Fun in the Old World

It didn't take long for me to realize that Italy was different. I had landed an internship with Coca-Cola in Milan and on my first day I showed up at the office bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager for a challenging summer work experience.

After being introduced to my new colleagues I asked what I should do on my first day. Nothing, I was told A nation-wide general strike had been called, so there was so business to be done. My new acquaintances were mostly white collar workers so the had shown up for work an way. We hung around a bit, got to know each other a little, and soon decided we were hungry.

Lunch consisted of clearing a space in a nearby warehouse. setting a table for twenty-five, and preparing enough spaghetti to feed an army. We ate pasta and drank wine for three hours.

The first hour we gorged ourselves. The second hour may new friends dubbed me "Johnny the Americano"--a tag which stuck (I would rarely be called anything else for the next two months.) By the third hour the wine had taken its effect. I don't remember what happened. I only recall getting a ride home and thinking out loud, wouldn't it be great if Italy had a general strike once a week?

Cranks

Italy was different. Very different. For starters, theft is rampant in Italy--a type of thievery tinged with miscnievousness. In my first week at work a colleague and I went to his apartment for lunch one day. During our meal the phone rang. His wife answered, spoke briefly and hung up.

"Who was it" my friend asked. "Burglars," she answered. "Oh," he said, and kept eating.

I asked him to explain. Burglars often called apartments in Italy. If you answer, they exchange pleasantries. If you don't answer, they assume no one is home and come and clean out the apartment. Happens all the time, he said.

The common stereotype is that Italians steal anything and everything ous throughout Europe for lifting wallets from the pockets of unsuspecting tourists. Out on the street they are masters at lifting radio cassette decks from cars. As a precaution most Italian drivers remove then from their dashboards and carry them on their person when leaving their cars on the streets.

Soccer Mania

I discovered how very different Italy was through an unlikely source. Italians are a diverse lot, but they are unified by a common national obsession. From Parma to Pisa they worship the game of soccer. And in the summer of 1982 their obsession intensified with the playing of the quadrennial World Cup championships (il Mondial) in Spain in June and July.

The Mondial was more than just a tournament for the average Italian. It was a reason for being, something that commanded Italy's heart and soul throughout the summer. In short, it was an obsession.

The seriousness with which the Italians approached the game of soccer is difficult for the North American mentality to grasp. This observer had a swift introduction. On a sunny Monday afternoon early in July Italy's beloved Azzuri (a name derived from the team's uniforms) squared off against the World Cup tournament favorite--Brazil--in the quarterfinals. Propelled by striker Paolo Rossi's three goals, the underdog Italians through sheer tenacity somehow upset Brazil, 3-2.

Oblivion

I was largely oblivious to the match's importance prior to that afternoon. Not that it was difficult to keep abreast of what was happening. During the playing of the Brazil game the city of Milan--like cities all over Italy--shut down. Traffic came to a halt, workers stopped working, and the nation's eyes and cars stayed glued to T.V. sets and radios.

My accommodations lacked both of these appliances. But my open window overlooked the street, and after each Rossi goal the celebration that occured outside provided an unmistakable indication of what had happened.

The game seesawed lack and fourth. Italy scored, and then Brazil tied it. Italy scored again, and Brazil came back. Finally Rossi's third goal in the closing moments of the game settled the outcome.

In the ensuing days press reports would play up the fact that a seventeen year-old Brazilian girl had slit her wrists in despair and that three elderly Brazilians liens had suffered heart attacks at the moment of Rossi's clincher. Soccer, it was duly noted, was a life-or-death matter in much of the world, especially in Latin American and Europe.

Fountain of Youth

Balancing Brazil's despair was Italy's jubilation. Pandemonium erupted throughout the nation. In Rome teenagers races, toward Trevi Fountain following the final gun. According to officials reports, seven seconds after the game had ended the first fans had already reached the fountain. They jumped in fully clothed and joyously refused to be fished out by surrounding policemen.

All over Italy the streets were enveloped by revelry. From my vantage point in Milan I could see jubilant fans streaming into the streets everywhere. Italy's tricolor flag was conspicuous. Friends would spot each other from across the street, run ever to each other and embrace, crying that this was the greatest thing ever to have happened to them, and to Italy.

Cars ambled up and downs the main strip, horns blaring, buge flags being waved out of windows. Women waved ecstatically from the sunroofs of cars while their boyfriends drove, looting the horn. Amid the cacophony of sound and motion girls would occasionally drop their flags in their enthusiasm and appeal to standers by to fetch it for thew and turn return it to the moving car Men on the street would usually oblige, but office only for the reward of a kiss.

