The Thusday League
They say that football, or rather calcio (kal-choh) as its called in Italy, is not so much the national sport of Italy but an Italian way of life. Not a day goes by even out of season without some reference to it at work, in the bar or on TV. If you go to one of the many public parks, gardens or beaches you will see a lot of jumpers for goal posts and not one picnic without a ball of some description within a bounce away.
I hated football as a teenager and in consequent years, it always seemed to have too much machismo and bullying for my liking. For a short time I went through a phase of being anti-competitive, it lasted about 25 years. This dislike for contact sports wasn’t because of being a poor loser, because that was something I was quite good at, but because I didn’t like what I saw people turning into when they started to prove who was King. It is a well known fact that at school unless you had natural flare, were a bully, or a bully’s stooge, you were never encouraged to get involved. Being undersized for my age as well as wearing specs courtesy of the National Health, I was one of those that were always picked last for any team sport. I hope sports teachers these days have more balls (pun intended) and decide on the teams rather than leaving it to the kids with the bum fluff moustaches and metal studded boots (sharpened). Three or four years of being picked last will have a demoralising effect on any child, especially when the team captains say,
“you can ‘av ‘im.”
"don’t want ‘im, you ‘av ‘im.”
“no, we ‘ad ‘im last week, you ‘av ‘im.”
“all right, hey Specky, stay back ‘ere in goal, and if you let any in you’re dead.”
No glory of scoring goals for me then. Had I been taller I would have satisfied myself by goal hanging in the literal sense, instead I passed the time making mud pies and throwing them at the other ‘left-over’ defenders.
Rugby, which came earlier in my sporting career, was much the same although I liked it at first. I say at first because this was the first year of secondary school and it was something new to us all, and relied more on teamwork and not prima donnas. I didn’t mind the tackling or the mud but once the honeymoon period was over and the boneheads had realised it was a good excuse for authorised thuggery, I discovered it was best not to touch the ball. Even better was to forget my kit or feign illness.
I find it increasingly frustrating to watch footy on Italian TV, not because my team is losing yet again, but of how the TV companies decide to present it. First of all there is an unwritten rule, shall we say a gentleman’s agreement, whereby if a player should be unfortunate enough to stop play because he’s been fouled, they run an advert. Which actually lends itself perfectly to a theory that the players are paid to foul so that the station, and therefore the clubs, earn more revenue from the advertisers. More fouls, more adverts, more money, more crying, more diving, more money. Albeit quick, they sometimes get the timing wrong so when you return to the action, the free-kick is already underway and quite possibly the ball is billowing out the back of the net. You then get to see the ball going in again 17 times from every angle followed by the ecstatic ritual of team players running around with shirts over their heads, skidding on stomachs along the ground, pointing the index finger in the air, doing a little jiggy jig jig, and generally hugging and kissing each other all over in celebration. They certainly didn’t go to my school, except maybe for bad tackle training. It seems the TV people believe that the actual skilled play that leads to the eventual goal, is not as important as showing the heroes acting in a way that would otherwise get them arrested, or at the very least punched, if they did the same thing in the local shopping centre.
Sometimes the camera points to the crowd or the managers box for about 20 minutes just in case you may be getting a bit bored watching the match and want to miss something crucial.
“OK camera 2 just pan around a give us a shot of the crowd, yeah that’s it, the one with the painted face, yeah that’s great! Hold it there...”
“They’re in the PENALTY AREA..!” shouts the commentator wetting himself.
“I’m sure they are but people must be getting fed up with watching these blokes kicking a ball about. Keep focusing on the weirdos in the crowds, or the girls with big..."
“FOUL! PENALTY, PENALTY!!”
“OK, run the four second Wonder Bra ad.”
Then there’s the station that believes it should show two live matches at the same time. I sat watching a EUFA cup game, it was one of those that didn’t stop every two minutes for a free kick and so fast play flowed, I was really enjoying it, yelling at the referee and at the players that gave the ball away. Then all of a sudden just as they were getting close to scoring, there was a completely different game in front of me. OK I thought, they are just flicking across to show the goal just scored in the other important game that evening. No, they kept it on for at least 25 crappy and very annoying and frustrating minutes before the veins in my temple swelled to volcanic proportions and I lost it throwing the fucking thing out the window!
