13 June 2006, Naples
Last night for the first time, I watched an entire game of soccer. Not just any game, but Italy’s first match in the ‘Mondiali’. Or the 2006 World Cup, Germany as it’s known elsewhere.
I’ve been thinking about it and have decided that I can’t spend the whole of the next month avoiding the World Cup, so I might as well try to enjoy it. After last nights exposure I can’t promise that I will understand why it’s so important to spend 90 minutes plus half time break, plus the before and after commentary, watching for what amounts to about only thirty seconds of unadulterated excitement when a goal or two is scored. But I’ll try.
Our urban cave is tucked in with other similar dwellings housing locals and immigrants from Eastern Europe. We have one close (as in vicinity, not relationship) neighbour, Maria, who is Polish. She shares her telephone conversations and heated discussions with all of us, her shrill voice piercing and echoing around the building. We think Maria lives in her cave with her husband but they also seem to have different people coming and going all the time. I suspect she is a base for newly arrived immigrants who are in the process of finding their own place.
Why am I digressing? In Italy, the only matches that are shown on free to air TV (Rai Uno, like the ABC in Australia) are those involving Italy. Of course the sports news will have highlights of other prominent matches, but if you want to see a game where Italy is not playing you need to watch it on Sky. Gi has surmised that Maria and friends have pooled their funds to subscribe to Sky TV.
The Mondiali actually started on the 9th June, which was Friday, and the day of Poland’s first match. I don’t know the score but from the sounds of the screaming and cheering that came out of Maria’s flat I’d guess that Poland beat Ecuador. Two days later I could hear Maria and friends following another game, and from the World Cup schedule I have pinned to the calendar I guess they were supporting Serbia and Montenegro, a distant cousin in Eastern Europe. I can just imagine them all crammed into the tiny one-room apartment, sitting on plastic chairs and Maria’s bed covered in a crocheted rug, glued to the television in the corner, smoking and drinking. Every match of interest will be an excuse for a party.
We don’t have a television, let alone Sky, so to watch Italy’s first match we decided to join his mother and sister for dinner at their place. Driving over to Rosaria’s I was astonished that the traffic seemed to be even crazier and the driving more erratic than usual. Everyone was in a hurry to get to their nominated box to watch the game. Accordingly, each driver seemed to have tunnel vision, failing to look, give way or stop. The shops had all closed early, with only a few bars and restaurants still open, signs out the front promoting the match would be televised inside. As we sat stuck in traffic I watched one maître d' bounce out of a restaurant, throwing a red, white and green wig over his hair, a strange contrast to his prim waiter’s uniform. He hopped around with excitement, chanting a football song with the barman from next door. Looking around with a grin, he suddenly whipped the wig off his head, shoving it into the pocket of his burgundy apron.
The streets were festooned with Italian flags and banners, vendors set up on corners selling football paraphernalia. Every boulevard, street and alleyway in Naples has a national flag hanging from balconies, windows, overhead lines and car antennas. I can only guess that as the Italian team progress further towards the finals the fans will drape the city in even more red, white and green.
As we approached Rosa’s place the streets were deadly calm, almost empty, as people settled in to private homes, bars or stopped to gather around a publicly displayed TV screen in preparation for the match. On the way home we passed a bar with five Carabinieri (Italian military police force) vehicles parked out the front. Then there were five police cars at the bar on the next corner. Even the criminals had apparently stopped to watch the game.
The match was being held in Hannover, Germany. As the teams ran out onto the playing field, the neighbourhood around us erupted with the blare of gas propelled horns and fireworks. If you’re a sports fan you probably know about these mini trumpets already. They look innocent enough but a push of a button and the air is filled with a resounding honk, like a lonely goose during mating season. It’s a most unpleasant sound, designed and best reserved for the football arena. But the Neapolitan fans seem convinced that it helps the team in Germany, and that they might just hear it resonate across the Alps. I’m mentally preparing myself for the coming month of insistent racket.
Italy was to play Ghana. The Ghanaian team trotted out, their black skin accentuating their white uniforms. Most of them had their hair shaved or closely cropped, their heads round and glistening. Italy appeared on the field, a river of deep blue trickling on to the blanket of green. In contrast to Ghana, most of the Italian team have shoulder length hair, slicked back with gel, promoting the smooth, greasy Italian image of bad mafia movies. The captain however, breaks the rules, the image of his shaved head and beaming face caused Gigi to jump up off the couch. It’s Fabio Cannavaro, a local boy from Naples, and a childhood friend for Gi.
