|
|
reg Palanzo takes the mound on a crisp Saturday morning
in Poviglio, Italy, his new hometown. It's the top of the
ninth in the third game of the Italian minor league baseball
championship and Greg has pitched a shut-out so far. He only
needs one more out to bring Poviglio to the cusp of the championship.
The old men by the right field fence are praying for the first
time in years and the local priest is ringing the church bells
as loud as he can to summon God to this baseball field in
the Northern Italian countryside. The old women in the grandstands
tell Greg that he's the pride of Poviglio, that the town's
honor rests with him. He can't understand a word: he's just
learning Italian. He's a 23 year-old Outback Steakhouse waiter
who's supposed to be dishing up sirloins right now.
Dalla Nora, the thickset, prosciutto-fed slugger from Ponte
di Piave, steps up to the plate. Ponte is a small Eastern
Italian town that happens to have one of the best minor league
baseball teams in Italy. The winner of this series will be
promoted to the A league, the Italian equivalent of the majors
and Dalla Nora is ready to teach this interloping American
a lesson. He can almost smell Greg's fatigue. He smirks and
jackknifes his bat menacingly.
Greg suddenly feels dizzy with responsibility. To steady himself,
he grinds his foot into the dirt and holds his mitt up to
his face. The warm smell of American leather reminds him of
Danbury, Connecticut where, until five months ago, he had
spent his entire life. He inhales deeply and the smell is
mixed with something else: the pungent odor of overripe grapes
on the vines surrounding the field. He wraps his fingers over
the ball's stitching - two fingers over four seams. Dalla
Nora is about to see the sharp end of a good old American
fastball.
"Andiamo, you piece of shit," Greg mutters and winds
up.
Five months ago, almost to the day, Greg smiled roguishly
at the ladies seated in front of him. He had to put up with
a lot of jerks at the steakhouse. First they ask for A1, then
they want the Heinz 57,
Greg Palanzo warms up in Northern Italy.
"What part of the cow does the filet mignon come from?"
the blonde asked with a smile.
Greg patted his butt. "The backside," he said, and
he could tell from the way their eyes darted down that it
was the answer they wanted hear. Years of weight training
had shaped him well but all that was changing now. He'd played
his four years at Western Connecticut State, where he led
the Division-III team to a conference win as their star pitcher.
He was good, but not good enough to get drafted and had ended
up living in his parent's basement and schlepping steaks.
He'd hoped for more.
When he got back to the basement after work that night, he
looked at his sole consolation: the blonde had written her
number on the back of their bill. At least he could still
put his athletic talents to good use, he thought, picking
up the phone. But before he finished dialing, he picked up
the phone, he checked his email and discovered a curious email
in his in-box. It was from a man named Stefano Campanini,
the general manager of a baseball team in an Italian town
Greg had never heard of.
"I notice your statistics on-line," Campanini wrote.
"You are very good pitcher. You also have Italian last
name. Do you have Italian grandparent? If so, maybe you will
become Italian citizen so to play baseball in Italy? I pay
you and help with all your citizenship process. My town needs
your help."
Brent Consiglio was pouring over a book on international banking
systems when he got the email. It was the fall of his senior
year at the University of Chicago and the twenty-one year
old economics major was trying to decide what role German
hyperinflation played in America's 1929 stock market crash.
Though his youthful face, pale skin and morose, intelligent
eyes suggested philosophy grad student, Brent had always thought
of himself as a slugger. It surprised the recruiters at the
boutique investment banks and trading companies. They were
impressed that the bookish young man sitting in front of them
was batting over .400 as the starting shortstop for the varsity
team at Chicago. But if they asked any questions, Brent tried
to change the subject. He didn't want to talk about baseball
- he had always kept the hope alive that he'd get scouted
and play professionally, at least on some level. These interviews
were the death knell of that dream.
But he had to be honest with himself. The University of Chicago
is better known for Nobel prizes than it is for distinguished
baseball. Maybe he could make it in the independent leagues
but that wasn't much of a life. The pay would keep him near
the poverty line while his friends pulled down six-figures
in banking and finance jobs. The reality was that the time
had come to put baseball behind him. He reluctantly went to
the job fairs, did a round of interviews and, as graduation
approached, accepted a position as a financial advisor at
Wachovia. In a few months, he'd be staring at a computer console
at an office park in suburban Detroit. His slugging days were
over.
And then he too received a strange email from a guy named
Stefano Campanini.