Actually I didn’t, instead I punched the off-switch after sticking two fingers up at the channel number hoping they noticed the sudden drop in viewer statistics.
This was 2002, the year that the World Cup was held in Japan and Korea. I found the whole thing quite disappointing with all the shirt pulling, diving, pushing, and cry baby liars (not wanting to name names because that’s childish too) like Rivaldo, but amusing at the same time. This was due to the fact that the majority of the favourites were being knocked out at the first round, including France who held the last Cup four years previously. I had my feet in two camps England and Italy both of whom I didn’t hold out too much hope for, it would be great to see them in the final, however Brazil and the referees ruined everything.
The world time difference meant that the matches appeared on our screens at breakfast and after lunch. At the office we got around that by cramming around forty-five people into the meeting room with a big screen and video projector fed from the company's network server, tuned to Rai Uno. I watched one game in there but, with the personal volume of the guy next to me getting really out of hand yelling venom at the referee down my ear hole, I decided that the next game I would watch elsewhere in case I flipped, turned around and punched his off-switch and through him out of the window. Besides it was hot and stuffy, and someone had rubbed their armpits with a crate of garlic the night before.
The fact that the meeting room could usually only be used for important games (Italy), meant that there was possibility of a serious amount of sick leave, twice a day, throughout June. In order to remedy this fever, the computer network was hooked up so that each and every one of us could have games running in the corner of our monitors. It has to be said that having other nationalities working for the company meant you often found the meeting room being used by lone fans. Notably whenever Brazil or England played. Only though, the latter were relegated to Rai Due so after having making the effort to get into work extra early, I spent the first half trying to switch channels and the second half watching Argentina v Sweden and a cheesy show host selling rugs. I waited for the results on the Internet, we were through!
In the period leading up to, during, and after the World Cup, a group of us from work had been playing five-a-side every Thursday after work. Calcietto (five-a-side) or calciotto (eight-a-side) is so popular here that there are centres which do nothing but hire out pitches by the hour. The first centre we used had at least twelve pitches and were also floodlit to increase earning potential, with places for the wives and girlfriends to hang around and watch if they so desired, which helps the bravado and pose factor for the chaps. I have realised that almost as many women seem to like, and follow, football as their male counterparts but as yet I haven’t seen or heard of them partaking in the game.
When, what turned out to be the final game for Italy was broadcast, everybody was in the office but nobody was at their desk. Except me and I was watching it with a network delay of 20 seconds later than the crowd in the meeting room, which meant when I heard lots of shouting and screaming or crying, I had plenty of time to prepare myself to see an up-and-coming goal, miss, foul, corner or bad linesman decision. Before the final whistle blew at my desk, I already knew that Korea were the victors due to the amount of tumbleweed I saw rolling out of the meeting room. The silence was then only filled with the clicking of computer mice shutting down the video players. No one spoke about it for the rest of the day, I wasn’t sure but I thought I heard a few sobs.
The Italians believe that they were not beaten fairly by Korea and the linesmen - during the tournament they’d had a total of five goals disallowed. The conspiracy theory going around said that the officials were paid off so that the hosts’ teams did well in the tournament. This was proved otherwise when the joint host, Japan, lost in the same round.
A few days later the press were reporting that Luciano Gaucci, president of Perugia football club, had effectively sacked the winning Korean goal scorer Ahn Jung-Hwan from his squad, saying;
“That gentleman will never set foot in Perugia again”. “I have no intention of paying a salary to someone who has ruined Italian football”.
Only in Italia.
On the news that evening they showed a lot of people in Piazza del Popolo in Rome falling back on their second national sport of crying in public, and a small group of very happy and smiling Korean tourists being encircled by a small group of not happy and not smiling police for their own protection. It was a sad day indeed.
On a positive side many of my colleagues in the office had decided to now support England, which was heartening, but the rest couldn’t face the possibility of more tears so they opted for Brazil. Cowards.