The game gets underway, the players warmed up and the crowd jumb up and down in the bleachers. A player wearing a shirt emblazoned with the name ‘Toni’ had a few attempts at scoring a goal. His face reflected his emotions as the mistakes and bad luck kept the score 0:0. Gi’s mother, Rosaria, went from cursing his blunders to consoling his misfortune as another ball soared over the nets. The cameras kept flashing to the coach, standing on the sidelines, stern and concerned, throwing his hands in the air at every injustice. Ironically though, the player we saw the most of was Kingson, the Ghanaian goalkeeper, who seemed to be working the hardest out of both teams, thanks to our busy friend Toni.
Suddenly, the Italian player Pirlo found himself in front of the goal posts, a mess of players before him. Kicking the ball in a straight line directly at the goal, it scooted by every Ghanaian player and ploughed into the nets, like the parting of the Red Sea. My companions yelped with excitement as the small screen flashed to faces in the crowd, painted red, white and green, grinning with pride. Ghanaian fans were grimacing with dismay, some of their initial hope waning. On the field Pirlo raced around like a man possessed, his team members chasing him in an effort to congratulate him. Outside the horns were blaring, people cheering, as the whole of Italy had stopped to watch their team take the first step on the road to World Championship status.
The whistle for halftime blew. I’d been watching attentively for 45 minutes, but it didn’t seem that long. The television rolled out the advertisements and I knew I was in Italy from the content: Nutella, Alfa Romeo, a sexy ad for a mobile Delonghi air conditioning unit like air condition was a new invention, mineral water, Bacardi spirits and mobile phones.
During the match I’d been taking note of the colours. The referee wore a horrible fluorescent yellow (or is it green) shirt. It just meant we noticed more when he was looking in the wrong direction and failed to award a foul. Around the perimeter the telephoto journalists were decked out in forest green vests. A plethora of security guards stood at regular intervals circling the field, facing the crowd like wooden toy soldiers. Don’t they hate missing all the action happening behind them? The camera operators (cameramen seems politically incorrect) were pretty in their pink vests.
The second half had begun and I wondered about some of the skills involved in soccer (football, sorry). Certainly the ball skills and kicking require obvious dexterity, and the running a high level of fitness, but how do they head the ball without seeing stars? Especially, when it’s come off the foot of someone half way down the field, and falls from the sky like a black and white meteorite before bouncing off a sweaty forehead.
Thirty-eight minutes into the forty-five minute half (yes, I had started watching the clock count down by now) Italy scored a second goal. Player Iaquinta is buried under a pile of blue as the team celebrated on top of him. Scoring a goal at this international level did look easy though when you managed to outrun your opponents, pushed aside a defender and side stepped the goalkeeper. With a clear path, Iaqunita almost paused before he gently guided the ball between the posts. His defender, Kuffour, was on the ground, his head between his knees in disbelief. The camera came in tight to capture his backside up in the air, his grass stained white shorts and black muscular legs completing the picture.
The rest of the game seemed like a mix between an anticlimax and a tease. I was secretly hoping that Ghana would score a goal, in support of the statistic demonstrating that they had 53% ball possession. The clock ticked 45 minutes and a man on the side line held up a sign showing the game would go to three minutes of extra time. What for, haven’t we seen enough? At least it will keep the trumpets and fireworks quiet momentarily, I thought. Eventually the referee put us out of our misery and blew the whistle ending the game. It was like the whole city had been holding its breath and suddenly exhaled, screams, trumpets, fireworks filling the air in celebration. The teams stripped off, a girls favourite scene on the soccer (sorry, football) field, exchanging shirts, hugging and slapping hands. The Italian coach looked pleased, the first game behind them, the 2:0 result a favourable one.
The last image on our small screen before someone resumed control of the remote was of Gi’s childhood friend Fabio, bare-chested and physically beautiful, with his arm around the captain of the Ghanaian team. Both men were grinning, a picture of sportsmanship and international goodwill. Perhaps I only needed to watch one game to work out what all the fuss is about.
PS The Australia v Japan was also on last night, but I can only watch one TV at a time. I’m pleased to advise those of you living in non-urban caves that we won 3-1. Aussie, Aussie, Aussies. Oy, oy, oy! Let’s not think about the next game vs. Brazil.
