Wascally wabbits and other unearthed gems

Italian television, a strange and wondrous place, continues to amaze, astonish, and entertain. My new favorite show is Bugs Bunny dubbed – “Ehhhhh - Che succede, amico?” The other night, Mark and I saw what seemed to be a giant group talent/variety show pitting two groups of mostly buxom and scantily clad women against each other: le bianche e le nere. The white women versus the black women. And no, I’m not talking about uniform colors. Interessante...

Also interesting is that I just finished watching Game 4 of the World Series on Italian television. Yes, the Red Sox still won, the Colorado fans waving white towels still looked like they were conceding surrender, the victory still felt different from 2004, and Papelbon is still crazy good and crazy just. That it is now mid-November and this game was played... 2 ½ weeks ago is odd enough, but the video editing by the Italian TV channel was really outstanding. And by outstanding I mean bizarre. So they skipped a few innings, wanting to condense the game, fine. But missing Bobby Kielty’s homer only to show him descending the dugout steps? During a pitching change for Colorado, they cut to a blimp shot of the night stadium and next to Jacoby Ellsbury of the Boston Red Sox playing leftfield? The bottom of the ninth, three final outs left for Colorado, and... they... showed... two of them? Who was editing this? Edward Scissorhands? Buñuel? Mr. Ed?

On our non-cable TV, there are three channels in a row – 14, 15, and 16 – that are identical. There are at least two other matching pairs between 1 and 30, which is as high as our TV goes. Sometimes I feel like I’m playing a game of electronic media: “Yes, yes, I know. The pope was talking on that other religious channel too... but which one?!” The local access channels that we get seem to focus primarily on karaoke and variations thereof. Call in dedication request karaoke anyone? As previously mentioned, Walker, Texas Ranger is often at home on Italian TV.

Easily the most bizarre aspect of Italian TV I have seen is what appears to be the rug channel. Yes, the rug channel. Any time I have passed it, there is a well-coiffed man in a suit and tie sitting on rugs, pointing out the qualities of rugs, standing next to hanging rugs, talking about rugs. I think he is selling the rugs – beautiful Persians, interesting abstract Modern geometric designs, etc. – but I am not sure. I have never seen anyone else on the channel, and I’m beginning to wonder if the host is in solitary confinement in a rug warehouse... with a cameraman. Maybe there is a rug fascination that has swept Italy but somehow missed our apartment. We do not have a single rug.

An additional note: in bocca al lupo to the boys’ and girls’ soccer teams at PS 161 in West Harlem! Both teams are in 1st place in the NY SCORES program going into the last games tomorrow – forza! Dai! Dai!

Islands in the Stream, Part III

The last installment of Mordecai's essay...

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Pius II’s efforts towards the creation of a utopia in the hills of Tuscany are often glossed over by historians of theology, the Crusades, and the political foundations of modern Europe. It has particular resonance for historians of sport, however, and there is a growing body of research on Pius the Sportsman. Some grants have been awarded in support of further studies of Pius II’s practice of falconry, for example, but, given the prevalence of that activity during the early Renaissance period, more adventurous historians have set their sights elsewhere.

While the evidence is scant, some historians are beginning to assert that Pius II was an ardent practitioner of a much-practiced yet oft-maligned sport: Wiffle Ball. Yes, Wiffle Ball – a variation on baseball that is played using a lightweight, perforated plastic ball, almost invariably white in color, and an invariably yellow plastic bat. Groundbreaking historians in this field, including Hampton, Grieves, et al., now claim that Pius II’s fascination for and dedication to the sport of Wiffle Ball were so great that he designed the central piazza of Pienza to be a Pantheon for its dedicants.

Centuries later, a group of us made good on Pius’ promise to Wiffle athletes. On our recent trip to Tuscany, we played Wiffle Ball in Pienza’s historic central piazza. Crazy, yes, but true. We found many pieces of Pius II’s grand Wiffle Ball stadium still in place and were frequently surprised by the overarching beauty of his plan. The locker room/dugout along the wall of one abutting palace, replete with hooks for jackets. The batting practice cage alongside the ancient well. Infield/outfield practice from the lip of the central door. A perfectly placed circle bricked into the very pattern of the piazza from which the pitcher could serve up Wiffle junk.

The lights shone bright on our field. Tickets were scalped to disbelieving neophyte fans for free – we were putting on a show and inviting all of Tuscany, even the papal ghosts, to join us. Except for when the municipal police rolled by: some of us scattered like high schoolers caught loitering in a midnight parking lot; one of us waddled off with the Wiffle Ball bat running the length of his leg. Our official photographer documented the scene. We laughed at the spettacolo and improbability of it all: Wiffle Ball in the House that Piccolomini Built for Wiffle Ball. A fitting sequel to the Lake Como Cup of 2006.