I was quite nervous about my own five-a-side debut as most of the others are quite a few years younger and have played football since they were weaned on to it as replacement for the breast, plus it was more than twenty-two years since I last kicked a ball about in a park let alone on a proper pitch.
I scored!! Amazing I scored!! I think the others were just as amazed as I was, especially when two minutes later, I scored again! However, I didn’t slide on my stomach on the sandy Astroturf because I like my skin and, although I didn’t want my team mates coming over and smothering me in kisses, I did wonder again about whether women do play football here. At this point I thought it was a great game, I should have done it years ago, twenty-two years ago to be precise, I could have earned big bucks in the Premiership by now, maybe even transferred to Perugia. Every five minutes someone shouts “cambio!” which is the signal to change goalkeepers giving everyone the opportunity to receive the full force of toe-ended shots from two metres. I take a turn and decide that actually it’s also a good way to rest my lungs. I close my eyes and duck twice and let two in. I never did get over the fear of stopping the ball with my specs. Oh well, maybe I’d have only made the Northern Premiere League. Anyway everyone here believes it’s the taking part that counts and I believe it too. We won that game 12-10.
What was also quite refreshing was that even though I let two goals in I wasn’t beaten up behind the bike sheds.
Keeping fit is rapidly becoming big business. Very big business. There are so many gyms and sport centres around Rome, even with membership being well over-priced, people are jogging over each other to get in. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of these places because we seem to be trying out as many different calcietto centres as possible, it’s gives us a sense of playing away.
Once you pay your membership for the gym of your choice, you can also then pay for a personal trainer and/or join a group, training together such as on exercise bikes. This sport of “Spinning” is usually done to bleeding-eardrum volume levels of dire music, very Dire Straits music in fact, and an over-excited, over-tanned and over-hyped body beautiful screaming at you. Or, you can opt for the water aerobics in the outdoor pools during summer, that is if want to keep your backside hidden but still look extremely silly even without Dire Straits.
Those that prefer the less expensive outdoors go running in the parks. There’s a big one close to me, Villa Doria Pamphilj, and I’ve spent many a weekend afternoon wandering around and lying down in the sun next to the sign that says "keep off the grass", watching the parrots flirting between the palms above me. Everyone, and I mean everyone that is running, is doing it mainly to get noticed but at least this kind of posing burns off the pasta too. Being Italian they seem to treat it in the same way as they would if it was the Sunday-afternoon-post-lunch-stroll, and manage to chat the whole time they are running which I find most impressive. Fashionable state-of-the-art sports wear is on display along with radio headphones, iPods, mobile phones and hair gel. After a while you get to notice familiar sweaty faces and lycra suits running past for the twentieth time, some of them at a speed I could only dream of, others shuffling along just short of walking speed due to their youthful age of 97. On each of my visits I decide to come jogging here myself to show them all how it should be done, maybe once or twice a week in the summer months before work when its cooler, but that means getting up extremely early which is far too painful... one day though, one day.
Outdoor summer sports at school meant boring tedious cricket, once again I was relegated to the outer fielding to where the ground was too hard to amuse myself making mud pies. The ball never got out there anyway due to the fact the bonehead batsmen were crap and the bowlers were only interested in seeing how much damage they could inflict with wild legal lobbing of the leather clad missile. Athletics, on the other hand, were never popular with the lard-arsed hard-men because they had lard-arses, and a distinct lack of stamina. Now maybe all that running away from bullies had done me some good over the years because I actually did well in these games and especially the longer distances of 400, 800 and 1500 m. It was always a great day passing the red-faced sweaty lardies who fell by the wayside even before the end of the first lap, in fact those of us who threw mud during the winter took all the glory in the summer... sweet revenge indeed.
One day comes, and it’s a Sunday evening. I’d done my warm up, stretched all my muscles and strapped up my knee, it was 7.30 pm but the temperature was still in the 30’s, everyone else was running, cycling or playing football, so it was all okay. I set off after deciding that once around half of the park would be enough to start with.