Last night for the first time, I watched an entire game of soccer. Not just any game, but Italy’s first match in the ‘Mondiali’. Or the 2006 World Cup, Germany as it’s known elsewhere.
I’ve been thinking about it and have decided that I can’t spend the whole of the next month avoiding the World Cup, so I might as well try to enjoy it. After last nights exposure I can’t promise that I will understand why it’s so important to spend 90 minutes plus half time break, plus the before and after commentary, watching for what amounts to about only thirty seconds of unadulterated excitement when a goal or two is scored. But I’ll try.
Our urban cave is tucked in with other similar dwellings housing locals and immigrants from Eastern Europe. We have one close (as in vicinity, not relationship) neighbour, Maria, who is Polish. She shares her telephone conversations and heated discussions with all of us, her shrill voice piercing and echoing around the building. We think Maria lives in her cave with her husband but they also seem to have different people coming and going all the time. I suspect she is a base for newly arrived immigrants who are in the process of finding their own place.
Why am I digressing? In Italy, the only matches that are shown on free to air TV (Rai Uno, like the ABC in Australia) are those involving Italy. Of course the sports news will have highlights of other prominent matches, but if you want to see a game where Italy is not playing you need to watch it on Sky. Gi has surmised that Maria and friends have pooled their funds to subscribe to Sky TV.
The Mondiali actually started on the 9th June, which was Friday, and the day of Poland’s first match. I don’t know the score but from the sounds of the screaming and cheering that came out of Maria’s flat I’d guess that Poland beat Ecuador. Two days later I could hear Maria and friends following another game, and from the World Cup schedule I have pinned to the calendar I guess they were supporting Serbia and Montenegro, a distant cousin in Eastern Europe. I can just imagine them all crammed into the tiny one-room apartment, sitting on plastic chairs and Maria’s bed covered in a crocheted rug, glued to the television in the corner, smoking and drinking. Every match of interest will be an excuse for a party.
We don’t have a television, let alone Sky, so to watch Italy’s first match we decided to join his mother and sister for dinner at their place. Driving over to Rosaria’s I was astonished that the traffic seemed to be even crazier and the driving more erratic than usual. Everyone was in a hurry to get to their nominated box to watch the game. Accordingly, each driver seemed to have tunnel vision, failing to look, give way or stop. The shops had all closed early, with only a few bars and restaurants still open, signs out the front promoting the match would be televised inside. As we sat stuck in traffic I watched one maître d' bounce out of a restaurant, throwing a red, white and green wig over his hair, a strange contrast to his prim waiter’s uniform. He hopped around with excitement, chanting a football song with the barman from next door. Looking around with a grin, he suddenly whipped the wig off his head, shoving it into the pocket of his burgundy apron.
The streets were festooned with Italian flags and banners, vendors set up on corners selling football paraphernalia. Every boulevard, street and alleyway in Naples has a national flag hanging from balconies, windows, overhead lines and car antennas. I can only guess that as the Italian team progress further towards the finals the fans will drape the city in even more red, white and green.
As we approached Rosa’s place the streets were deadly calm, almost empty, as people settled in to private homes, bars or stopped to gather around a publicly displayed TV screen in preparation for the match. On the way home we passed a bar with five Carabinieri (Italian military police force) vehicles parked out the front. Then there were five police cars at the bar on the next corner. Even the criminals had apparently stopped to watch the game.
The match was being held in Hannover, Germany. As the teams ran out onto the playing field, the neighbourhood around us erupted with the blare of gas propelled horns and fireworks. If you’re a sports fan you probably know about these mini trumpets already. They look innocent enough but a push of a button and the air is filled with a resounding honk, like a lonely goose during mating season. It’s a most unpleasant sound, designed and best reserved for the football arena. But the Neapolitan fans seem convinced that it helps the team in Germany, and that they might just hear it resonate across the Alps. I’m mentally preparing myself for the coming month of insistent racket.
Italy was to play Ghana. The Ghanaian team trotted out, their black skin accentuating their white uniforms. Most of them had their hair shaved or closely cropped, their heads round and glistening. Italy appeared on the field, a river of deep blue trickling on to the blanket of green. In contrast to Ghana, most of the Italian team have shoulder length hair, slicked back with gel, promoting the smooth, greasy Italian image of bad mafia movies. The captain however, breaks the rules, the image of his shaved head and beaming face caused Gigi to jump up off the couch. It’s Fabio Cannavaro, a local boy from Naples, and a childhood friend for Gi.