People embraced everyone. There was more than just dancing in the streets--in Milan many danced on the rooftops of cars. Throughout the celebration thousands shouted cheers in unison. "I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA!" they shouted over and over again. Or for the more vulgarly minded: "Brasilia! Brasilia! Vaffanculo!"

Horsing Around

In the center of the city fans climbed all over a towering statue of Garibaldi on his horse. The game lasted 90 minutes. The celebration would last the night. And it was only the beginning.

Three days later Italy disposed of Poland in the semifinal. Once again, the superhuman Rossi, who by now had become an instant celebrity, provided all the firepower the Azzuri needed. He notched both goals en route to a 2-0 Italian victory.

The festivities erupted again, but this time in a relatively subdued fashion. Italy had been expected to defeat Poland, and they had dominated the game throughout. In contrast, against Brazil the Azzuri had pulled off a victory which few had expected--and in a thrilling fashion no less.

The climax came Sunday. Matched against West Germany and their superstar halfback Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, Italy was in the finals for the first time since 1970. It had been 44 long years since the Azzuri had won the World Cup.

In a crowded living room in the heart of Turin, Italy, thirty-odd family members, one American, and assorted family pets intently watched a single television screen, beaming the World Cup final live from Madrid.

In the first half neither team scored. At one point Italy missed on a penalty kick. A silence which should have been incapable of thirty people in a room that size ensued for several minutes afterwards. Three goals for the Italians--the middle one by Rossi--in the second half converted the silence to bedlam. Final score: Italy 3, Germany I.

The result unleashed another celebration, this one of even greater and more unbelievable dimensions. The nation once again took to the streets. The partying didn't subside--or even waver--throughout the night. Italians everywhere launched a frenzied celebration as if there were no tomorrow.

Inferiority Complex

It had been a long time since Italy had anything to cheer about of this magnitude. The Azzuri had last won the World Cup in 1938. Since then there had been no victories in war, no diplomatic triumphs, nothing but the frustrations of a small country trying unsuccessfully to distinguish itself on a world scale.

An underlying pessimism and cynicism had come to pervade Italy. I recall being shocked by a conversation with my Italian landlord when he told me that Italian history for the past fifteen hundred years was a national disgrace, and that he would leave for America right away if he was a younger man.

The World Cup victory provided an outlet for celebration which Italy had been sorely lacking. Eighty-five-year-old President Sandro Pertini called it the greatest day for Italy since he had assumed office seven years before.

In the euphoria which ensued the Azzuri were honored as conquering heroes, Goalie and team captain Dino Zoff was elevated by the government to the status of commandentore, one of the highest civilian distinctions possible in Italy.

Rossi became a national superhero Endorsement offers flowed in and a leading manufacturer granted him a lifetime supply of shoes. For Italy's leading scorer the irony was particularly striking. Just six months before he had been a national embarassment banned from organized soccer for collaborating with gamblers to fix games. Now he was worshipped.

For this observer, the night of the World Cup began in Turin with wild street celebrations. It ended in Milan, where I was expected to report to work the next morning. Somewhere in between came a two-hour train ride, but that journey has faded into oblivion.

What remains firmly fixed in memory is my trek from the Milan train station to my lodgings. Corso Venetzia at 3 a.m. that night was jammed with traffic, jammed with celebrants creating an enormous din. I passed a few street corners where three or four piece bands were staging impromptu jam sessions, complete with electric guitars connected to amplifiers.

Flashing

In a city--no, nation--gone crazy, one incident stood out clearer than any other, typifying Italy and the nature of her jubilation. At a certain point along the street the traffic snarled, and there in the middle of it stood a solitary man draped in an Italian flag which covered him from his waist to his knees. He stood amidst a throng of fans fenced in by several police cars casting a pall over the scene with their Hashing blue lights.

By his side were two carabinieri, the Italian uniformed authorities. They wanted him to put his pants on and get out of the middle of the street. For several minutes he steadfastly refused. The crowd backed him forcefully. "I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA!" they shouted supportively reinforcing the lone man's patriotism.

The arguing continued for five full minutes. Finally, the man wearing the flag relented. He nodded his head. He hugged the carabinieri one at a time, kissing them on both cheeks Tears--or was it sweat--were visible on his face. The carabinieri smiled, while the blue lights continued to flash in the background.

The crowd continued its cheering. At last the man turned to his supporters and shouted a final "I-TAL-IA!" He waved his fist in defiance, then marched back to his Fiat parked in the middle of the street Slowly he undraped himself and put on his pants. The crowd loved it. Banners waved Women screamed. After a few moments more of encouragement, the throng moved on.

So did I. I headed home, thinking that the whole country had gone crazy, And over a soccer game