I can’t help but notice that this place is always packed out with hundreds of people of every age involved in numerous activities and that back home the parks seemed only to be used as dog exercise grounds, for picking the daffodils on mothers day or for drinking cider out of brown plastic bottles.
My fellow joggers didn’t seem to understand that taking short-cuts kind of defeats the object, however the routes they take are better pose roads. All the tracks are either sun-baked mud, well trodden and scarred with the treads of cycles and pushchairs, leftovers from the last time it rained, or sun baked dust. The park’s hilly landscape is fairly wooded so offers plenty of shade, all paths seem to lead at some point to the central focus of the 17th century ornate gardens and villa, hence the “keep off the grass” signs. I didn’t bring a water bottle as there are numerous drinking fountains on route, which I find most thoughtful.
I must have been going for about 40 minutes, beads appearing on my forehead, mouth drying up and lungs feeling the heat and dust as they heave in the air, I checked my watch it said 7 minutes. I wanted to stop but people would notice that I’m crap, so I pressed on in the hope that I would find my true rhythm and a less crowded area where nobody could see me giving up. I plodded on still further but the heat of the sun and the steady incline that I’d just conquered was too much so I paused for breath, just after being passed by a sprightly 97 year old. As I was trying hard not to be sick, a fitness-freak couple approached from the opposite direction, she being about one fifth of her baboon boyfriend’s body weight, they looked at me, shared a remark and sniggered as they went past. I turned and shouted “Fuck you, at least I don’t look like a fridge and run like a duck!” But they didn’t hear me.
The park with it's picturesque paths, pine woods, fountains, small lakes and gardens, is divided into two main parts connected only by a footbridge. It was first created between 1644 and 1652 for Prince Camillo Pamphilj, the nephew of Pope Innocent X and now surrounds Villa Doria Pamphilj. It is the largest park in Rome at about eighteen square kilometres, so, even sticking to one half of the overall circumference, once around the park now seemed like once around the world, and since I didn't have eighty days I took a short cut or three. Not for the pose value at all, but more out of the need to search for the medicinal qualities of one of the many drinking fountains hidden amongst it's seemingly endless terrain.
Close to the center of the park is the Villa itself with ornate gardens fenced off from the curious plebs, and the occasional missed kicked football. In one corner is a flight of stone steps, well worn with time, the same ones that I'd often watched people running up on previous visits, they all attack them with their headphones blaring the “Best of Rocky” themed soundtracks. Suddenly, this didn’t look like a short cut at all, however at least it was nothing like the days of my youth when my so-called mates laced my 21st birthday drinks and chased me up the infamous “108 Steps” threatening to strip me of everything, leaving me a mile from home completely naked, and with no money for a taxi. Even Rocky would’ve struggled with that one.
My tongue was hanging out for refreshment, I was willing a water fountain to appear out of the ground two paces in front of me, but then I spotted one not too far off, sweet cool bubbling water splashing out of the tap, I was almost there and would’ve been salivating too if I hadn’t been so dehydrated.
From his lazy day family picnic, an old chap sat up and stretched, and brushing sleep out of his eyes saw me padding down the dusty path tripping over my tongue in desperation to reach the oasis, his oasis, so he decided to make a quick dash to get there just before me and spent two days wetting his hands, splashing his face and not drinking. Me thinks he probably enjoyed picking football teams too in his school years as captain.
Books I wish I'd had when I was at school:
Bullies, Bigmouths and So-called Friends
Most books about bullying tell children how to act without addressing how they feel. But the usual advice to 'ignore it' or 'say something smart' is doomed to fail, as you can't act brave and confident if you feel stressed and helpless inside.
Stick Up for Yourself: Every Kid's Guide to Personal Power and Self-Esteem
Have you ever been picked on at school, bossed around, blamed for things you didn't do, or treated unfairly? Do you sometimes feel frustrated, angry, powerless, and scared? Do wish you could stick up for yourself, but you don't know how? This book can help. In simple words and real-life examples, it shows you how to stick up for yourself with other kids (including bullies and teasers), big sisters and brothers, even parents and teachers. It tells you things you can say without putting people down, and things you can do without getting into trouble. You'll feel better about yourself, stronger inside, and more in charge of your life.
