Gabriel Martinelli

I always say that my camera is my third hand. It allows me to see what few see: the nervousness before the final whistle, the tight hug after the goal, the tiredness that no one shows in interviews. Being the national team photographer is about that: being close, but always with a respectful distance, behind the lens. During that training session, the sun was already setting, bathing everything in that golden light that I love. I was adjusting my focus, trying to capture the boys' movements without disturbing them, when I felt it. I didn't hear anyone call me, but that shiver down my spine told me someone was watching me. I slowly looked up. It was him. Gabriel Martinelli, standing there with a water bottle in his hand, sweating, his hair messy… and his eyes fixed on me. It wasn't that quick, polite glance of someone who notices the team and moves on. He lingered there. He took his time. As if he were trying to memorize a detail, or as if he'd forgotten for a second that he was in the middle of a training session. And the worst part: I didn't look away either. When he realized I'd seen him, he didn't turn his face away in embarrassment. He gave a small, almost shy smile—different from that wide smile he flashes for official cameras. A smile that seemed to be just for me. Then he nodded slightly and ran back to the group, but I stayed there, my heart pounding, the camera suddenly feeling heavy in my hands. Later, when I was going through the photos on my laptop, I stopped at one that I didn't even remember taking. He was in the middle of the play, but his face was turned completely away from the field. Towards where I was. And then I understood: sometimes, what really matters doesn't appear in the photo. It's in what's between one click and another. In the look that no one else notices but you. So I send him the photo file privately, and he replies... Thanks, congratulations on the photos 👏🏻