Lucy Zeezou's Goal (13 page)

Mama and I were finally off to the derby. All morning I was jumping out of my skin to get there, worried that we wouldn't arrive in time for kick-off, since Mama was fussing over her outfit. Papa was at his team's base, Milanello, preparing for the game and would arrive at the San Siro with his team mates and AC Milan staff. Papa didn't really get that nervous before a game, but he
was
superstitious. I wasn't supposed to know it, but he wouldn't walk onto that pitch unless he was wearing his lucky red undies!

The derby was one of the biggest games on the world football calendar – a clash between two local rivals, AC Milan and Inter Milan. The city was buzzing with anticipation, and divided into a sea of AC Milan's red and black colours and Inter's blue and black. Everyone supported one of the clubs, or if not they'd at least have an opinion of the encounter. Even though the game was played on Sunday, most people would skip church and tune into the radio or TV to watch it if they couldn't get tickets. And then they'd spend most of Monday conducting post
mortems on the game. It was intoxicating, and I loved it!

The match today was a particularly special one, because the clubs were promoting football against racism. It was a global campaign run by football's governing body, aiming to encourage inclusiveness and stamp out racism. That was something I loved about football – it had the power to break social and racial barriers and raise awareness. Players came from all parts of the world and they were usually embraced by their team mates and supporters. Even my team in Sydney had players from eleven different backgrounds, out of a squad of sixteen. But there were still some narrow-minded fans who were prejudiced against a particular race or religion.

I didn't understand how people could not see the benefits of being part of a planet full of different cultures. It would be so boring if we were all the same.

While the players fought for points on the pitch, another war was looming in the players' box, where the footballers' friends and family sat. Mama and the other wives and hangers on all tried to outdo each other in the latest fashions, sipping only the best champagne. It was nearly as competitive as the football, which they didn't really care about – although they cheered on cue, vying to attract the cameras.

The kids were okay … at least they showed more interest in the game, except for the other girls my age and a bit older who were far too girly for my liking.

We settled ourselves in the box, and Mama turned to me. ‘Lucia, could you at least put on a little bit of lipstick? You look a little dishevelled, honey, and the cameras are bound to look for us at some point.' She handed me a new hot-pink lipstick. I threw it in my pocket while she wasn't looking.

I decided to escape the irritating fashion scene for my own sanity, hoping to catch up with Papa and his team mates before kick-off, and then watch the match from the stands.

‘Mama, I'll be back soon, I'm just going to catch up with an old friend I can see in the stands.'

‘Why don't you tell her to come up? You don't want to watch the game from down there.' I swear I could see Mama's nose turn up at the thought of me sitting with the rest of the fans. I rolled my eyes. Mama really did live on another planet. I wanted to watch the game with the real fans who understood football.

‘It's okay, Mama … Don't worry, I'll be back soon.' I planted a kiss on both cheeks and was off.

Another lie. Well, it was a small one.

I ran down into the belly of the stadium towards the tunnel, which I could enter only because I had a special access-all-areas pass. I hoped I wasn't too late to catch Papa before he ran onto the pitch. I loved seeing the players just before they headed out. You could really feel the tension and excitement before a big clash.

While they waited in the tunnel, each player stood with a child, who they'd lead out onto the pitch. Being a mascot was something kids dreamt of. I used to run out with Papa when I was little, for special occasions like his hundredth game for the club and big final match days, but now I was too old for that.

I caught Papa and his team a few moments before he was to lead them out. I said hello to the players. Some were wriggling out their nerves, while the older, more experienced players were chilled, like my papa. The opposition stood nearby, adding to the tension.

I wrapped myself around Papa and whispered, ‘Good luck, Papa. Score a goal for me.'

He answered with a tighter bear hug. ‘I'll do my best, but you know my job is to defend. If I get a chance, I'll crack the ball into the back of the net, especially for you. I'll celebrate by blowing you a kiss.'

It was true that he rarely scored goals, but I sensed that today would be different. He led the team out with a look of determination. I watched, dreaming that one day I'd lead my own team out into this arena.

 

I stayed to watch the game from down there, within view of the bench and coach. He was yelling instructions from the sidelines as the players fought for the ball. I could smell the manicured grass and hear the clash of
boots. There was nothing like being in the San Siro on derby day, surrounded by the roar of the crowd. They chanted their team songs and madly waved their flags. It was impossible not to be swept up in the excitement and passion of the die-hard fans.

And seeing Papa play made my spine tingle. Straight from kick-off he was involved, directing and encouraging his players. He guarded the back line like his life depended on it, so it was extremely tough for the opposition to get past him. He read the play very early, which gave him an edge over his rivals. That's why he was considered one of the best.

The crowd went wild as AC Milan created the first shots on goal and Papa put himself in contention. Inter's goalkeeper staved off the attempts and the ball was sent back to the halfway mark. But moments later, Inter managed to silence the
rossoneri
, AC Milan's fans, with an unexpected opening goal that seemed to come from nowhere. The stadium was dominated by chants from the
nerazzurri
, Inter's supporters, but not for long. Three minutes later, Kaká worked his magic from the halfway line and beat the keeper with a spectacular goal to level the match. The Inter fans fell silent as the air was saturated with AC Milan's supporters in full voice and of course I joined in the celebrations.

Soon it was close to half-time, and I thought I should go back and find Mama, in case she was worried.