I hated football as a teenager and in consequent years, it always seemed to have too much machismo and bullying for my liking. For a short time I went through a phase of being anti-competitive, it lasted about 25 years. This dislike for contact sports wasn’t because of being a poor loser, because that was something I was quite good at, but because I didn’t like what I saw people turning into when they started to prove who was King. It is a well known fact that at school unless you had natural flare, were a bully, or a bully’s stooge, you were never encouraged to get involved. Being undersized for my age as well as wearing specs courtesy of the National Health, I was one of those that were always picked last for any team sport. I hope sports teachers these days have more balls (pun intended) and decide on the teams rather than leaving it to the kids with the bum fluff moustaches and metal studded boots (sharpened). Three or four years of being picked last will have a demoralising effect on any child, especially when the team captains say,
“you can ‘av ‘im.”
"don’t want ‘im, you ‘av ‘im.”
“no, we ‘ad ‘im last week, you ‘av ‘im.”
“all right, hey Specky, stay back ‘ere in goal, and if you let any in you’re dead.”
No glory of scoring goals for me then. Had I been taller I would have satisfied myself by goal hanging in the literal sense, instead I passed the time making mud pies and throwing them at the other ‘left-over’ defenders.
Rugby, which came earlier in my sporting career, was much the same although I liked it at first. I say at first because this was the first year of secondary school and it was something new to us all, and relied more on teamwork and not prima donnas. I didn’t mind the tackling or the mud but once the honeymoon period was over and the boneheads had realised it was a good excuse for authorised thuggery, I discovered it was best not to touch the ball. Even better was to forget my kit or feign illness.
I find it increasingly frustrating to watch footy on Italian TV, not because my team is losing yet again, but of how the TV companies decide to present it. First of all there is an unwritten rule, shall we say a gentleman’s agreement, whereby if a player should be unfortunate enough to stop play because he’s been fouled, they run an advert. Which actually lends itself perfectly to a theory that the players are paid to foul so that the station, and therefore the clubs, earn more revenue from the advertisers. More fouls, more adverts, more money, more crying, more diving, more money. Albeit quick, they sometimes get the timing wrong so when you return to the action, the free-kick is already underway and quite possibly the ball is billowing out the back of the net. You then get to see the ball going in again 17 times from every angle followed by the ecstatic ritual of team players running around with shirts over their heads, skidding on stomachs along the ground, pointing the index finger in the air, doing a little jiggy jig jig, and generally hugging and kissing each other all over in celebration. They certainly didn’t go to my school, except maybe for bad tackle training. It seems the TV people believe that the actual skilled play that leads to the eventual goal, is not as important as showing the heroes acting in a way that would otherwise get them arrested, or at the very least punched, if they did the same thing in the local shopping centre.
Sometimes the camera points to the crowd or the managers box for about 20 minutes just in case you may be getting a bit bored watching the match and want to miss something crucial.
“OK camera 2 just pan around a give us a shot of the crowd, yeah that’s it, the one with the painted face, yeah that’s great! Hold it there...”
“They’re in the PENALTY AREA..!” shouts the commentator wetting himself.
“I’m sure they are but people must be getting fed up with watching these blokes kicking a ball about. Keep focusing on the weirdos in the crowds, or the girls with big..."
“FOUL! PENALTY, PENALTY!!”
“OK, run the four second Wonder Bra ad.”
Then there’s the station that believes it should show two live matches at the same time. I sat watching a EUFA cup game, it was one of those that didn’t stop every two minutes for a free kick and so fast play flowed, I was really enjoying it, yelling at the referee and at the players that gave the ball away. Then all of a sudden just as they were getting close to scoring, there was a completely different game in front of me. OK I thought, they are just flicking across to show the goal just scored in the other important game that evening. No, they kept it on for at least 25 crappy and very annoying and frustrating minutes before the veins in my temple swelled to volcanic proportions and I lost it throwing the fucking thing out the window!
