GOOOOOOOHHHHHHLL!

Smile like you mean it. Sorry, Zippo.

So one of the things on the agenda while I was in Italy was to see a soccer (futbol) game. Carlo, a bartender at the local bar generously agreed to take me to Rome to see his favorite team, Lazio (the region for which Rome is the capital), play Lecce (who cares where they're from, they're going DOWN). When I arrived at the bar at 11 am I was promptly handed a blue Lazio logo team scarf--and complemented on my decision to wear all blue (how serendipitous that it was the only thing I had that was clean). We hit the road to pick up Alessandro (aka Zippo, like the lighter) in the next town over, and then make our way to Rome.

It's probably important to mention that Carlo had never spoken a word of English to me. I had been feverishly studying my Italian flash cards so that I might be able to communicate the basics--I'm hungry; I have to pee; I need tequila immediately. As soon as we got in the car, I realized that Carlo had a much better command of English than he had ever let on before, which is a good thing, because, just like when you cram for a test, I had retained absolutely none of what I had attempted to learn. I HAD suceeded, however, in creating new words that do not really exist, as well as combining the Italian pronounciation with the Spanish pronunciation for the same word, rendering the words I was saying unintelligible in any language. I also was not aware until this very long day of not being able to communicate properly (this is hard for a person who likes to talk as much as I do), that accents and emphasis can mean the difference between communicating like a reasonable person and making a complete and utter fool of yourself. At one point, I attempted to say that I had kickboxed for one year (anno, prnounced annn-no). What I DID say was that I had kickboxed for one asshole (ano, pronounced ano). By the end of the day, my brain had turned off. I think I probably spoke 150 words in total. That is a humbling experience.

On the way to pick up Zippo, I was able to discern that the match didn't start until 6 pm, which meant we would be arriving in Rome about 5 hours early. I was unclear as to why this was the case, but who am I to ask questions (even if I could have)? Things became clearer once Zippo got in the car. He lit up a cigarette, glanced at me and said in broken English, "we go horses."

And so we went. To bet on the horses, before we ever even left town. (Its very funny, by the way, how horse races are conducted here. The jockeys don't actually "ride" the horse. They sit in a little cart, chariot-style, and then they bludgeon the crap out of their respective horse with a whip. Seems a little twisted that they don't have to do any work at all). I figured Zippo regularly followed the horses and perhaps had his favorite running today. Nope. The boys had absolutely no method to their madness--they simply asked me to pick a horse, and then they proceeded to drop large sums of money on my selection. No pressure. Then, whilst awaiting the results, Alessandro used me as a human shield while he reached around behind the nearest slot machine and rebooted it, the whole time explaining that it was okay, he works here. When he turned the machine back on, he immediately hit the jackpot.

This pattern was repeated all day. When we stopped for sandwiches and beer, Zippo trolled around looking for a slot machine. When we got to Rome, we intermingled our jaunts stopping in and grabbing a quick shot with a desperate search to find slot machines. Zippo dropped literally hundreds of euros in a few short hours. I smiled, said something that made no sense and probably offended everyone around me, and took another drink.Zippo playing the slots. Again.

After endless hours of the highly enjoyable task of watching an addict succumb to his addiction, we arrived at the stadium--late. Well. One is not late to futbol. We could hear the shouting from inside the stadium walls, which prompted a veritable stampede of multiple generations of Italian men as they sprinted at full force towards the stairwell. I didn't get it. I don't run to my seats if the Dodger game is already in its 2nd inning when I arrive. I stop, grab an $11 beer and a dodger dog, and mosey to my seat. I, evidently, don't know the meaning of the word "fan."

You don't sit at a futbol game. You stand (or jump, or stomp, or run around), usually ON your seats or as close to the field as you can squeeze, where you remain standing for the entire hour and a half. You don't eat or drink, or heaven forbid pee, at a futbol game. Actually, I take that back. You can buy, from a roving vendor, little plastic shot-sized bottles of a syrupy sweet liquor called Borghetti, that tastes like Kahlua and ensures a headache the next day for even the hardiest of drinkers. Especially when you buy 20 of them. I'm not really sure what drinking 20 of these things is meant to do, since it's certainly not meant to give you a buzz. Perhaps it is to alleviate the desire to know what it would feel like to drink an entire bottle of maple syrup in under an hour.

You don't talk at a futbol match. You sing. Any number of at least 100 songs, most of which, ironically enough, consist of Italian words sung along to an English/American melody. I am fairly certain I heard a rendition of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," in which the words were "Lazio, Lazio, Laziooo-oh, Lazio, Lazio, Laziooo-oh."

To say that an Italian man is passionate about futbol is to not really do the sentiment justice. A true fan will yell and/or sing at top volume for nearly two hours just to insure that his player has no doubt of the fans' faith in him. That is, until said player screws up. At this point it might appear to the untrained eye that this player has just brutally murdered every single one of that particular fan's family members. The looks of dismay, disappointment, and disgust on the fans faces in these moments might leave one wondering if after the game there will be a giant bonfire of gargantuan blue flags and coordinating team scarves. And at the very instant that one is contemplating this, the ostracized player will do something wonderful, which usually involves knocking down a member of the opposing team, and preferably causing immeasurable bodily harm. Then you will again see the sheer, unadulterated joy on a sea of faces, chests puffed up with pride and bellowing with song. And so this pattern will continue.Ooooh. A fight!

I'm disappointed to say that our game was not very exciting. Lazio has an amazing offense, so most of the game was played near Lecce's goal, but the underdog team managed to maintain a steady defense for nearly the entire game.

And then, five minutes before the game ended, it happened. Lazio scored. And this one moment made the entire day of eating almost nothing, drinking maple syrup, and traipsing around in the frigid drizzle so that Zippo could indulge his vice, all completely worth it. I truly believe everyone leapt into the air at once, a moment that seemed to hover in time for a perfect, breathless, instant before the world came crashing down in ecstatic bedlam. The roar from the crowd rivaled that of a sonic boom. Grown men launched themselves into each others' arms, and onto each others' shoulders, and at each others' feet. Everywhere there was hugging, kissing of cheeks and foreheads, hearty backslaps and general blissful chaos. Someone I didn't know from somewhere in the midst of the delirium folded me into a brain-popping hug. It seemed to go on for hours--this mania of glee and love and pride, and it was contagious and wonderful to behold.

On the way back, cold from the rain, and exhausted from the intense emotion of the day and trying to speak Italian, we still managed to squeeze in a stop to...play slots. I am quickly learning that there is nothing that Italians do just a little of. But I suppose six hours of watching someone else lose his shirt is a small price to pay for sharing even a moment of that amazing, staggering euphoria. I plan to become a futbol fan.