Stefano Campanini is by far the fattest man in Poviglio. He
is so fat, he is known in town simply as "the fat man."
He has never actually played baseball but has been a driving
force for Poviglio's team since 1984, when the players asked
him to run the electric scoreboard. Since he was an accountant,
they figured he could keep track of the game.
Brent Consiglio in Poviglio's piazza.
It's a tough job because Poviglio's 5000 inhabitants are baseball
crazy. In most respects, the town is a traditional Italian
farming community. But nestled in-between crumbling farm houses
and a melon field a few blocks from the town square is a pristine,
lovingly maintained baseball diamond. The game took root here
in the early 70's after the local television station broadcast
a dubbed version of "The Pride of the Yankees,"
a black and white film about Lou Gehrig. It was a revelation
for the local kids; they put aside their soccer balls and
convinced their confused mothers to sew uniforms and stitch
gloves. Ever since, Poviglio has risen steadily through the
ranks of the Italian Baseball League. Two years ago, it reached
a milestone: the team was promoted to the A league and began
playing - and beating - big city teams from places like Milan
and Parma.
It made the citizens of Poviglio feel important even though
most didn't understand how the game was played. No one had
ever paid attention to Poviglio before. It wasn't beautiful
like Venice or big and fashionable like Milan. It didn't have
famous works of art or breathtaking monuments. It was just
a small, quiet town. But now it had a bellisimo baseball team.
And then, last season, the team hit a slump. They began by
losing twelve in a row. Everything went wrong: there were
injuries, fights, and management shakeups. They ended up last
in the division and were summarily demoted back to the B league
- the Italian equivalent of the minors. The town was humiliated
and demanded that Campanini do something - anything - to redeem
Poviglio.
Finding reinforcements in Italy wasn't easy; Campanini already
had the best players within a 30-mile radius. Since the league
required all players to be Italian, he couldn't hire foreign
players.
But then he had an insight: the best players in the world
are American and there are a lot of Italian-Americans. Anyone
with an Italian grandfather can apply for citizenship. All
he had to do was find the Italian-American ball players and
convince them to apply for dual-citizenship. Over a series
of late nights after work, he combed American college baseball
sites and turned up a treasure trove of talented, soon-to-graduate
college players with Italian sounding last names. When he
could find email addresses, he sent letters explaining his
offer.
It was an appealing proposal. He offered round-trip tickets
to Italy, about $1000 per month and a nice apartment near
the piazza. He'd also cover all the costs of obtaining Italian
citizenship. In exchange, the player had to play two games
per weekend for Poviglio and attend practice on Tuesday and
Thursday night.
Brent and Greg thought about it for about three seconds. Then
Greg tossed his Outback uniform into the back of the basement
closet and Brent informed his soon-to-be boss at the bank
that he was going to Italy.
Greg had never traveled outside of the U.S.. He'd barely even
left Connecticut. So when he stepped out of Campanini's car
in the center of Poviglio, he felt like he was stepping onto
a movie set - he kept expecting someone to shout, "Cut." The
cobblestoned square blended into the porticos of centuries
old buildings. An old church with a soaring tower dominated
one side of the square and three cafes held sway over the
other half.
Baseball, Italian style.
Greg met Brent at their one-bedroom apartment off the piazza,
and there was a moment of awkwardness. The Outback waiter
and the financial analyst would be sleeping in side by side
twin beds. If they had stayed in the U.S., Brent would be
making nearly four times as much as Greg. Now, they would
be sharing a quaint 400 square foot apartment. They both looked
at the exposed wooden beams and the sunlight streaming in
through the windows and smiled at the thought of the lives
they'd left behind. They shook hands enthusiastically.
Campanini was thrilled to have real American baseball players
in Poviglio. The season had already begun and the team was
languishing in 5th place. Their arrival would be good for
the team's morale, and, at the least, would improve their
hitting and pitching rotations. He gave them a cell phone,
resisted the urge to hug them, and left them alone.
The phone rang almost immediately. It was Luto, Poviglio's
right fielder, inviting them to a club that night to meet
the team and discuss Saturday's upcoming game.
"We get fuck drunkey!" the Italian shouted and hung
up.
Greg and Brent arrived at the club in the "car"
Campanini provided: a battered white van with the words "Poviglio
Baseball Club" stenciled in blue cursive on the sliding
door. The nightclub was a converted mansion on a country road
outside of Poviglio. A Lamborghini and two Ferraris were parked
in front.