Actually I didn’t, instead I punched the off-switch after sticking two fingers up at the channel number hoping they noticed the sudden drop in viewer statistics.
This was 2002, the year that the World Cup was held in Japan and Korea. I found the whole thing quite disappointing with all the shirt pulling, diving, pushing, and cry baby liars (not wanting to name names because that’s childish too) like Rivaldo, but amusing at the same time. This was due to the fact that the majority of the favourites were being knocked out at the first round, including France who held the last Cup four years previously. I had my feet in two camps England and Italy both of whom I didn’t hold out too much hope for, it would be great to see them in the final, however Brazil and the referees ruined everything.
The world time difference meant that the matches appeared on our screens at breakfast and after lunch. At the office we got around that by cramming around forty-five people into the meeting room with a big screen and video projector fed from the company's network server, tuned to Rai Uno. I watched one game in there but, with the personal volume of the guy next to me getting really out of hand yelling venom at the referee down my ear hole, I decided that the next game I would watch elsewhere in case I flipped, turned around and punched his off-switch and through him out of the window. Besides it was hot and stuffy, and someone had rubbed their armpits with a crate of garlic the night before.
The fact that the meeting room could usually only be used for important games (Italy), meant that there was possibility of a serious amount of sick leave, twice a day, throughout June. In order to remedy this fever, the computer network was hooked up so that each and every one of us could have games running in the corner of our monitors. It has to be said that having other nationalities working for the company meant you often found the meeting room being used by lone fans. Notably whenever Brazil or England played. Only though, the latter were relegated to Rai Due so after having making the effort to get into work extra early, I spent the first half trying to switch channels and the second half watching Argentina v Sweden and a cheesy show host selling rugs. I waited for the results on the Internet, we were through!
In the period leading up to, during, and after the World Cup, a group of us from work had been playing five-a-side every Thursday after work. Calcietto (five-a-side) or calciotto (eight-a-side) is so popular here that there are centres which do nothing but hire out pitches by the hour. The first centre we used had at least twelve pitches and were also floodlit to increase earning potential, with places for the wives and girlfriends to hang around and watch if they so desired, which helps the bravado and pose factor for the chaps. I have realised that almost as many women seem to like, and follow, football as their male counterparts but as yet I haven’t seen or heard of them partaking in the game.
When, what turned out to be the final game for Italy was broadcast, everybody was in the office but nobody was at their desk. Except me and I was watching it with a network delay of 20 seconds later than the crowd in the meeting room, which meant when I heard lots of shouting and screaming or crying, I had plenty of time to prepare myself to see an up-and-coming goal, miss, foul, corner or bad linesman decision. Before the final whistle blew at my desk, I already knew that Korea were the victors due to the amount of tumbleweed I saw rolling out of the meeting room. The silence was then only filled with the clicking of computer mice shutting down the video players. No one spoke about it for the rest of the day, I wasn’t sure but I thought I heard a few sobs.
The Italians believe that they were not beaten fairly by Korea and the linesmen - during the tournament they’d had a total of five goals disallowed. The conspiracy theory going around said that the officials were paid off so that the hosts’ teams did well in the tournament. This was proved otherwise when the joint host, Japan, lost in the same round.
A few days later the press were reporting that Luciano Gaucci, president of Perugia football club, had effectively sacked the winning Korean goal scorer Ahn Jung-Hwan from his squad, saying;
“That gentleman will never set foot in Perugia again”. “I have no intention of paying a salary to someone who has ruined Italian football”.
Only in Italia.
On the news that evening they showed a lot of people in Piazza del Popolo in Rome falling back on their second national sport of crying in public, and a small group of very happy and smiling Korean tourists being encircled by a small group of not happy and not smiling police for their own protection. It was a sad day indeed.
On a positive side many of my colleagues in the office had decided to now support England, which was heartening, but the rest couldn’t face the possibility of more tears so they opted for Brazil. Cowards.
I was quite nervous about my own five-a-side debut as most of the others are quite a few years younger and have played football since they were weaned on to it as replacement for the breast, plus it was more than twenty-two years since I last kicked a ball about in a park let alone on a proper pitch.
