Page 108 of My Italian Love Affair

Late in the first half, Roma wins a corner, and as usual he steps up to take it.

It’s the moment where I expect him to turn the tide. He’s taken this exact set piece a thousand times before: he knows how to curl the ball into the perfect spot where a teammate can bury it in the back of the net.

But instead, his kick is mistimed, and the ball swings wildly through the air without much control. It doesn’t carry deep enough into the goal area and ends up being kicked out by one of the opposition while Roma’s players scramble in confusion at what just happened.

I physically cringe.

Matteo’s frustration is evident in the way he runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tightly as he jogs back up the pitch.

It only gets worse from there.

By the time the final whistle blows, Roma has been thoroughly outclassed.

The scoreboard doesn’t lie.

3 - 0. A brutal loss.

I can already picture what the headlines will be liketomorrow -

Roma’s Winning Streak Shattered.

Exposed by the Underdogs.

Rossi’s Worst Performance Yet?

I close my laptop and move to stand, gathering my belongings as quickly as possible.

This isnotgoing to be a fun post-match interview.

*

In reality, I should be relieved. The match was an incredible watch, and a terrible performance from one side along with an underdog win means there’s plenty to write about.

Plus, there’s the added bonus of being about to boast about my own predictions, which are time-stamped for all to see.

But by the time I’m waiting in the designated press area for post-match interviews, my stomach is twisting and turning.

There’s a palpable tension lingering from the brutal defeat. Players are being pulled aside one by one, each journalist focused on their own interviews, too caught up in getting their questions answered to pay attention to anyone else.

When they stop by me, I try my best to be sympathetic to their defeat with the questions I ask, and for the most part, they’re polite.

And then there’shim.

Matteo strides in, still in his dirty kit, streaks of mud smeared across his tanned arms and thighs. His dark hair is damp with sweat after spending the past ninety minutes sprinting around the pitch, and he barely acknowledges the others around him, shoulders taut with barely restrained fury.

His jaw is locked so tightly I’m half surprised it hasn’tcracked under the pressure, and I tighten my grip on my recorder as he steps up for media duties.

He doesn’t so much as glance my way. Instead, his gaze skims over the gathered journalists -myself included- all sharp and dismissive.

His expression is hard and unreadable, but I can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers flex at his sides.

When it’s finally my turn to speak with him, I take a breath and steel myself.

But it’s as if I’m just another obstacle in his path rather than someone he actually has to acknowledge.

He doesn’t make any real effort to hold eye contact with me, though I push my irritation to the side and force my voice to remain even and professional.

“Matteo, a tough loss tonight -”

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