Lucy Zeezou's Goal

By Liz Deep-Jones

Lucy Zeezou's family is famous for two things in Italy: football and fashion. Lucy's ambitious Australian mother wants her to model for the family's fashion label. Even worse, Lucy's father, the captain of Milan's premier team, agrees.

When she's banned from playing football, Lucy starts to lead a double life secretly joining a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Popcorn Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781925914818

Liz Deep-Jones

Liz  Deep-Jones  is a published author, journalist, producer, presenter, film maker, curator and the inaugural Freilich Arts/Media and Activism Fellow at the Australian National University in Canberra. Her best-selling young adult novels, Lucy Zeezou's Goal and Lucy Zeezou's Glamour Game have been re-released for the upcoming 2023 FIFA Women's World Cup in Australia and New Zealand.  Liz  is passionate about football as it breaks societal and race barriers and is a champion for human rights, inspiring young people to take action through her mentoring role at the ANU in media and arts activism. The proud Sydney-sider is travelling her We Bleed The Same anti-racism exhibition and documentary across Australia. She's also writing her third novel, hoping to inspire young readers to never give up on their dreams.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Penalty

The whistle blew . . . I was taken down inside the box and it didn’t look good. A rough tackle from behind sent me flying through the air and crashing down to the ground, right in front of the referee.

I looked up and saw the crowd on their feet, gasping. I shook my head and took a second look, but it really was true: I was playing in front of a packed house on my dream pitch. I couldn’t believe my luck as I looked around, trying to take in the electric atmosphere at the famous San Siro stadium. It was really me, Lucy Zeezou, right there on the field. The fans had been chanting and cheering.

And then to add to my excitement a player wearing the same jersey yelled out with concern and raced over to help me. ‘Lucy, Lucy, are you all right?’

‘Um . . . I’ve never been better,’ I replied with the biggest smile I could muster.

Oh my goodness, it was my hero, retired football legend Zinedine Zidane, famously known as Zizou. I was nicknamed Zeezou after Zidane himself – a nickname I carried with pride. Zidane was a master of the game. I loved the way he played and dominated the midfield. He was a magician with the ball – just mesmerising.

This was unbelievable! Around eighty thousand football fans in my hometown of Milan, Italy, were watching this game between some of the best male and female players on earth – stars including retired US legend Mia Hamm, Australia’s Cheryl Salisbury, Lionel Messi, Ronaldinho, Kaká, Cristiano Ronaldo, David Beckham and . . . me! I was in heaven, playing in the same team as all these stars, including my namesake, in a mixed World XI side against Italy’s best male and female stars.

The referee awarded our team a penalty, which might be the last kick of the match. To make the situation even more surreal, Zidane said, ‘Lucy, you take this penalty.’

I was dumbstruck. I was surrounded by the world’s best and he believed that I could kick the winning goal.

I could feel the pressure mounting. My stomach was churning and my right shooting leg hurt but I was more determined than ever to succeed. I would convert this penalty to lift the winner’s trophy with my revered team mates and follow the family tradition of my late grandpa, Nonno Dino, and my papa, both football legends in Italy. Nonno Dino was my greatest supporter. He passed away a year ago after a sudden heart attack. He believed in me and knew that one day I would make it. I wished he was here to see me.

I looked up and watched the clock ticking away, a reminder that this was it. It felt as if something great was about to happen. My heart pumped like a pounding drum but I had to stay calm and treat this kick like any other.

The arena fell eerily silent, I took a few deep breaths as the referee blew his whistle and I took my run up to the ball. Make this and I’d be a hero, miss it and I’d be the villain. I wanted to show Papa that I could do it, that I was capable of being a top footballer.

I struck the ball, injecting life into it as it hurtled towards the goal. I followed the ball’s path through the air as it climbed – floating, spiralling, and then heading towards the back of the net.

Suddenly my perfect moment was interrupted by the invasive sounds of clicking and shouting. A hand grabbed my shoulder.

Chapter 2

Cover girl

‘Lucia? Luuucia . . . hello?’

I was startled into an upright position, and looked around with great surprise as the football pitch I was playing on had disappeared. Instead, I was facing an old family friend, Enzo Galliano, one of Italy’s most sought after photographers. I was sitting on a comfy lounge in his plush photographic studio overlooking the familiar cobblestoned streets of Milan. To make matters worse, I wasn’t in my football kit, but dressed up like a Barbie doll, with drops of sweat rolling down my face.

‘Oh, sorry, I must have dozed off,’ I mumbled. I desperately wanted to close my eyes again to see if I scored the winning goal, but Enzo was on a mission. Reality sucked!

‘I only went out for about ten minutes to grab a few more lights from my storeroom and I found you asleep on the lounge. It was hard to wake you, but,’ he insisted, ‘we must press on with the shoot.’

I still felt drowsy and shook my head in an attempt to bring myself back to the land of the living.

‘You don’t look as though you’re quite with us. This is no time to sleep, Lucia. You must be fresh and alert. Your make-up needs freshening up, too.’