[For a fuller treatment of Pius II’s fascination with American sports invented, allegedly, after his death, I encourage you to read Jackson Checo’s thorough and impeccably researched examination of the subject, Piccolomini: The First Suburban Teenager?]

Islands in the Stream, Part II

Mordecai's essay continued...

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The Leibnitz party thought they had found their parcel of the Promised Land, but the island proved barren despite their efforts. Within a fortnight it became clear that it was not even, in fact, a true island, as the spring Proxigean tides soon inundated the small space, leaving but a speck of damp sand “the size of a rolltop desk (Adão, ed., 1957).” By that point, the party was over, and Leibnitz was the only remaining guest.

One of the last to depart, Maggie Oswald, claimed, in her interview with the New Bedford Daily Register, that Leibnitz was attempting to construct “a platform of some sort, from any which flotsam and jetsam and the like that happened by. I saw a lobster pot he had, and a shipping palette, an empty rum barrel from a pirate ship I think, a big bone maybe from a moose, a split plank flower box... I don’t know. It didn’t look real stable (Adão, ed., 1957).” Colorful as this description may be, Ms. Oswald’s report was certainly influenced by the severity of the ordeal she had just endured and unfortunately could not be verified.

Any attempts to corroborate her story of Leibnitz’s unusual tower were thwarted when, within a few days, an unseasonal hurricane swept up the North Atlantic coast. While meteorological records from the period indicate a low-force storm (Davis & Davis, 1922), by the time the weather had cleared, Leibnitz, the accordion, the two sheep, any platform, and the first ten feet below sea level of the island had disappeared. At the University of Maine at Orono-hosted symposium “Is Any Man an Island?: A Discussion on the Hermeneutics of Ill-Fated Utopian Expeditions of the 19th Century,” Dutch researcher Jan-Mendelt Van Wristler commented, “It is doubtful Leibnitz survived.” Indeed. Another arrow shot at the moon that fell well short.

Whether or not Leibnitz knew of Pope Pius II (1405-1464) is a subject of some debate among utopian historians. However, they both held la città ideale of More and Plato in high esteem: Leibnitz played out his tragedy along the Massachusetts coast; Pius II used the Tuscan countryside as his palette. What is generally agreed upon is that Pius II was “born Enea Silvio Piccolomini in1405. [He] was Pope from August 19, 1458 until his death in 1464. Pius II was born at Corsignano in the Sienese territory of a noble but decayed family. His longest and most enduring work is the story of his life, Commentaries, which is the only autobiography ever written by a reigning Pope.”

Strongly influenced by the humanists of his day, Pius II set out to resculpt his hometown, and this aspect of his papacy is of special interest to historians of urban design. Corsignano, later renamed Pienza in honor of its most famous son, became the first formidable exercise in city planning in post-plague Europe. The town still retains most of the fruits of his labor and was designated a World Heritage site by UNESCO in 1996.

Islands in the Stream, Part I

On my recent trip to Tuscany, I traveled with my roommate Mark and a collection of characters associated with his baseball team. We also spent some time with an acquaintance of mine from New York, Mordecai Johnson, who is a visiting adjunct professor at the University of Bologna. He asked if he could contribute some historical perspective to my blog, and I readily agreed. Because of the length of Mordecai’s essay, I have separated it into three installments.

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The desire for utopia has engendered many attempts at the ideal community. Plato’s Republic and Sir Thomas More’s Utopia are justly the most famous literary antecedents. In Massachusetts of the 17th century, the Puritans believed they were establishing a “city upon a hill” that might serve as a beacon to the world. Many sought a counter-example to the increasingly teeming cities of the Industrial Revolution during the 19th century. Within this last category, the story of Arnold Leibnitz provides an especially telling example. While peculiar, the story is by no means unique; the Leibnitz party and a trove of other foolhardy experiments share a common result: failure.

Leibnitz was in many ways the archetypal aspiring utopian leader: charismatic, prematurely grey, neglectful of quotidian minutiae. With a small group of like-minded souls, Leibnitz set off from Boston in mid-March of 1857 on what was then an arduous overland journey to Provincetown, Cape Cod. Inspired by Leibnitz’s creative firebrandery, they hoped to form a utopian community apart from “the roiling mess of present society (Rosenfeld, 1975).” By early April, however, having established nothing more than poor relations with the local inhabitants, the group was run out of town. Though first-person accounts vary wildly in their depiction of the Leibnitz party’s exodus, there is a general consensus that the group was lax in paying bar tabs and maintaining personal hygiene.

Finding themselves with “but a skiff and a sack of potatoes to their collective name” (Lister, 1964), the group gathered on a dune to regroup. Eventually, after much deliberation and not a little ill will, the latter primarily directed towards the accordionist in the group, Leibnitz decided to lead the party out to a small, uninhabited island he saw just off-shore. Gesturing vociferously, he proclaimed, “There, amidst the unspoilt bosom of Nature, we shall settle and make famous our experiment (Kalantagian, 1981).”