"You don't see this in Danbury," Greg observed,
revving the van's engine just to show he wasn't intimidated.
Luto spotted the van and came out to greet them. He was a
jeweler in his mid-30s who spent his days casting smoldering
looks at the women in his shop in an effort to get them to
buy his gold chains. He spent his nights playing baseball.
He led the guys inside and ordered the whole team shots of
Sambuca in honor of the Americans' arrival.
"Blow job!," he toasted. He had learned his limited
English by watching American pornos.
Jova, the chain-smoking pitcher, didn't speak much English
either but clapped Greg heavily on the back. Jova was a big
guy, with a crooked scar pulling down the corner of his mouth.
The team failed so spectacularly last season in part because
Jova was the only decent pitcher. He'd gotten injured early
in the season, and the team never recovered. He felt personally
responsible for the meltdown and the burden of it translated
into four packs of Marlboros a day. Having Greg here took
some of the pressure off and he was grateful.
Jova's smoking didn't help Giovanni, the hulking, bald first
baseman, who was trying to stop smoking by rapidly inhaling
a cigar every other hour. Sanfo, the catcher, told Brent that
he liked baseball because women responded well to the outfit.
Choosing a uniform had been a multi-week team discussion.
Tonight, they were dressed in silk shirts and cashmere sweaters
and wore flashy watches and thick chains. Greg and Brent,
in their baseball caps and baggy jeans, were fashion misfits
next to their new teammates but they had never been happier.
They were professionals now. This was the team they had spent
their lives training to be a part of.
Brent threw back another Sambuca with Luto and Jova while
Greg scanned the room. He spotted a young, dark haired girl
by the bar, walked over and asked if she spoke English. When
she said yes, Greg tried to impress her with the fact that
he was a professional baseball player from America. She didn't
know what baseball was. She was 23, lived in Reggio Emilio,
about half an hour away, and had never seen a baseball game.
Well then you gotta come see us play next weekend," Greg
said with a big grin.
She was charmed by his smile and told him that her name was
Laura, though she pronounced it "Laowww-dah." Everything
about her was sexy, Greg thought, even the way she pronounced
her name.
"Tell me you'll come and see me pitch," Greg said.
"Maybe," she said coyly. Her friends were leaving. She started
to walk away but paused long enough to give him her phone
number.
When the team stumbled out of the club later that night, they
had their arms over each others' shoulders and were singing,
"Forza Poviglio, Forza Poviglio!" - Poviglio Power,
Poviglio Power!
"You are good fucks," Luto told Greg and Brent.
"He means Luck," Giovanni translated.
"I think we start to win now," Luto slurred and
fell over.
In a quiet Milanese neighborhood, Brent stepped up to the
plate for his first official at bat as an Italian baseball
player. Poviglio was playing Milan's minor league team and
Brent was nervous. Maybe it was just the caffeine. The whole
team had thrown back shots of espresso before the game.
Brent on deck during the Italian Minor League Championship.
Brent wanted to prove them wrong. He wanted to show Campanini
and all the baseball fans back in Poviglio that their faith
in him was not misplaced. He wanted to prove that Americans
were still there for Italy, even if it was in a small way,
on a crummy baseball field in a suburb of Milan. He stepped
up to the plate and the pitcher promptly pelted him with a
fastball. It stung as he trotted to take the free base.
Luto met him at first with a bottle of cold spray, an aerosol
can that shoots freezing air. Taking a cue from soccer players,
the Italians made a big deal out of any injury, no matter
how small. In Italy, it was okay to show you were hurt. In
fact, it was encouraged. Luto started spraying Brent's bicep
with the cold spray and signaled to the dugout for bandages.
"Stop it," Brent shouted, embarrassed.
"You no want a cold spray?" Luto asked, amazed.
"No, I don't want the god damn cold spray."
Luto retreated to the dugout and the next time Brent took
the plate, he was angry. When the ball came inside to push
him off the plate, he wrenched the bat around and smashed
the ball. It hit the centerfield fence, bounced down for a
double and drove in two runs. His hit ignited the team; Luto
hit three singles and Giovanni smacked a double. With Jova
pitching, Poviglio humiliated Milan, beating them 17 to 2.
In the second game of the doubleheader, it was Greg's turn
to show his stuff. He calmly shook out his arm and stepped
up to the mound. The Milanese lead-off hitter took the plate
and Greg wound up, sending in a hissing fastball for a strike.