He called Anastasia, the hair and make-up artist, and she came running in with her kit. ‘Oh, Lucia, you really look zapped. This will make you feel better.’ She began gently touching up my make-up. A few more dabs with the powder puff and I was ready to face the camera.

‘Look into the lens and smile . . . that’s it! Now chin up, throw your head back, and I want to see more of that fabulous long blonde hair. That’s better! Lovely, Lucia, now you’re working the camera,’ Enzo encouraged.

Oh, great, lovely! NOT! Click, click, click. I was sick of this posing business. Mama had dragged me to another photoshoot, this time for the cover of an Italian teen magazine called Dieci, which means ten. I suppose most girls would love to be on the cover of a magazine, posing for the camera, but this was what Mama wanted, not me. She thought it was in my best interest, the path to a lucrative, exciting career. Sure it was fun being pampered and stuff, but it was too superficial for my liking.

Just because Mama’s modelling career didn’t work out as she’d hoped, she’d been pushing me to live her dream. She was well known in Australia before I was born – she was on the cover of lots of magazines, featured in commercials and even acted in some films, but she didn’t really make it on the international stage.

While chasing a career in Europe she was swept off her feet by my papa at a famous disco in Milan called Hollywood. It was a popular hangout for many of Italy’s top footballers, international models and actors. And so Mama fell in love, gave up full-time modelling and married Papa. As the glamorous wife of a famous Italian football star, Mama fitted right in. And these days she was in her element running a successful fashion business called 23, which kept her and Papa extremely busy.

‘Lucia, look this way. Great! Now a little twirl. That’s lovely, sweetie,’ shouted Enzo.

This was getting more and more frustrating – all I wanted to do was play football, not perform another little twirl . . . Mama would kill me if she knew I’d been skipping dance class and casting sessions just to play football. My little trick was to tell our driver to take the rest of the day off so I could do my own thing. The less people knew about my secret, the better.

Luckily, in my neighbourhood, Brera, which is pretty much in the centre of Milan, everything was within walking distance. As soon as school finished, I’d race off to football at the park just up the road, missing my dance lessons at the studio around the corner. Thankfully I lived just five minutes away so it had been a doddle. I’d got away with it for the past year, since my parents banned me from playing football. It was a good thing they were always too busy to attend any dance concerts, or anything else I did for that matter.

I’d tried to tell them I’d rather be out on the pitch kicking the ball and trying to crack one into the back of the net, but they never seemed to hear me. I think they assumed it was a phase I’d grow out of, like a little kid. But I wasn’t so little. I was fourteen years old, tall for my age and ready to kick butt. No matter what it took, I was going to find a way to follow my dream. So in order to keep playing football after they banned me, I had no choice but to lead a secret football life.

Enzo brought me back to earth. ‘One more twirl. Perfect! Okay, Lucia, it’s a wrap!’

My parents named me Lucia Zoffi but my friends called me Lucy because Mama was Australian and Lucy was the Australian version of my name. I preferred being called Lucy, and it was definitely much better than Skippy. That was another thing I battled with my parents about: they absolutely refused to call me Lucy. How would they feel if I just called them Frida and Paolo?

I grew up in Milano, as we say in Italy. Papa was born here, a buzzing city where everyone is obsessed with football and fashion. For football fans – which is nearly everyone – the game is more than a national sport . . . it is a way of life! To the Milanese, the city reigns supreme, thanks to the dominance of its two premier football teams. AC Milan and Inter Milan are fierce rivals. Even though they share the same stadium, they divide the city with their passionate supporters. Controversial referee decisions can spark arguments between families that last for weeks. The game’s a religion.

The style-conscious come here to be enchanted too, as Milan’s one of the world’s leading fashion capitals alongside Paris, London and New York. The Milanese parade around in impeccable designer outfits, looking as though they’ve just stepped off the catwalk, even if they’re just off to the supermarket. It was easy to see why Mama fell in love with the place. Mama revelled in everything Milan had to offer. It was a far cry from her humble upbringing in Sydney’s Kings Cross.

Her dream to make it in Europe kind of came true – and to be fair, she did more than just lunch. She was the face of her own women’s wear collection, and the driving force of the company she ran with Papa. He also enjoyed the fashion scene and loved to watch the parades when he got a chance, but for now Mama ran the show. The company was a big part of Papa’s retirement plan.

Thanks to their successful business and Papa’s status as a god in Italy, Mama was good friends with all the top designers. Her dressing room was full of their clothes and when she had a special event she usually had a one-off designer piece made. Heaven forbid she get caught in the same outfit as another celebrity.

And yes, Mama was pushy. She insisted that I parade along the catwalk at her friends’ charity fashion events while she beamed alongside me. I’d been doing it for so long I didn’t really get nervous walking out into the spotlight . . . I just took it in my stride, even though I’d always been a little clumsy. I was always tripping over or walking into something. Maybe it was because I had a tendency to drift off into my own world when I got bored.

I tried to make sure I had a bit of fun with the whole experience. Depending on my mood, I’d sometimes pretend to be someone else. I loved acting like the singer Pink. She’s a rebel, a cheeky, strong-minded woman. She says what she thinks no matter what’s at stake. Acting like that, I didn’t feel so bad about being dressed up in clothes I wasn’t into.

