The Softie Who Lives at the Convent
In Rome, Italy, at a quiet school in Trigoria, elementary school children were packing their bags after class, the usual after-school clamor filling the air as they got ready to head home.
"Gio! Is the convent pitch open today?"
A classmate gave a light shove to the back of a small, slight boy.
The nine-year-old with black hair — the one they called Gio — turned around.
"Yeah."
"You're playing too, right?"
"Of course."
"Then I'll tell my mom I'm going out to play?"
"Okay. Did you round up the kids?"
"Weren't you supposed to gather them?"
"Me? I didn't gather anyone."
"Then let's gather them now."
"Whenever you say you'll round people up, you just wander off somewhere and kill time."
"What am I supposed to do? Nobody wants to play when I ask them!"
The friend of Yohan — who went by Gio at school — stuck out his lower lip in a pout.
He wasn't wrong. Whenever he tried to pull people together for a game of football, most of them gave him the cold shoulder.
There was only one reason: greed.
Unlike Yohan, who always distributed the ball generously to those around him, his friend was greedy. Once he got possession, he wanted to shine alone. That led to frequent arguments among the kids, and every time, Yohan stepped in to mediate.
Only recently, after Yohan's endless coaxing and reminders, had he started passing with any real sense of fairness — but a first impression formed among children did not break easily.
"Then just leave the gathering to me."
"That somehow makes me feel bad, though."
"You're so greedy when we play football, but you're soft-hearted about stuff like this."
"What does soft-hearted mean?"
"Hmm… it means you're gentle."
"What? I'm not gentle! I'm a man!"
"I know. That's not what I meant…"
Just as his friend, having thoroughly misread Yohan's words, was about to launch into a serious defense of his own masculinity—
"What did you just say? Are you done talking!?"
From the back of the classroom, where several elementary school kids including the two of them were gathered, a girl's voice cut through the air.
A sharp, ringing voice that drove straight into the ear with force.
Startled, Yohan and his friend spun around to find two girls locked in an argument.
"I'm done."
"Say it again."
"What are you gonna do if I say it again?"
"I'll handle it myself — so just say it again first!"
One was a fierce-looking girl with light brown hair; the other stood with her arms crossed, letting the words slide in one ear and out the other.
Faced with the collision of these two seemingly opposite temperaments, Yohan's friend shook his head as if the scene were all too familiar.
"There they go again. Let's just ignore them."
"No. We need to get a teacher. They're going to start fighting again."
"Then go get one. I'll try gathering the kids."
"Okay. I'll tell the teacher and call kids from the other classes."
"We're doing five-on-five, right?"
"If we can't get enough, we'll just play with whoever we have. I'm going?"
"Yeah."
After parting ways with his friend, Yohan hurried to the teachers' office to report the fight, then stopped by other classrooms to round up kids his age for football. Once he had made arrangements with them, he started toward the school gate, where Sister Caterina — his guardian and mother figure — would be waiting.
"Hey."
A sharp voice came from behind him.
"Hey! The kid who always snitches! Don't pretend you didn't hear me!"
Yohan had already realized she was calling him, but the fear of being targeted for no good reason made him pretend otherwise. He quickened his pace.
But then—
"Stop right there! Or do you want to die?"
The girl's threat sent a jolt of fear through him. Instinct won out.
He flinched and stopped where he stood. The girl closed the distance and planted herself in front of him, arms crossed.
"What are you?"
"My name is Yohan."
"Like I care. That's not what I was asking."
"Sorry."
A recent transfer student.
From her very first day she had shown a fierce streak that put her on the wrong side of the other students, and she never hesitated to pick a fight. To Yohan, who had been raised so gently by four nuns in a small convent, she was intimidating enough to make him shrink back on his own.
Looking at him as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head with his mouth pressed shut, the girl tilted her head.
"But that's weird."
"Huh?"
"I don't think I've ever heard the other kids call you Yohan. Don't they call you Gio?"
"Yeah."
"You just said your name was Yohan."
"If you convert Yohan into Italian, it becomes Giovanni — and the nickname for that here is Gio."
"I know that. So that's why it was Gio."
"Right. What's your name?"
"Haley Newman."
"Nice to meet you, Haley."
"Don't call me by my first name."
"Okay, sorry."
Was she finding his complete lack of any opinion of his own ridiculous? Or did she like it?
Haley gave a smile that, to Yohan, was a little hard to read.
"You don't need to apologize. Just don't snitch from now on."
"Friends should get along…"
"She's not my friend."
