Marco's whistle pierced the warm Italian morning, sharp and clean as the ball rolled into play immediately, the red team taking first possession.
Voices rang across the pitch, quick, sharp bursts of Italian football slang: dietro, uomo, gira!
The words bounced in rhythm with the ball as the Reds zipped passes between each other confidently.
The blue team scrambled to keep shape, shouts overlapping in confusion. Although Marco had split the teams evenly, the red team had just the edge of first possession.
Leo heard the calls but didn't fully catch them.
He'd spent nights trying to learn the phrases, but on the pitch, they blurred into noise.
Avanti!
Vieni!
Dentro!
He tried to piece meaning from movement, not words.
But then after a while, he stopped trying altogether and just shut it all out.
Instead, he began scanning, eyes darting, feet shifting, just watching.
