I’m 54 and I still play soccer once or twice a week without fail. Not because I think I’m a star, but because that ball (made of hard leather back then) has never left my side since I was a young kid in Rome, in Monteverde, when we used to play in the street until dark.
No coaches, no set plays, no one yelling at you what to do every second, except for my mom. At 8 o’clock sharp, from the balcony of my apartment, she would scream, “Marco, stop playing, it’s dinner time!” Great times. That was free, instinctive, sometimes chaotic soccer, but it built character like nothing else.
