Berardi, we broke the bank for the boy. But at that stage, we needed a bonafide striker, after Vlahovic, Osimen, Leao, Arnoutovic all went for extraordinary sums. Pity, he’s been injured for most of the season, but you could have done worse, you could have spent on Lukaku. The rest of the strike force are two bit players that have fared admirably, getting decent game time when injuries struck the primadonna big guns. We’ve got the Dzekos, the Miliks of the world, and they’re not bad.
In retrospect, far too much was invested in our defense, however one could be forgiven for this thinking. This is Italy afterall. Theo Hernandez and Bremer, the starlets. When they’re not defending, they’re scoring.
Kvaratskhelia, or Kvaradona as he’s been branded. What I would do to have him in midfield. Instead, we got his co-pilot Zielinsiki. Not bad. In fact, any one of the Napoli boys are coveted by anyone in any league across Europe these days. Surprisingly, Rabiot, bought for a pittance, is having a resurgence at Juve. Some say he’s playing for a contract. Rounding out the middle are some up and comers, Tonali and Vlasic, but I concede, it’s mediocre.
Still, it’s the goalkeeping that’s the problem we’ll have to solve in the transfer window. How can you let in six goals in one game and still be a starter in the league? In ice hockey, that player would be ‘riding the pine’; slang for sitting on the bench, before being shipped to the minor league. We’ve got some cash in the war chest, and if I throw in a Darmian or Gosens in the deal, maybe we can patch this hole and have someone respectable manning the net. Sorry, Skorupski, but you had to know, the writing was on the wall.
This past autumn, with 500 credits to bid on a team consisting of three goalkeepers, eight defenders, eight midfielders and six attackers, I became a manager of an Italian football team in Serie A. I had been looking for an innocent way to still stay connected to football, ever so faintly, as I was before, so when an Italian made a post on the Utrecht Expats Facebook page saying they were looking for a few extra players to play in their fantasy league, I asked if they’d let allow a medigan, a non-Italian to participate. Andiamo, I was in.
FantaCalcio.
Within a few days, we set a date for the auction where the above transactions transpired. Usually this is done at a bar or someone’s house, and I envisioned myself sitting around a table overflowing with antipasti, gesticulating wildly as Lazio’s Cerio Immobile bidding value reached astronomical figures (170 credits!). And it seemed that some of the other guys wanted the same, one of them stating that he missed some of the Italian vibes in Utrecht, however due to conflicting schedules we had to settle for an online session. So we spent close to six hours online calling out player names, bidding in increments, sometimes of twenty, to agree on a final price. Luckily I had been provided with a reference sheet of estimated market values, because as only a casual Serie A fan whose main exposure was through some Champions League and occasional Youtube highlights, my knowledge of the players was limited. Still, my strategy was to bid on the players from the rich clubs. Unimaginative, but it prevented me from doing something stupid like putting in 100 credits on a striker from Sampadoria (8 goals as a team in 16 matches).
With my credits spent mostly on the Milans; AC & Inter, Juventus and Napoli (Roma, to be expected, got too rich for my blood, ), next was downloading the app and selecting my starting eleven. The way it works is that every gameday you field a team and pit it against another player from the fantasy league. Since it’s in Italian, I still haven’t fully figured it out. There’s some scoring system that gives you six points for having the player play, either as a starter or substitute with enough minutes, and then points are added or deducted based on their performance. I think there’s some subjective element to that as well, some player ratings from god knows who, sounds kinda fishy to me, and more importantly some concrete statistics like saves, cards, assists and goals. But it’s mostly about the goals. Which in retrospect explained to me why the guys were skimping on their defense and then spending absurd amounts on strikers.
Let’s say Bonaventura starts and gets a goal, he will get a six plus three for his goal, giving him nine for the matchday. Once all the games are played, your team’s total is summed up and you get one ‘goal’ for reaching 66 points, and every six points on top of that you get an additional goal. It’s very possible to go below 66 points, as I can attest to, if your players get carded, let in too many goals, don’t score. If it sounds a bit vague, that’s because it still is, to me.
