THE SOCCER BALLS OF Mr. KURZ

For Bragonzi, the only beautiful thing in the sad life of the boarding school in Quarto dei Mille was the soccer matches. And yet even that beauty was anguished.

- Michele Mari

He realized it as early as the first match, when he saw that, once the moment came to shoot, even the best, even the oldest players suffered a kind of muscular contraction, as if forcing themselves to hold back; and, in fact, what emerged was a weak, uncertain shot, which the goalie blocked with ease. And to think that a second earlier that same forward had seemed full of confident vigor, impetuously swooping down onto the ball, defending it, rushing with long strides toward the goal area—but then . . . but then that feeble shot.

Only at the third match did he make up his mind to ask, after he’d happened to give a hard kick and the ball, flying upward, just barely missed going over to the other side, beyond the wall that constituted the end of the schoolyard: “Aaaah . . .” all the little boys groaned in chorus, covering their eyes with their hands, and when the ball fell back down into the schoolyard, rather than rejoicing, they rebuked Bragonzi bitterly. “But why? What did I do wrong?” he asked Paltonieri as they went back inside for snack time. “And even if the ball did go over, why make such a big deal about it?”