I started to head back up the stairs to the players' box, still daydreaming about being a professional and playing in front of fanatical supporters. I was suddenly struck by the sound of heavy breathing behind me … before I could turn to see who it was, a hand squeezed over my mouth. I struggled to scream, but the grip was too tight. The next thing I knew, I was being carried away up flights of stairs.

I tried to kick my way free but the person was too strong. I must have lost consciousness, because next thing I knew, I was waking to the sound of distant cheering. I didn't know how long I'd been out. I opened my eyes to inspect my surroundings, and realised that there was tape over my mouth and my arms were tied behind my back.

Oh no! My heart pounded heavily in my chest. What was going on? Was this some sort of sick joke? My thoughts raced and beads of sweat trickled down my face in the stifling, windowless room. I was being held hostage, somewhere in the stadium.

Across the room I spotted a man and a woman dressed all in black, with dark wrap-around sunnies and peaked caps. They were deep in conversation, speaking in a foreign language.

The sound of my backpack vibrating on the ground interrupted them. It was probably Mama ringing, wondering where I was. They stared at the backpack, panic-stricken. This was not part of their plan. The
woman reached down and tipped everything out of the bag. To my surprise, she answered the phone.

Her accomplice yelled something. I couldn't understand the words, but judging by his expression and tone of voice, he was saying, ‘No, DON'T!'

While they were distracted, I tried to struggle free, but it was no use – the tape, or whatever was binding my hands, was too tight. The man noticed my desperate efforts and launched towards me.

‘Don't try anythink or you dead,' he snarled in a heavy accent, standing over me like a big thug.

Now I was really scared … terrified. I sat perfectly still and did my best to listen to the phone call. The woman's English was so bad it was hard to understand her. She said ‘Lucia not come bark!' into the phone and then switched it off.

The man yelled at her frantically, his face consumed with anger. I wished I could tell what they were saying. She yelled back at him, gestured with her arms and pointed at me and the door.

The man then lifted his shirt. To my horror, a gun rested on his hip. He looked like a hit man – those scary fit ones that you saw in Hollywood movies. I wished I was in a movie and not living this nightmare.

How had he slipped past security with a gun?

This was not a person to mess with. Someone had to help me … surely Mama would have called the police by
now? I'd been missing for most of the game – but then again, I told her I'd be with a friend. Maybe she thought I was hanging out with her until the game was over. My little lie had backfired – and it might be my last.

I tried to pulled myself together, focusing on the sounds that filled the room. I could hear the fans cheering. Suddenly, the cheers mellowed and I could make out the match commentary in the background.

That was it! I was being held next to the commentary box!

‘AC Milan and Inter have locked horns … this game is panning out to be yet another classic …'

But the commentary was bluntly interrupted by the woman yelling instructions. ‘Look this way, Lucia. HEY! I say look this way or you be sorry.'

I turned and saw that she was fiddling with a camera. I was frightened, hot and extremely angry, sitting on the concrete floor without any idea why I had been kidnapped. And now they wanted to take my photo, of all the weird things. Why?

This was infuriating – I couldn't even get away from the camera as a hostage. I reluctantly followed her orders and stared into the camera.

She took the photo and made a quick exit, leaving me
with the big scary man. I was shaking, and began to sob uncontrollably. He walked over to me. ‘Why you cry?'

What kind of stupid question was that? Now I knew what I was dealing with. I struggled to speak through the tape and, unexpectedly, he ripped it off my mouth.

‘Ouch that hurt!' And then I pleaded, ‘Please, let me go … please! I just want to be with my family. I want to go home.'

He took off his cap and sunglasses and crouched next to me. I was surprised by how young he looked. But he dashed my hopes. ‘Impossible.'

‘Why can't you let me go? Why have I been abducted?' I asked, trying to control my tears.

‘You … held for ransom. Your father get letter to give us millions of US dollars, which must deliver by tomorrow afternoon … then you go.' His accent was just as strong as the woman's.

‘How could you do this? You seem too young to carry a gun and commit a serious crime. You'll go to jail. How old
are
you?' I queried, hoping to appeal to his soft side – if there was one. I thought if I managed to strike up a conversation and sound interested in him he might let me go.

‘I'm seventeen. I'm fighting for my brothers. They have no jobs, no money … nothing. Every day struggle with no hope. But you have everything because you very rich.'

‘But you'll just get into trouble. Please let me go, and I'll make sure you can get away,' I begged him.

‘No! You my prisoner. My people very poor, they need my help,' he replied, as though reading lines from a very bad movie.

And then, bizarrely, he lunged down and attempted to steal a kiss. I was completely astonished but reacted aggressively, biting him hard on the lips. He pulled back and moaned, holding his mouth. Instinctively, I kicked him in the groin as though I was striking the football into the goal. He crouched down in pain, and I made a run for the door. I couldn't open it because my hands were tightly bound. I banged the door with my head, as if attempting a header in a game … this time it really was the game of life and I screamed my head off. But the crowd had resumed chanting, and I was drowned out.

As the weirdo attempted to grab me, the door swung open, smacking me on the nose. I yelled in pain. His accomplice stormed in from her brief mission and pushed me to the ground, yelling something I couldn't understand.

I turned to see the young guy's lip bleeding. He was pointing his gun in my direction. I was still shaking, and now blood was pouring from my nose. The sight of it added to my terror, but strangely it also gave me a push to fight back.

‘You won't get away with this,' I said loudly.

The woman grabbed me by the hair. ‘We already have.' She looked at the man. ‘Give her tissue and tape her mouth up … now!'