The ball made a resounding thud in the catcher's mitt. The
batter backed off the plate - he had barely seen the ball.
The players glanced around at each other as Greg lazily scraped
his feet on the mound. Everyone realized that a new kind of
pitcher had arrived in Italy.
Greg pitched a shut-out and had a great time doing it. He
felt invincible, largely because he had been exchanging a
steady stream of cell phone text messages with Laura before
the game. "I like to see you again," she wrote.
She promised to attend the next home game.
Though Brent led the team in RBIs, everyone from Poviglio
was playing better than they ever had before. The ball snapped
off the fingertips of the outfielders and their bats seemed
lighter. Greg sat back in the dugout and forced himself to
imagine the smell of steak sauce, just so he could have the
pleasure of realizing, once again, how sweet it was to be
here.
"Greg is seeing porno in his head," Luto told the
others, noting the smile on Greg's face.
"I'm seeing us winning the championship," Greg countered
and the Italians crossed themselves and kissed their knuckles.
Week by week, Poviglio moved up the rankings. Laura was good
luck for Greg. She came to the first home game and he pitched
ferociously - nine strikeouts and only two earned runs for
an easy 9 to 2 win. Laura didn't really care. The movement
of his body captivated her.
Tommy Spirito on a pedestal in front of Poviglio's church.
By the middle of July, Poviglio had climbed to second place
but Campanini felt that his team had a glaring weakness. They
didn't have a closer. If Jova or Greg fell apart in the ninth,
the team was exposed. Campanini stepped up his American recruiting
and, after months of wrangling with the Italian consulate
in New York, secured citizenship for Tommy Spirito, another
Connecticut native. Tommy played for Eastern Connecticut State,
a Division-III team that went to the National Championship.
When Tommy arrived, Campanini wondered if he'd made a mistake.
Tommy's appearance didn't inspire a lot of confidence. He
had a goofy smile, a big mole next to his nose and a propensity
for tripping on Poviglio's cobblestones. He was also a Yankees
fan, which irked Greg, a Red Sox supporter. Tensions escalated
when Tommy put up nearly life-sized posters of Mariano Rivera
and Kevin Brown in the shared bedroom. When he refused to
take them down, Greg wrestled him to the ground and Brent
had to pull them off each other.
Nor did Tommy get along with Jova, who had his eye on Tommy's
Rawlings glove. Baseball equipment was hard to come by in
Italy and Jova had never seen a glove as nice as Tommy's.
He offered to trade a date with his wife for the glove. Tommy
said that was disgusting and Jova had to be held back. He
thought Tommy was implying his wife wasn't as good as the
glove. It wasn't what the team needed as they prepared to
face San Remo, the number one team in the league.
San Remo, located 20 miles south of Monte Carlo, was the former
winter residence of the Russian Tsar. It has its own palatial
white casino in addition to exclusive beach clubs, a giant
disco on the sea with a retracting ceiling and a population
of 60,000. The casino funded the baseball team with its gambling
earnings and helped build a beautiful field on a bluff overlooking
the Mediterranean. Poviglio had to beat them to make it to
the championship.
The first game of the double header began well. By the bottom
of the eighth, Poviglio was up four to two, but Jova, as usual,
had been chain smoking in-between innings. He began having
trouble breathing and gave up a single and two walks to load
the bases. Poviglio's pitching coach, a weather-worn, retired
Cuban pitcher named Leo Tommaso, pointed to Tommy. Leo didn't
speak English and never entered the dugout. He preferred to
squat along the third baseline and mutter what sounded like
voodoo incantations but everyone on the team respected him.
Tommy grabbed his glove and trotted out to the mound.
Jova made a disparaging remark about Tommy's glove as they
passed by each other and Greg looked on skeptically as Tommy
warmed up. Tommy felt the cold stares coming at him from both
dugouts and lost his nerve. He wound up, sent in a fastball
and the batter smashed it. The sound made Tommy sick. The
ball floated for a long time but just missed the fence. The
slugger booked it to third and drove in three runs. San Remo
won the game off that triple.
The team lingered in the dugout while San Remo celebrated
at the restaurant they had built for themselves beside the
field. There was a two hour break until the second game but
no one from Poviglio felt like eating San Remo's pasta.
"Pinga, pinga pinga," Leo shouted at his team. "Cubano,
Italiano, Americano, Povigliano." He spoke quickly, in
an impossible to follow conflation of Spanish and Italian.
