We pay for the hotel and the field,» Luca grumbled.
«Don’t mind him, he’s just jealous,» Amy said, lighting a cigarette.
«Jealous of someone with a single room, ten days paid, and no safeties from Veneto trying to kill them? Absolutely.»
Amy shot him a look. One of those looks. «If it weren’t for me, you’d be playing in your underwear, hands on your head instead of a helmet, since no one ever ordered them,» she said, firm, every word sharp. That was the moment to shut up, and Luca knew it. «Anyway, where’s your boyfriend?»
Valentina was visibly entertained.
«He drove here with his teammates from Rome. Said it was all about sharing the experience. Honestly? He’s disappeared.»
«We’re from Rome too. Which team?»
«Legionnaires. Or Gladiators. Something Ancient Rome-ish,» Valentina said, sipping her spritz.
«Legionnaires. Serie B,» Luca added. «I play in A, with the Praetorians. I might know your guy. What position does he play?»
«I think offense, but don’t ask me more. I don’t understand football at all. Plays start and then they stop right away. Some guys go in, some go out. Honestly, I’ve always said he should’ve been a soccer player. At least soccer is a real sport.»
Amy raised an eyebrow.
«I don’t have time to explain how many ways that’s wrong.»
Still, they stayed at the table for a couple of spritzes. Mostly because there were no other free tables.
~ ● ~
«Done. This fall I’m launching my skincare line with Scandinavian snail slime. Followers are everything.»
Valentina had just hit “follow” when a booming Roman voice cut through the bar like a street vendor crashing an operating room.
«Oh! Look who’s here! The queen of Marinella! The workaholic of statistics! The empress of cynical spreadsheets!»
Totò.
He walked in with arms wide as if to hug the entire place.
Papaya-colored shirt with pink flamingos, neon green Crocs, sunglasses on his nose, and the sweat of a press conference dripping down.
He looked like he’d escaped from a resort for failed executives.
Half the federation loved him, the other half wanted to sue him.
Amy barely turned her head, not even surprised. She sipped her spritz.
«Totò. Looking sharp. Especially the Crocs.»
«Always. Crocs are a lifestyle, Amy. You walk, you run, you escape if you have to. And no laces!»
Luca, still in his seat, tried not to laugh.
Mistake.
Totò spotted him.
Target acquired.
«Look at this one! Still got that face like he won a prize school trip! Tell me, did they call you out of pity or to settle a debt?»
Luca raised his hands.
«I just said yes. It’s their fault.»
«Smart. Never say no if there’s a buffet. Rule number one of the federation. At least in Rome. In Brescia there’s something about blocking penalties, but don’t worry about that.»
Valentina opened her mouth to say something, but Totò elegantly ignored her. He filed her under “generic woman” and moved on.
He had a mission. And a personal bubble of chaos that followed him everywhere.
«Amy, listen. Tomorrow morning—eight, eight-ten at the latest, and see how generous I’m being—you need to grab the roster sheets and bring them to our office. Hope you found it, ’cause I still haven’t. Anyway, the players will be there posing for Instagram. You call them out with the megaphone. Jersey, team name, useless details. That was supposed to be me, but I lost a bet with the Lombard coach, the one with the flute voice.»
«Perfect. Should I also make copies and hand out the water?»
«If you feel like it. By the way, I hope you brought your camera. Not sure if we even have a photographer, or if he’s the guy who had a religious epiphany and moved to Iran.»
He started to walk away, then stopped, turned back, and lowered his voice.
Totò lowering his voice was a rare meteorological event.
«Ah, Amy.» He stepped back just enough to grab her glass from the table.
«You’re going to water the turf?»
«No, it’s plastic.» He spread his arms. «These All Stars are all about publicity, family-friendly vibes, maybe pulling in a few kids—hopefully with a hot mom. But not for us.»
«The hot mom’s not for us?» Luca asked, confused.
«Definitely not for you,» Totò shot back. Then he turned to Amy. «We’ve got one goal. We need to find the champion. The one to take to the Europeans, then Worlds, then the NFL.»
«And then the Moon?» Amy asked, reaching for her glass. Totò lifted it just out of reach.
«I want the NFL. Find the champion, Amy.» He leaned closer. «Find. The. Champion.»
Amy stared at him.
Stunned. That was always her default setting when Totò was around. Then she whipped her head away.
«I’m off to hunt down that idiot Pippo who was supposed to bring the jerseys but is busy posting reels on Instagram. If I find him, I’ll delete his account with my federation badge.»
She downed her spritz—including the ice—and slammed the glass on the table.
Then she vanished among the tables like a tropical mirage laced with aftershave, shouting something about a missing gym bag and a fake massage therapist.
Amy turned to Valentina and Luca.
«That’s my boss.»
Valentina lifted her glass.
«Sounds like a healthy workplace.»
Luca, calm:
«And believe it or not, he’s still sober.»