"Couldn't you become friends later?"
"There's zero chance of that."
"I see. Can I go now?"
"No."
"Okay."
At his innocent reply — and the way he simply stood there staring at her blankly — Haley let out a little laugh.
"Go."
"Okay."
"Aren't you going to say thank you?"
"Uh… why?"
"I gave you permission to leave."
"Is that how it works…?"
"Yes."
"Then thank you. I'm going. See you tomorrow."
"Bye."
Watching Yohan hurry off, a smile still lingered at the corners of Haley's mouth. There was even a glint in her eyes, as if she had just discovered an interesting new toy — though the Yohan of now had no way of knowing that.
"Over here! Pass!"
"Ciro! Pass it! I'm open!"
Kids shouted back and forth with passionate intensity, sweat pouring off them.
Of the ten children kicking a ball around at the convent, half were wearing football kits their parents had bought them. What stood out was that three of those five kits bore the number 10 on the back.
That was the number of the attacking midfielder for AS Roma, the professional club based in Rome — a one-club man and captain who had played only for Roma from his youth days all the way through to the age of twenty-eight.
His name was Lorenzo Lucca.
With his outstanding ability and flashy playing style, he commanded absolute support from Roma fans of every age and gender. As an attacking midfielder perfectly positioned for the spotlight, it would have been strange for any kid living in Rome not to like Lorenzo Lucca — and most of them owned at least one of his kits.
Yohan was no different. His admiration for Lorenzo Lucca ran as high as any other child's; he even looked up to him as an idol.
The only difference was that he didn't have a kit.
Because the convent had no money.
Sister Caterina and the other nuns had virtually no income. Finding employment was impossible under the rules of the religious order they belonged to. Other orders allowed members to take jobs like teaching or nursing that paid a monthly wage, but Caterina's did not. Aside from making and selling organic jam, commercial activity was restricted — and they didn't even accept donations. It was one of the poorest religious orders in Italy.
The order did allocate a basic fund to the convent, but it covered only the barest living expenses and didn't amount to much. The jam was good quality, but they didn't produce many jars, so the income could not honestly be called substantial — and even that tiny profit, the nuns spent on Yohan.
Of course they never told young Yohan about their finances, but he had a fair sense of just how poor the convent was. And of how they tightened their belts even further to raise him. That was why he could never casually ask them to buy him anything.
Thanks to the nuns carefully maintaining the worn-out pitch, Yohan could play football with his friends. Just that alone felt like more than enough of a blessing — so he never even hoped for luxuries like a kit.
Thwack—!
The boy called Ciro, who had possession of the ball, swung his foot hard. He was the one who always stuck by Yohan's side — the same kid who had been talking about gathering players earlier at school.
Thud.
The ball sailed high over the throw-in line, and every pair of eyes locked onto Ciro. Looks that said, why would you make a pass like that?
Catching on, Ciro threw both hands up above his shoulders.
"Everyone's yelling for a pass from every direction — what am I supposed to do? Better to just take the shot."
"That was a shot?"
"It was a pass-shot."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If you've got a problem, play better! How am I supposed to pass when you're not even in a good position and just keep yelling for it?"
"I was just beating my defender and making a run!"
"If I'd put a through ball there, it would've gotten stolen for sure."
"No it wouldn't!"
"Yes it would!"
Arguing over who had done well and who hadn't was common. In a friendly match with no referee — especially a kids' match — it happened all the time.
"Gio! Tell us who was wrong!"
And every time, the kids looked to Yohan. Because he always calmly sorted out right from wrong, and explained his reasoning in a way that made sense without hurting anyone's feelings, Yohan was both player and referee on the field.
"I think everyone was a little at fault this time. Ciro has a point, and so do you. But I think it would've been better if everyone had thought a little more carefully. Want to know why? From Ciro's perspective…"
As Yohan went on explaining in his unhurried way, and the kids were beginning to come around—
"Yohan! Come have some lemonade with your friends!"
The small back door of the convent behind the pitch opened, and from inside, Sister Caterina called out to him.
Korean — a language rarely heard in a quiet Italian country village.
Hearing it, Yohan nodded vigorously.
"Okay!"
Since it was just about time for the first half to end anyway, Yohan gathered his friends to cool the heated atmosphere and headed into the convent. He didn't forget to grab the football, its surface worn down to bare patches from so much use.
After playing the second half, making small talk with the parents who came to pick up their kids, having dinner with the nuns, and doing his homework, Yohan's day would be over.
And Yohan found this peaceful daily routine deeply, deeply happy.