Clamoring into the skiff, one and all with potatoes and accordion and two sheep – the reasoning being that most in the party enjoyed their tea with milk and that come fall they could “make what harvest we could from the wool of our flock” (O’Leary, 1980) - the group splashed out towards the island. They made landfall on Accordion Island, so named for completely unrelated circumstances, after over four hours of drifting caused by the group’s having neglected to bring any means of propulsion or steering and to “Poseidon’s cruel sense of humour [sic]” (Ferthen, 1917). Splashing ashore, Leibnitz fell immediately to his knees in prayer to God, Shiva, and the animist spirits of the island, it being an ecumenical endeavor...

Do you believe in magic?

Somewhere the sun is shining. Not Mudville. Not Cleveland. Not even Codogno yet, but Somewhere is here in northern Italy, there in Cambridge and Andover and Hingham, down in East Greenwich, up in Rye and Passamaquody, over in Millers Falls and Alaska and Davis and Manhattan and Kampala and Oregon and... Red Sox Nation is smiling in the sunlight.

It is 6 o'clock in the morning here and I'm about to go to bed. Again. I slept the first time until 2 AM when Mark and I woke up to watch baseball on the Internet. Game 7 of the ALCS. Red Sox and Indians. These things at least are sure: Papelbon is sick but he don't need no doctor; Pedroia is small and plays yooge; gutsy Coco is into leather; Youk is doing the Monster Mash just in time for Halloween; Big Papi is... Big Papi; the Sawx are wicked good... I could go on, but the final score says so much so simply: 11-2. Good night and good luck.

The New England Patriots are filthy. The Bruins are heating up. Boston College football is #2 in the country. The Red Sox are going to the World Series. I think my fantasy elementary school lunch-time floor hockey team is even still undefeated. This is beautifully absurd. Perhaps I'm dreaming...

It is 6 o'clock in the morning and I'm going to bed. Andiamo.

One of the guys

Recently, a group of teammates parted ways at the end of another season. So close. Maybe next time. Wait till next year. The last two weeks of the season had been difficult physically and mentally; losing three out of four is never enjoyable. There was talk of possible retirements. But the team had gone out winners, roaring back from a deep hole to win the last game in dramatic fashion. The team walked off the field to the bus and the waiting off-season without a post-game stretch, much to the consternation of the trainer. Aching but smiling.

This scenario can and does transpire all across the athletic map, year in and year out. What made this story unique was the way the leading actors and supporting characters included me in the unfolding. As the season ended, Mark and his teammates welcomed me as an adjunct professor among an academy of lovable oddballs. Practice. Outings to Park Club (at least another post unto itself). The last two games: Codogno at Bollate.

I rode the bus with the team. I helped with outfield practice. I sat the bench and ate sunflower seeds. I warmed up the left fielder before the start of each defensive half-inning. I rode the wave of energy through highs and lows; I was in the wave of energy cheering the guys on and berating the ump in English baseball chatter, much to everyone’s entertainment.

As I’ve mentioned, I stopped playing organized baseball at 13, when pitchers threw only fastballs and changeups and there were not always outfield fences to aim over. I have had the pleasure over the years to see Mark continue to play baseball at many levels, in diverse places – for our high school, on Cape Cod, in college, around Boston, and now Italy. He is good and many of the “skilled practitioner practicing his art” clichés apply: the way he gathers a ground ball during infield practice; the momentum-building leg kick that repeats and repeats with each pitch; the slow pendulum of his bat as he sets himself in the batter’s box.

Against Bollate, the last game of the season, losing 5-0 with the opposing pitcher, a Venezuelan fireballer, working on a no-hitter through five innings, the manager called on Mark. They walked slowly together to the mound, Mark’s stage.

I wish I could say that Mark shut down the vaunted offense of Bollate, striking out 15 batters over 4 2/3 innings. I cannot. Or I could, but I would be lying (and as many will remember, if you tell one lie, it leads to another; you tell two lies and, whoa, you’re in trouble, brother). In this case, the truth is not far from the fiction. Mark threw peas; the team’s bats came alive; and Codogno stormed back to win. Mark gritted through a Rolaids bottom of the ninth, getting a final ground-ball out with the go-ahead run left stranded on second base. In the excitement of the moment, I carried myself away and walked down the line with the team, shaking hands with the Bollate players. Good game.

As so often has been the case, I have been lucky to end up among such people as the Codogno Jaguars. People honk and wave at me as they drive by; others insist on buying me a drink. Players share inside jokes. The groundskeeper knows my name and thinks I’m a great softball player (of which fiction I will not be dissuading him). It is nice to be included. Warm up the stove.

