‘You gotta invest in the community,’ said my dad, ‘that is the only protection you got against the sharks and shysters.’
It was the only piece of useful advice my dad ever gave me, and that was on his deathbed when all pretence and bullshit was meaningless.
The ‘community’ was ruled by the holy trinity of faith, family, and football, and not always in that order. Yeah, and not that football, but the one they call the ‘beautiful game.’
When I decided to open the café, people said I was mad. ‘They’ll eat you alive,’ they warned. I would smile and simply say: ‘You gotta to invest in the community’.
The leasing agent was happy to offer me the space on very favourable terms. It had been on the market for a long time, and the landlord was desperate. Every prospective tenant had been warned off. The community wouldn’t tolerate outsiders coming in to make a buck off them.
When word got out the reaction was mixed. I was from the neighbourhood, but not of the neighbourhood. Mum had roots going back generations but determined to escape the circle of poverty and violence she had left my father for a better life. I would come here during summer holidays to stay with dad and catch up with relatives.
My father was also low in the pecking order. His pretty face had allowed him to leach off a succession of older women. When he got too old for that game, mum would send him money. Not out of pity, but to save me the humiliation of having such a dead-beat dad.
I loved him, though, and he loved me. I took the endless stream of fatherly advice, football scores and commentary for the rubbish it was.
The coffee shop was a modest affair and fitted out like a café from the old country. People liked it. Still, there was a lingering feeling that I hadn’t ‘paid my dues’. That’s when I decided that I would set up a football team for the youngsters who at any moment could start throwing stones at the plateglass window.
I picked the leader of the group and sized him up.
‘Here, try these on,’ I said throwing him a jersey and shorts, ‘you can change back there.’ He reappeared looking every bit the Italian football star.
‘Not bad,’ I said, ‘now do you have enough friends to make a team?’
I didn’t have to ask twice.
My stepfather was a top sports administrator and mum suggested that he find a spot in the league for our team. She made it clear that it was not a request. I couldn’t decide whether he loved my mother more than he feared her, but he would do anything to please her.
Those boys were a handful, but I was helped in my endeavour by Jerry, who just appeared one day. He assumed the role of ‘assistant coach’. He was actually the real coach, but he maintained the fiction and referred to me respectfully as ‘padrone’.
The boys listened to him in a way that they didn’t to me, and he wouldn’t hesitate to clip them behind the ears if they were disrespectful.
These kids were a powerhouse from the start, and we reached the division three finals. They were the pride of the neighbourhood. The community would never admit it, but the respect of the outside world was important. We were more than just a nest of criminals as the media and politicians liked to call us.
Good things don’t last forever. The neighbourhood erupted into violence as rival gangs made a play for power and territory, and Jerry’s nephew, Paulie, a demented young punk, was leading the charge. Paulie had briefly played on the team, but his violence had threatened to get us excluded from the league.
Jerry’s nephew or not Paulie made it clear to me that I was fair game, and that I would have to pay protection, ‘or else.’
It was an impossible choice. I couldn’t be seen supporting one side or the other.
I shut down the café and called the team together and told them I could no longer afford to support them. The pride of the neighbourhood would be no more.
But there are lines within lines, and one of them had been crossed.
Jerry simply said: ‘No, you will open tomorrow as usual.’
There was something in his voice which wouldn’t tolerate disagreement.
The matter was settled by a single shot which rang out in the dead of night.
The next day the café was buzzing with news that Paulie was no more.
Football before family? I reflected with dawning horror. When Jerry finally appeared, he met my silent question frankly and without shame:
‘You gotta invest in the community’.
© Tropical Writers Inc 2025