He gesticulated towards the sky, picked up some dirt and pounded
his chest. Somehow, everyone felt that they understood what
he was trying to say, though later, they would disagree on
exactly what that was.
"Forza Poviglio!" - the Poviglio Baseball Team.
Greg thought that Leo was telling them that they weren't playing
together - they were playing against each other. He felt guilty
about the bad blood between him and Tommy and made a point
of sharing strategy ideas before the next game. Jova heard
Leo tell him to forget about the stupid glove. Brent understood
that Leo was saying it didn't matter where your teammates
came from. Everyone was from Poviglio now. Luto heard, "Wet
sex nymphomaniac double D."
Each heard what they needed to get ready for the next game,
which started at 8:30 that night. Leo chanted "pinga,
pinga, pinga," down by the third baseline and Poviglio
played like a different team. In the first game, they made
four errors. In this game, they had none. As a show of faith,
Leo put Tommy in at the bottom of the seventh. Tommy held
onto Poviglio's one run lead through the seventh and eighth,
and in the bottom of the ninth, struck out the last batter
to win the game.
San Remo and Poviglio were now tied for first place.
Like the rest of Europe, Italy goes on vacation in August
so the race for the B league championship was put on hold.
Brent had a crush on a girl back in the States, and, with
his baseball earnings, bought her a ticket to Italy. He blew
the rest of his money on a hotel in Rome when she said she
wanted to see the Sistine Chapel. He had never been happier
to be broke.
Laura took Greg to Monterosso, a small beach town in Italy's
famous Cinque Terre. Vineyards cascaded down the area's oceanside
cliffs and produced a sweet, gold-colored wine. While they
sat on the beach, Greg drew a baseball diamond in the sand
and started to explain the rules of the game. Laura pulled
him to her and kissed him. And then she let him explain baseball
to her.
After that, her main concern was that Poviglio win all their
games. Because if the team didn't move up to the A division,
Campanini wouldn't bring the Americans back. Greg now had
an added incentive to win his games. It worked. When the teams
picked up again in September, Poviglio won every single game.
By the end of the regular season, they led San Remo by two
games and clinched first place. Poviglio was headed to the
playoffs.
In 1918, the Austrian and Hungarian armies made one last attempt
to break through the Italian front during World War I. They
ground to a halt at the small town of Ponte di Piave. Over
the course of a week, the Italians beat back the invaders,
signaling the end of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Most people
have forgotten about this battle. The residents of Ponte di
Piave have not. They are still proud to have kept the foreigners
out of Italy and to this day, remain wary of out of towners.
Greg and Laura in Poviglio.
The Ponte team was already warmed up by the time the bus driver
dislodged the bus and found the field. Ponte's players looked
big. A couple were bald and had tattoos. They had spent the
season battling teams along the Slovakian border. These newcomers
from the farmland interior looked like easy prey.
Stefano Figeri, Poviglio's road manager, was a nervous, chain
smoking banker who liked to wear gold chains and capri pants.
He rarely smiled, and now was no exception. He walked resolutely
to home plate to meet Ponte's general manager, a bearded man
whose prodigious stomach looked like it was about to tip him
over. Figeri took a deep drag on his cigarette, flicked it
aside dismissively and shook the guy's hand.
"So," Figeri said, brushing the dirt off home plate,
"how are you going to cook the pasta?"
In Italy, the home team traditionally cooks pasta for the
visitors and Figeri was anxious to determine whether or not
this guy really knew how to cook.
"We make the pasta fresh and cook it just two or three
minutes," the manager said, squinting. In the dugouts,
players from both teams watched closely.
"Do you add salt?" Figeri probed.
"Of course we add salt," Ponte's manager said, offended.
"Okay," Figeri said after a long pause. "Let's
play ball."
Two games and seven days later, Greg is facing off against
Dalla Nora at the top of the ninth in game three. The teams
each won a single game in Ponte and have moved to Poviglio
to finish the series. So far, Greg has shut Ponte down. Poviglio
is three outs away from a commanding two to one lead in the
best of five series.
Greg unleashes what he hopes will be his blinding fastball
but he can see it come off his fingertips and float slowly
towards Dalla Nora. Dalla Nora rocks back on his right foot
and connects. The ball arcs over the infield and lands deep
in right field. It's a triple.