I scored!! Amazing I scored!! I think the others were just as amazed as I was, especially when two minutes later, I scored again! However, I didn’t slide on my stomach on the sandy Astroturf because I like my skin and, although I didn’t want my team mates coming over and smothering me in kisses, I did wonder again about whether women do play football here. At this point I thought it was a great game, I should have done it years ago, twenty-two years ago to be precise, I could have earned big bucks in the Premiership by now, maybe even transferred to Perugia. Every five minutes someone shouts “cambio!” which is the signal to change goalkeepers giving everyone the opportunity to receive the full force of toe-ended shots from two metres. I take a turn and decide that actually it’s also a good way to rest my lungs. I close my eyes and duck twice and let two in. I never did get over the fear of stopping the ball with my specs. Oh well, maybe I’d have only made the Northern Premiere League. Anyway everyone here believes it’s the taking part that counts and I believe it too. We won that game 12-10.
What was also quite refreshing was that even though I let two goals in I wasn’t beaten up behind the bike sheds.
Keeping fit is rapidly becoming big business. Very big business. There are so many gyms and sport centres around Rome, even with membership being well over-priced, people are jogging over each other to get in. Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of these places because we seem to be trying out as many different calcietto centres as possible, it’s gives us a sense of playing away.
Once you pay your membership for the gym of your choice, you can also then pay for a personal trainer and/or join a group, training together such as on exercise bikes. This sport of “Spinning” is usually done to bleeding-eardrum volume levels of dire music, very Dire Straits music in fact, and an over-excited, over-tanned and over-hyped body beautiful screaming at you. Or, you can opt for the water aerobics in the outdoor pools during summer, that is if want to keep your backside hidden but still look extremely silly even without Dire Straits.
Those that prefer the less expensive outdoors go running in the parks. There’s a big one close to me, Villa Doria Pamphilj, and I’ve spent many a weekend afternoon wandering around and lying down in the sun next to the sign that says "keep off the grass", watching the parrots flirting between the palms above me. Everyone, and I mean everyone that is running, is doing it mainly to get noticed but at least this kind of posing burns off the pasta too. Being Italian they seem to treat it in the same way as they would if it was the Sunday-afternoon-post-lunch-stroll, and manage to chat the whole time they are running which I find most impressive. Fashionable state-of-the-art sports wear is on display along with radio headphones, iPods, mobile phones and hair gel. After a while you get to notice familiar sweaty faces and lycra suits running past for the twentieth time, some of them at a speed I could only dream of, others shuffling along just short of walking speed due to their youthful age of 97. On each of my visits I decide to come jogging here myself to show them all how it should be done, maybe once or twice a week in the summer months before work when its cooler, but that means getting up extremely early which is far too painful... one day though, one day.
Outdoor summer sports at school meant boring tedious cricket, once again I was relegated to the outer fielding to where the ground was too hard to amuse myself making mud pies. The ball never got out there anyway due to the fact the bonehead batsmen were crap and the bowlers were only interested in seeing how much damage they could inflict with wild legal lobbing of the leather clad missile. Athletics, on the other hand, were never popular with the lard-arsed hard-men because they had lard-arses, and a distinct lack of stamina. Now maybe all that running away from bullies had done me some good over the years because I actually did well in these games and especially the longer distances of 400, 800 and 1500 m. It was always a great day passing the red-faced sweaty lardies who fell by the wayside even before the end of the first lap, in fact those of us who threw mud during the winter took all the glory in the summer... sweet revenge indeed.
One day comes, and it’s a Sunday evening. I’d done my warm up, stretched all my muscles and strapped up my knee, it was 7.30 pm but the temperature was still in the 30’s, everyone else was running, cycling or playing football, so it was all okay. I set off after deciding that once around half of the park would be enough to start with.
I can’t help but notice that this place is always packed out with hundreds of people of every age involved in numerous activities and that back home the parks seemed only to be used as dog exercise grounds, for picking the daffodils on mothers day or for drinking cider out of brown plastic bottles.
