Marco looked at the empty Lombardo. He imagined the player shrugging, trapped in the Panini limbo, unable to join his teammates on the page.
The album lay open at the center of the mosaic. On its glossy cover, a generic footballer in a blue and white striped kit performed a perfect overhead kick, frozen forever in mid-air. Inside, the pages were a cathedral of color: the violet of Fiorentina, the black and white of Juventus, the yellow of Roma. Each team was a kingdom, and each empty, grey rectangle was a missing citizen.
Twenty-five years later, in a quiet house outside Toronto, Marco’s own son found the album in a dusty box. The boy was ten, obsessed with soccer on TV. He opened the brittle pages carefully.
He heard a rustle. His Nonna stood in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands. She was small, silver-haired, and knew nothing about football.
Marco looked at the empty Lombardo. He imagined the player shrugging, trapped in the Panini limbo, unable to join his teammates on the page.
The album lay open at the center of the mosaic. On its glossy cover, a generic footballer in a blue and white striped kit performed a perfect overhead kick, frozen forever in mid-air. Inside, the pages were a cathedral of color: the violet of Fiorentina, the black and white of Juventus, the yellow of Roma. Each team was a kingdom, and each empty, grey rectangle was a missing citizen.
Twenty-five years later, in a quiet house outside Toronto, Marco’s own son found the album in a dusty box. The boy was ten, obsessed with soccer on TV. He opened the brittle pages carefully.
He heard a rustle. His Nonna stood in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands. She was small, silver-haired, and knew nothing about football.