I have always been fond of the game of soccer. In spite of its plebeian origins and popularity, which, in a studious family like mine, was an activity associated with loud and rowdy crowds – essentially a Roman circus where the plebe eats and screams its frustrations and misfortunes out of its angry lungs – I must confess that the unpredictable movement of a ball and the intricacies of teamwork exerted a strong pull in my teenager’s imagination. I don’t mean to be a classist, but soccer was not a permitted subject of conversation in my household. My passion for it grew over time. However, it still remains attached to international tournaments, not to the national championships, of which I know little. So, how can I write about soccer?

Well, in my teenage years, because of my volleyball practice, I was a natural goalie. Contrary to most soccer players, who want to kick the ball, I had an aerial sense of the ball, its trajectory, its spin, its velocity. I could jump high, like a cricket and grab it or fend it off. I discovered that goalies are in demand. I must have been thirteen. One morning, I was recruited in the schoolyard. On my first game, I blocked a penalty kick and I was famous overnight. Every team wanted me. But, even in the least sweaty and strenuous role of the game, in order to play ball, I had to sneak out of my house and lie to my father, for if he saw me engaging in what he defined “a Philistine game”, he would consign me to a Benedictine convent, which included what the church clergy did, and still does to children… you can imagine my preoccupation with this threat. Yes, folks, with soccer, I could not afford a smoking gun, or it would be the end of my luck – if you only knew how “luck” is translated in street language, then you would know my true fear. Consequently, I may be the only Italian boy who never owned a soccer ball. No kidding.

There was an exception to this strict household regime: whenever Italy played at an international level. Then, my father, an Emeritus Professor, who drowned himself under piles of books and inhabited dusty libraries, and thought that soccer is for the masses, would undergo an amazing physical and metamorphosis of character, turning into the most consummate and verbally colorful soccer fan you would ever see: a true patriot, though not so adept to foul language. Replacement for words I could never publish were: derelict, calamity, pig, dog, turtle, macaw, spastic, butcher, crass, asinine, brainless, inept, incompetent, egotist, primadonna, ballerina (reserved to players like Toni, who offer a beautifully choreographed ballet performance), or signorina, the latter reserved to those who would ruinously fall and roll in amazing spasms when barely tackled (a common practice in modern soccer). My father had a way to deliver mild words with dense weight. Oddly enough, this colorful and passionate edge was my favorite side of him.

Regarding the game of soccer itself, neither one of us was ever taken abash by the single digits of its minimalist outcome. Goals are fun and sometime spectacular, but even in a scoreless game, there is plenty of struggle and action to watch, and the intrinsic difficulty of scoring is actually one of the most attractive features of this game. Strategy and resolve, art and skills, technique and creativity, attack as a form of defense, exploiting the opponent’s smallest mistake, even sheer luck, all play an important role in this game. Of course, the low score aspect of the game is not generally appreciated by American fans and it may be the direct consequence of its lack of popularity in the U.S. where “scoring” is an important aspect of life. Americans love high-scoring games, which leaves me out on a limb with baseball, for Americans are perfectly able to appreciate games of doom, extreme odds and pain, like baseball and golf. But only baseball is so basic: one point per man coming to home base; whereas American football, a game on steroids, assigns several points per touch down. It may be because a struggle without outcome is utter nonsense to a civilization used to results and final deliveries. Soccer has neither of them. Waiting for something to happen seems foreign to the world of pragmatism. Yet, thousands of Red Sox fans waited decades to see their team win the Word Series, and are therefore well acquainted with the subtle pleasures of rooting for a home team who has struggled for a lifetime. Isn’t the final win so much sweeter?

It seems to me that, much like baseball, soccer is a game of endurance, patience, tactic and finesse – which does not extend to the players’ ability with language. It just happens that soccer requires a pair of legs and lungs a baseball player can only dream of – sorry American fans! Rules of contact are fairly strict. You play too forward, you lose; too weakly, you lose; you lock in defense, you lose; play too rough, you lose; you play solo, you lose too… Behind the strategies, it’s team work done spontaneously, and that is, with little to no time to think.