A snapshot of ItaliaBall

Recently, I have been making up for lost time, years of my life when I wandered in the wilderness. I have come in from the cold. I have been soaking up ItaliaBall.

As the opening game of Italian Baseball Week, last Sunday’s friendly between Italy and China-Taipei came wrapped in ribbons, flags, and pomp. After the presentation of a few awards, the introduction of the two teams, and the release of balloons, a 40-person marching band strode onto the field from a gate in the center field wall under the colorful illumination of a fireworks display. The organizing committee had done their work well. Despite a few errors here and lots of inevitable sacrifice bunts there, the game itself was baseball played well in front of a knowledgeable and engaged crowd.

The announcer gamely tried to pronounce the Chinese names, though I can only wonder what those players were thinking of his versions. One aspect of baseball as I’ve always known it that unfortunately has not taken hold here on the boot is the 7th inning stretch. The public address system did play a recording of “Take me out to the ballgame,” but I may have been the only one actually stretching and singing along.

If I train my lens away from the international stage and turn to Codogno’s team, I find a more significantly Italian take on America’s national pastime. I have started going to baseball practice when I can, which is to say every time they have it. My reasons for going are many: it's right outside my door; the players have for the most part welcomed me as a new acquaintance; I enjoy team camaraderie and gobbling up the odd grounder that rolls my way; I can use the language practice; and, heck, it's better than trying to decipher "Walker, Texas Ranger" in Italian.

I haven’t played organized baseball since I was 13 so I can't speak with authority on regional variations but there are certain touches that strike me as purely Italian. The pace of practice, like much of Italian life, is molto lento. The manager wears shorts but (gasp!) no baseball cap and rarely leaves the area behind home plate. The other night, one player snuck a cigarette while shagging flies in left field, sending what I thought would surely be tell-tale smoke signals to the enemy camp across the mesa.

Before the game on Saturday, the players warmed up to, among other songs, the Cindi Lauper hit “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Perhaps there are inspiring hidden messages in the lyrics?... A mere minutes before game time, most of the team convened by the snack bar for a quick espresso. Others went a step further down the additive lane... As John Fogerty sang, “Put me in, coach. I’m ready to play.”

Unfortunately, Codogno lost both games of the Saturday doubleheader. Mark played third base in both games and came in to pitch with one out in the fifth inning of the second game. Despite a long, injury-related exile from the mound, he pitched masterfully, like Maddux of old. Painting corners, hitting spots, mixing speeds, throwing peas, confounding the Sala Baganzans. You can see the box score here. Teens flirted in the shadows of the grandstand. Toddlers sword fought with the inflatable thunder sticks. We drank beer and ate grilled sausages, though we had to bring our own senape (mustard). It would seem that baseball is baseball. [On a related note, you may be interested in this short documentary about baseball in Ghana that a friend of mine made. Don't know if they drink espresso in West Africa before games but...]

Tomorrow, I'll travel with the team to just north of Milan for the last regular season games. All the chips are on the table as the Jaguars are clawing for the last spot in the playoffs. Maybe Ernie Banks will be smiling on Codogno, 'cause they're playing two.

Opening day

Opening day. The sun shines warmly on green grass and trees, white clouds sail languidly across the blue sky, a delicate breeze ruffles laundry out to dry and lifts hearts... Today is the opening weekend of Italian soccer, or calcio as the beautiful game is called here. Last season was cast in shadow by the huge game fixing scandal – Juventus played down a division in Serie B (like the Red Sox playing AAA in the International League) and three teams started with negative points (okay, Patriots, you’re going to start 0-4 this year). The league is back at full strength this year and excitement is heightened.

Local energy level is also high this weekend as the Jaguars of Baseball Club Codogno return to action after the August vacation. The biancoazzuri (white and blues) take on Sala Baganza, a team from near Parma that includes some of Mark's former teammates, in a day/night doubleheader here at home. Tomorrow, the baseball frenzy continues with an amichevole (friendly) between the Italian national team and visiting China-Taipei. Our roommate, Juan Pablo, although he grew up in Buenos Aires, is one of the catchers for the Italian team.

In many towns, referring to the “local energy level” as “high” when talking about baseball would be a joke. Codogno is different. Lango says, “I was real lucky to end up with this team, in this town. Many people who have played for the team over the years still live here and support the team.” While we’re not in Nettuno, Italy’s “City of Baseball” (think Cooperstown combined with Yankee Stadium combined with the Cape League combined with Normandy), Codogno does support her baseball.

Trees around town are wrapped in signs advertising the games; similar banners hang across the entrance to the central piazza. The team announcer wanted to enlist Mark’s help in advertising the game, but he had to decline out of concern for his boss’s reaction to any modifications made to a company vehicle.

Take me out to the gara, take me out to the spettatori...