Needless to say, strutting my stuff on the catwalk had been a mixed bag of fun and calamity, especially when I had to don high heels – they were so not my thing.

At a recent event one of the designers was outraged when I refused to wear stilettos especially made to match the gown. Instead, I snuck on my old sneakers and playfully skipped along the catwalk in front of a full house of celebrities, fashion industry types and the media. I did the Pink thing and got carried away. But then I somehow tripped over the gown because of its silly long tail. I felt everyone freeze, but I quickly popped up with a dance move and continued on my way.

The designer and Mama looked on in horror but the crowd seemed to enjoy it – they must have thought it was part of the show, because I got a round of applause from the front-row celebrities, and the photographers were happily snapping away at my cheeky looks.

The designer had no choice but to forgive me, thanks to the overwhelming support – although backstage it was a different story. I heard a few catty comments, made just loud enough for me to hear.

‘Oh, how did she get away with that?’ ‘Who does she think she is?’

‘Imagine, falling over like that. How clumsy.’ ‘She’s not a model, she’s a circus act.’

But I just tried to ignore them and got on with it.

The most embarrassing time, though, was when I was modelling with Mama in a D&G show. I was wearing a sequined dress and a pair of very high heels, more like stilts . . . I shakily made it halfway down the catwalk, arm in arm with Mama, but then a heel broke and I lost my footing. I fell off the catwalk, taking Mama with me. We landed on top of a couple of shocked photographers who kept clicking as we hit the floor with a big thud.

Mama was horrified but in true professional style faked a smile. The paparazzi had a field day, and the photos landed on the front pages of a couple of magazines and newspapers.

For once Mama and I agreed on something – we were so embarrassed! But Stefano and Domenico loved the extra publicity and insisted on having me appear in their shows. Go figure!

I didn’t mind the charity events, since they raised money for many worthy causes. That was the positive side of the business. At least in a roundabout way you could make a difference. But you had to put up with all the trivial gossip about the latest trends and your looks. ‘Her legs are fabulous and that hair is divine.’ Okay, it could be good for the ego but really, couldn’t they chat about something other than looks? I hated the way they talked about me like I wasn’t there. I wasn’t some plastic mannequin!

Chapter 3

The Devils’ captains

I wasn’t the only one obsessed with football. My papa enjoyed a passion for the round-ball game from the moment he took his first steps. He was thrust into the spotlight early, not only because he was the child of a famous footballer, but because he displayed incredible talent as a youth. He was touted as the next big thing in football from the age of thirteen. And they were right, he was now captain of both AC Milan, known as Diavoli, the Devils – one of the world’s richest and best football clubs – and the Italian national team. With his beloved Italy, he won the World Cup twice, and he’d won five European Champion trophies with AC Milan.

In the public’s eyes Papa was the football legend Paolo Zoffi, but to me he was just Papa. Whenever I got to hang out with him, which wasn’t often enough, we’d chill out at home and play with my little chihuahua, Gigi. Papa’s always been affectionate, wrapping me up in his huge hugs and telling his silly jokes.

But I didn’t get him to myself very often. Papa was so famous that we couldn’t walk the streets in our home-town, or in fact anywhere in Italy, without being bothered by the paparazzi or fans. He was very patient with the fans – he’d never say no to a kid asking for an autograph. But it was even worse after a game, when he ventured out to the players’ well-known hangouts, such as Giannino’s, a restaurant owned by one of his team mates. The photographers would wait in their cars or around the corner and pounce when the players appeared.

Wherever we went as a family it was the same. Very few photographers respected your space; they thought they owned you. The paparazzi even followed us to our retreat in Lake Como sometimes, but at least then they kept their distance. It was so laid-back there. You didn’t get any of the noise you were bombarded with in the fastpaced city of Milan. It was gorgeous for a short break but after a while I’d be bored with the peace and quiet, so I always looked forward to returning to the city.

Papa loved Lake Como too, but really, he escaped from it all on the pitch; it was his sanctuary. And he – like the rest of his team – was captivating to watch. Most of all, I loved going to the home games, as the atmosphere at the San Siro stadium was incredible, especially in the local derby where his team faced off against Inter Milan. I usually watched Papa’s games from the team’s private box. It was luxurious, but I wished I could sit in the grandstand with all the real fans more often. Being in the crowd was how I imagined sitting in the Colosseum would have been, watching gladiators fight for their lives in fierce battles against ravenous lions. AC Milan’s dedicated fans, known as the rossoneri (the red and blacks), would face off with Inter’s fanatical supporters, the nerazzurri (the black and blues). They’d spur on their teams with loud chanting and wild cheering throughout the spectacle and when their team scored, it was electrifying.

I loved watching Papa and his team mates play – not only were they incredible athletes but really cool guys. If I timed it well, sometimes I got to spend time in the change room before the match, although I had to get out of there when the manager arrived for the team talk. (Well, I actually hid behind a wall so that I could listen