The game gets underway, the players warmed up and the crowd jumb up and down in the bleachers. A player wearing a shirt emblazoned with the name ‘Toni’ had a few attempts at scoring a goal. His face reflected his emotions as the mistakes and bad luck kept the score 0:0. Gi’s mother, Rosaria, went from cursing his blunders to consoling his misfortune as another ball soared over the nets. The cameras kept flashing to the coach, standing on the sidelines, stern and concerned, throwing his hands in the air at every injustice. Ironically though, the player we saw the most of was Kingson, the Ghanaian goalkeeper, who seemed to be working the hardest out of both teams, thanks to our busy friend Toni.
Suddenly, the Italian player Pirlo found himself in front of the goal posts, a mess of players before him. Kicking the ball in a straight line directly at the goal, it scooted by every Ghanaian player and ploughed into the nets, like the parting of the Red Sea. My companions yelped with excitement as the small screen flashed to faces in the crowd, painted red, white and green, grinning with pride. Ghanaian fans were grimacing with dismay, some of their initial hope waning. On the field Pirlo raced around like a man possessed, his team members chasing him in an effort to congratulate him. Outside the horns were blaring, people cheering, as the whole of Italy had stopped to watch their team take the first step on the road to World Championship status.
The whistle for halftime blew. I’d been watching attentively for 45 minutes, but it didn’t seem that long. The television rolled out the advertisements and I knew I was in Italy from the content: Nutella, Alfa Romeo, a sexy ad for a mobile Delonghi air conditioning unit like air condition was a new invention, mineral water, Bacardi spirits and mobile phones.
During the match I’d been taking note of the colours. The referee wore a horrible fluorescent yellow (or is it green) shirt. It just meant we noticed more when he was looking in the wrong direction and failed to award a foul. Around the perimeter the telephoto journalists were decked out in forest green vests. A plethora of security guards stood at regular intervals circling the field, facing the crowd like wooden toy soldiers. Don’t they hate missing all the action happening behind them? The camera operators (cameramen seems politically incorrect) were pretty in their pink vests.
The second half had begun and I wondered about some of the skills involved in soccer (football, sorry). Certainly the ball skills and kicking require obvious dexterity, and the running a high level of fitness, but how do they head the ball without seeing stars? Especially, when it’s come off the foot of someone half way down the field, and falls from the sky like a black and white meteorite before bouncing off a sweaty forehead.
Thirty-eight minutes into the forty-five minute half (yes, I had started watching the clock count down by now) Italy scored a second goal. Player Iaquinta is buried under a pile of blue as the team celebrated on top of him. Scoring a goal at this international level did look easy though when you managed to outrun your opponents, pushed aside a defender and side stepped the goalkeeper. With a clear path, Iaqunita almost paused before he gently guided the ball between the posts. His defender, Kuffour, was on the ground, his head between his knees in disbelief. The camera came in tight to capture his backside up in the air, his grass stained white shorts and black muscular legs completing the picture.
The rest of the game seemed like a mix between an anticlimax and a tease. I was secretly hoping that Ghana would score a goal, in support of the statistic demonstrating that they had 53% ball possession. The clock ticked 45 minutes and a man on the side line held up a sign showing the game would go to three minutes of extra time. What for, haven’t we seen enough? At least it will keep the trumpets and fireworks quiet momentarily, I thought. Eventually the referee put us out of our misery and blew the whistle ending the game. It was like the whole city had been holding its breath and suddenly exhaled, screams, trumpets, fireworks filling the air in celebration. The teams stripped off, a girls favourite scene on the soccer (sorry, football) field, exchanging shirts, hugging and slapping hands. The Italian coach looked pleased, the first game behind them, the 2:0 result a favourable one.
The last image on our small screen before someone resumed control of the remote was of Gi’s childhood friend Fabio, bare-chested and physically beautiful, with his arm around the captain of the Ghanaian team. Both men were grinning, a picture of sportsmanship and international goodwill. Perhaps I only needed to watch one game to work out what all the fuss is about.
PS The Australia v Japan was also on last night, but I can only watch one TV at a time. I’m pleased to advise those of you living in non-urban caves that we won 3-1. Aussie, Aussie, Aussies. Oy, oy, oy! Let’s not think about the next game vs. Brazil.
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