So why else, aside from the football element, would I want to join the Serie A Fantasy league? Well, the clue is in the name, fantasy, and when I’m frequently fantasizing, it’s of Italy.
Staying within the context of football, I’m a Saussulo ultra. On Sunday morning I kiss my mom goodbye and whizz off on my scooter to down a few espresso and cigarettes with my mates, before heading to the match. We win, and afterwards I make love to my girlfriend, before we go to Nonna’s to eat her ragu that’s been simmering for hours. Next week, I’ll go hiking in the Dolomites, to watch the sunset and read.
Outside of that, I try to watch La Grand Bellaza about once a year, and for days after I pretend I’m the main character Jep, looking back on my fictional life of when I was young and the King of Rome, now an old man living alone on my memories, reminding myself that that is why life sucks and at the same time it is gorgeous. That is the great beauty. You.
If I’m not Jep, I’m Inspector Montalbano, living on the coast in Sicily. I’m a great, great friend to many. But I have my flaws, and I reflect on them looking out at the sea while I dine at my local trattoria. My girlfriend is away, and a beautiful blonde has been pestering me for days. Bending the rules a little, I’m able to solve the crime, and afterwards my contemplative mood brings me to my favorite olive tree, where I sit smoking a cigarette, thinking of my father. The author of the Montalbano series, Andrea Camilleri, is the real life octogenarian I aspire to be. Others: Ferrante, Starnone, Ginzberg, Primo Levi and more. If I have to be anywhere with a book, mentally or physically, then I want to be in Italy.
But the truth is, this longing is not entirely limited to Italy. Sometimes I look at old people, with a tinge of envy, because their life has already been lived, the peaks and troughs already surmounted, and what remains is a simple routine and peace. I often go out for a walk or run in the Dutch evenings, and the Dutch, exhibitionist as they are, frequently leave their curtains wide open, inviting the world for a look. So I look, and think if these people are at peace and happy. There’s one middle aged couple on my street that I’m particularly envious of. They’re often on their couch watching a show, surrounded by a glow of warm yellow light and tranquility.
Occasionally, I get meta and play a trick on myself, walking past my own house a few times, asking myself while looking at my bookshelf, chandelier, my wife sitting on the couch, if I’m that person am I content?
In one of the last books that I read last year, the author wondered “if the ugliest shade of unhappiness comes, not directly from what you lack, but from wanting a different life to the one you’re living.”
It made me think. Looking at the flipside, would the prettiest hue of happiness be being content with the life you have. As the old trope goes, be present. But why not go one step further. Why settle for a hue when you can have a spotlight or blazing sun.
Reading 2666, I noticed that my mood immediately changes when the setting switches from the comfortable academic world in Europe to poor crime ridden Mexico. Surely enough, when I put the book down, it was with a fulfillness that I looked at my sad little apartment and think how glad I am to live here, in this safe country, even though everything is not perfect. Am I on to something? It could mean that I ought to forget about Italy, about the life I supposedly want to have, and instead, read books set in dire conditions. Instead of spending some days in Rome or Turin, my next vacation would be spent in a place with abject poverty, living among the poor for some time. One of the great daily joys of my life, that strong Italian coffee and pastry, should be replaced with a weak lukewarm tea, and for lunch, plain rice and beans. Or just read shitty books, and watch shitty movies. I guess I’m describing a form of asceticism. There’s plenty of literature on controlled suffering, and that’s probably what we experience when we run long distances.
Fifteen years ago, I would have given everything, for the life I have now, for the life I have lived. But now, occasionally, I’m not so sure, and I’m prone to these walks, to dream of Italy. Tomorrow is the next Serie A game day, and we have a long way to climb up the table from the 5th position that we currently occupy. Tutto bene.