All games of extreme odds have something wickedly attractive. But, beware folks, in order to be a soccer fan rooting for Italy one must be adept to agony, be capable of utter sufferance. How else can one stand watching one of the best soccer teams the world has ever seen, playing worse than a minor league team? Italy is lazy. Although soccer is ubiquitous in Italy – like ignorant politicians, delays, taxes and spaghetti – and people care only about their own team, when Italy plays a world cup the nation is galvanized. Soccer is like breathing for most Italians. It is in the air, you play it in the school yard, on the street, even in your living room, only later on you get on a real court – tear your ligaments at forty, when you still pretend that you are able to play it hard. In Italy, you take a bus or go to any bar and half of the customers are talking about it. So, as a kid, you kick the ball around. If you become good enough, a team may draft you, then you begin a well-paid career.

As for Brazil, our soccer team is capable of wonders, like a tiger ready to leap and tear you with its powerful claws. So where was the problem on the last World Cup? Why did Italy not make it to the finals? The problem is that tigers are often asleep, especially during day-hours. In addition, tigers at the Zoo are too well fed to lift a paw. And tigers won’t do anything to you until you seriously bug the hell out of them. Even then, they may say: hey buzz-off bozo, I got a salary and a job here, why would I move a paw? Just kiss my pretty hind and look at my shiny fur!

Let’s say the truth: Italy sucked in 2006! But rest assured that the highlights of a world tournament do not come from the big teams. They come from the underdogs. Last time, it was Turkey giving us the pleasure that soccer was always meant to deliver. History was made on the quarterfinals of round A, on the game that was meant to determine the second place in the round. It was made with the greatest come back I ever witnessed from any team, including the legendary win of Italy against Germany, at the 1970 Mexico World Cup. Favorite on paper, the Czechs dominated the game during the entire first half, leading to a 2-0 advantage, on the second half, continuing to pound on the Turks, even missing two easy goals. At 70 minutes, Turkey looks done with, spent, finished. Well, as it turns out, not even close. All of the sudden, eighteen minutes before the end of the game, Turkey’s outstanding left wing Sabri wakes up, and as in a seeming spell, galvanizes his entire team, besieging its opponent and taking complete possession of the game; scoring not two, but three consecutive goals, thus eliminating their opponent at the very last minute. This match alone literally dwarfed the entire tournament – the underdog fighting tooth and nail, coming back to bite you in a place I cannot name here.

I compare this game to what in my experience was the best soccer game I ever witnessed. Back in the 70’s, my father and I broke at once the four legs of our couch, when we landed from a five-foot simultaneous leap in the air, prompted by a fourth winning goal of Italy against Germany. At the time, it was an unexpected win against all odds, a win of Italian artistry against German perfection, of creativity versus machine, of inventiveness opposed to military organization. Old political resentments helped fueling the duel, making it a more significant win than it ever was. But so is sport, a container to channel deep and unreported emotions, a way to steam off and give way to sentiments that could bottle up and lead to true conflicts between nations. In this sense, sports bear the sign of the highest civilization, a modern ambassador. Imagine a soccer match of Team USA against North Korea or Iran. This is what Italy played on that day.

For the record, on that legendary game, Germany was favorite and had outstanding, mature players on its team; rocks like Maier, Mueller, Schnellinger and Beckenbauer. An awesome team. Italy had an equally spectacular team, with stars of the caliber of Albertosi, Burgnich, Facchetti, Cera, Rosato, Bertini, Domenghini, Mazzola, De Sisti, Boninsegna, Riva and legends like Zoff, Rivera (a midfield genius, able to dish the ball on someone’s foot), Prati and Poletti on the bench, all artists capable of inventing a goal out of nowhere. Even then, the way Italy played, reminded me of what Italy stands for: infinite artistry, elegance, finesse, all types of talent you cannot buy or learn, not in a lifetime; all skills and manners that are refined by hundreds of generations. In all this laude, take into account that only Rivera and Albertosi spoke Italian at the time – seriously! The rest of our team players were rather uneducated, inarticulate men; very unlikely speakers. Yet, they had absorbed the Italian way, the way in which Italy distinguishes itself from all nations on earth, both on serious and trivial matters. They had learned the art. You may want to rent that legendary game. You will not regret it!

Well, off we are with a new tournament.
Hopes are high and the teams are ready.
This is a special summer, and I hope you enjoy every bit of it.
AGP