Greg walks two more hitters before Leo sends Tommy in. But
Tommy falls apart on the mound, pelting Ponte's second baseman
and giving up five runs. When Ponte wins, their players celebrate
like they just won the World Series. They rush the mound and
pile on top of each other. Greg and Tommy have blown it. In
the bleachers, the Ponte fans sing old World War I songs that
describe how the Piave River repelled foreign invaders. Then
they chant anti-immigration slogans. They don't want foreigners
polluting their pure Italian breed of baseball.
"Hey assholes," Brent shouts. "You still gotta
win another game."
Greg, Brent and Tommy biking to practice.
That night, everyone in Poviglio is pissed off. The old men
trudge off to the bar to drink grappa and forget. But at Bar
Monica, even the grappa doesn't help. Two pensioners nearly
come to blows over whether Brent should bat third or fourth
in the rotation tomorrow. Giuseppe, the barkeep, has to push
down the old men's canes, console them when they start to
cry and arrange for someone more sober to get them home.
The morning comes too quickly to clear up the town's collective
hangover. Though the ballplayers didn't drink, they can feel
the heaviness and it unnerves them. To lift spirits, Brent
slips past Campanini and gets to the field's PA system first.
Campanini usually plays an unusual disco mix before games.
The first track: Daffy Duck singing "Disco Duck."
"We're gonna need something a little different today," Brent
tells him and pops in a Rolling Stones CD.
The guitar riff on "Honky Tonk Woman" breaks across the field
but Prampero, Ponte's over-sized pitcher, really gets things
rolling at the start of the game when he throws Brent a fastball
right over the heart of the plate. Brent can see it coming,
has enough time to sit back and crushes it to right field.
The ball sails out to the fence for a triple and begins Ponte's
decimation. Brent scrapes his cleats loudly against third
base and smiles at Prampero. It's Brent's answer to Dalla
Nora's triple. By the seventh inning, Poviglio is ahead 12
to 2 and the umpires call the game. In Italy, if a team leads
by ten or more in the 7th, a mercy rule kicks in and the game
automatically ends.
But the Ponte fans aren't cowed. With the series tied two
to two, they step up their taunting in advance of the afternoon
game. This will be the final, deciding match-up of the playoffs.
Whoever wins this gets promoted to the A league and Ponte
is trying to make a point. Their fans start chanting "Forza
Italia" which means "Italian Power."
It doesn't help. Poviglio builds a 10 to 3 lead by the fifth
inning but, with the bases loaded and no outs in the fifth,
it's a tense situation. Leo sends Greg in even though he pitched
eight innings yesterday. The Cuban coach is sending a message
by putting the American back in. He wants to show Ponte that
their nationalistic, old school mentality is beat. He wants
to show them that this is Poviglio's game now. That's what
he's hoping anyway.
Greg is facing the top of the lineup and can barely feel his
arm after an hour of icing. Ponte's lead off hitter takes
the plate. He starts by chasing Greg's curveball. He watches
the second pitch - a fastball - blur past for a strike. He
sets his jaw, and Greg knows he's going to swing again so
he sends him another curveball. The guy strikes out and the
next hitter grounds the ball to Brent at second, who throws
him out at first for the double play.
Laura watches nervously from behind home plate. For her, this
is not about pride or honor - it's about whether or not she
and Greg have a future. Because if Poviglio doesn't win, Campanini
has already said that he wouldn't be able to raise enough
money to support the Americans for another season. Greg knows
this too - that's why he's pushing himself through the pain.
The church bells start ringing again and this time God must
be listening because Greg burns though Ponte's hitters and
Brent drives in two more runs in the sixth.
Greg wins the Italian Minor League Championship and the
Girl.
Greg smiles from the mound and Dalla Nora backs off the plate.
The curveballs have confused him. Behind his mitt, Greg feels
the seams. Dalla Nora steps back up to the plate. He's made
up his mind. When the pitch comes, he swings for a curveball.
Greg's fastball whips past, two inches above the bat.
"FUORI!" the umpire shouts and Greg jumps into the
air. Poviglio has won.
The pensioners scream hoarsely in right field and alternate
between crossing themselves and passing a flask of grappa.
Laura runs to Greg on the field. He catches her in his arms
and kisses her as Jova takes a deep drag on what he says is
his last cigarette. Campanini pops a bottle of locally produced
sparkling wine, drinks most of it himself and gathers Greg,
Brent and Tommy into his prodigious embrace. Then, he invites
them back to Poviglio for another season of Italian baseball.
|
|
|
|