My fellow joggers didn’t seem to understand that taking short-cuts kind of defeats the object, however the routes they take are better pose roads. All the tracks are either sun-baked mud, well trodden and scarred with the treads of cycles and pushchairs, leftovers from the last time it rained, or sun baked dust. The park’s hilly landscape is fairly wooded so offers plenty of shade, all paths seem to lead at some point to the central focus of the 17th century ornate gardens and villa, hence the “keep off the grass” signs. I didn’t bring a water bottle as there are numerous drinking fountains on route, which I find most thoughtful.
I must have been going for about 40 minutes, beads appearing on my forehead, mouth drying up and lungs feeling the heat and dust as they heave in the air, I checked my watch it said 7 minutes. I wanted to stop but people would notice that I’m crap, so I pressed on in the hope that I would find my true rhythm and a less crowded area where nobody could see me giving up. I plodded on still further but the heat of the sun and the steady incline that I’d just conquered was too much so I paused for breath, just after being passed by a sprightly 97 year old. As I was trying hard not to be sick, a fitness-freak couple approached from the opposite direction, she being about one fifth of her baboon boyfriend’s body weight, they looked at me, shared a remark and sniggered as they went past. I turned and shouted “Fuck you, at least I don’t look like a fridge and run like a duck!” But they didn’t hear me.
The park with it's picturesque paths, pine woods, fountains, small lakes and gardens, is divided into two main parts connected only by a footbridge. It was first created between 1644 and 1652 for Prince Camillo Pamphilj, the nephew of Pope Innocent X and now surrounds Villa Doria Pamphilj. It is the largest park in Rome at about eighteen square kilometres, so, even sticking to one half of the overall circumference, once around the park now seemed like once around the world, and since I didn't have eighty days I took a short cut or three. Not for the pose value at all, but more out of the need to search for the medicinal qualities of one of the many drinking fountains hidden amongst it's seemingly endless terrain.
Close to the center of the park is the Villa itself with ornate gardens fenced off from the curious plebs, and the occasional missed kicked football. In one corner is a flight of stone steps, well worn with time, the same ones that I'd often watched people running up on previous visits, they all attack them with their headphones blaring the “Best of Rocky” themed soundtracks. Suddenly, this didn’t look like a short cut at all, however at least it was nothing like the days of my youth when my so-called mates laced my 21st birthday drinks and chased me up the infamous “108 Steps” threatening to strip me of everything, leaving me a mile from home completely naked, and with no money for a taxi. Even Rocky would’ve struggled with that one.
My tongue was hanging out for refreshment, I was willing a water fountain to appear out of the ground two paces in front of me, but then I spotted one not too far off, sweet cool bubbling water splashing out of the tap, I was almost there and would’ve been salivating too if I hadn’t been so dehydrated.
From his lazy day family picnic, an old chap sat up and stretched, and brushing sleep out of his eyes saw me padding down the dusty path tripping over my tongue in desperation to reach the oasis, his oasis, so he decided to make a quick dash to get there just before me and spent two days wetting his hands, splashing his face and not drinking. Me thinks he probably enjoyed picking football teams too in his school years as captain.
Books I wish I'd had when I was at school:
Bullies, Bigmouths and So-called Friends
Most books about bullying tell children how to act without addressing how they feel. But the usual advice to 'ignore it' or 'say something smart' is doomed to fail, as you can't act brave and confident if you feel stressed and helpless inside.
Stick Up for Yourself: Every Kid's Guide to Personal Power and Self-Esteem
Have you ever been picked on at school, bossed around, blamed for things you didn't do, or treated unfairly? Do you sometimes feel frustrated, angry, powerless, and scared? Do wish you could stick up for yourself, but you don't know how? This book can help. In simple words and real-life examples, it shows you how to stick up for yourself with other kids (including bullies and teasers), big sisters and brothers, even parents and teachers. It tells you things you can say without putting people down, and things you can do without getting into trouble. You'll feel better about yourself, stronger inside, and more in charge of your life.
Absolutely brilliant mate! I chuckled all through my porridge just now. You have missed your true vocation...throw in this multivision stuff and become a correspondant-at-large! :-)
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