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MATT SMITH

CAFFÈ SOCIETY >>>>
All eyes glued to the Italy v USA match at Caffè Zamboni, Bologna

World Cup Blog | Matt Smith | Bologna

In The Thick Of The Bolognesi

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Bill Saporito: Team USA Lives On

Posted Sunday, June 18, 2006: 15.46BST
Throughout Bologna, there lurks a haunting presence of decay. It doesn't penetrate the Roman arches that shade the sidewalks of the Via dell'Indipendenza, but as soon as you step out into the Piazza Maggiore, you see the brittle reminders of an extant past. Farther away from the city's center stands the Palazzo di Bargellini whose entrance is flanked by two grimacing Atlas figures struggling to do the inhuman work of columns. There are many other parts of the city showing signs of crumbling, a pattern repeated across Italy. Now the prized Azzurri can be added to the list.

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I staked out a place an hour before the game began in the Caffè Zamboni, around the corner from the piazza. I envisioned a night of having to fake pride in America's play, of having to give every successful pass the same cheers the Bolognesi would be giving their goals. I imagined parroting their gestures, particularly the hand that rifles into the air like the swift hand of a maestro as he keeps time for his orchestra. Instead, I came away with a beaming pride and one or two discoveries or two about Italian fans. I ended up adopting their gestures just the same.

Unlike London, where World Cup fever has swelled into an outpouring of flags and national pride, you won't see a single Italian tricolore draped over a windowsill. It's as if pride in the Azzurri were ingrained too deeply inside them, only one of the people crowding the Caffè was sporting his colors. And he was a Brit. The veiled fanaticism breeds high expectations for the Azzurri instead of encouragement. And as Italy — a man up after all three expulsions had run their course — continued to accomplish nothing throughout the second half, the Bolognesi turned to idle chatter and the glow of telefonini dotted the darkness. Perhaps because I'd expended much sympathy for Bologna's deteriorating artwork on a day's meander through the city I had little left as I sipped my vino and watched Azzurri pride crumble.

I'd earlier realized I was the lone American when I was the only person to applaud — as is custom — as the Star-Spangled Banner neared its close. After Giraldino's goal, the Englishman ( more transparent than the Bolognesi) snarled into my ear his only words to me that evening: "You're gonna lose."

But my pride had been stirred. When the U.S.A. scored minutes later, I leapt from my seat. I couldn't believe it. Nor could the Bolognesi. I stood shouting, arms raised high, fist clenched. Perhaps my excitement was too much, my dormant identification with the Stars and Stripes only goaded to life because I was definitely in a minority. The Italian press have since tagged it as a Zaccardo own goal, but — and this could still be last night's euphoria speaking — I could have sworn McBride had a foot in it.

Even though the papers, the Bolognesi, and the concierge at my hotel have all spun last night's draw as Italy's poor showing, I can see the difference in America's play. They were resilient and feisty to the last. They beat Italy to the ball. They attacked their goal. They beat Italy's defense off the dribble. They threaded intricate webs of passes. For a brief few seconds, after Beasley's retracted goal, they were winning! But that was not the height of American soccer for me. Rather, it was Keller's precious fingertip save of Del Piero's volley. For while the Italians cheered louder for Mastroeni and Pope's send-off than they did for their own goal, and while they clamored over De Rossi's send off and Del Piero's yellow card even after the replays had shown them just and true, I heard oohs of sheer, unpartisan amazement after Keller's save.

The Italian high expectations that excoriated their players in the papers were dispelled by a magnificent moment in Il Bel Gioco. In that moment American soccer was on the same level as Italian calcio. The concierge, who couldn't help laughing when I told him I didn't want to watch the game on TV in my room but in one of the cafes, was forced to take back — reluctantly — his knee-jerk dismissal of the match as a botched Italian effort and admit to an impressive American performance.

So, when I move to Ferrara for five months and join in their pick-up games of calcio perhaps the Italians will remember Keller and when — if only for a moment — the U.S.A. played the same game as Italy.

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