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Because for Italians, the ball game is something they can’t do without, like pasta at the table. It doesn’t matter 🤶 if it’s with pesto or ragù, as long as it’s there. The same can be said about football: whether at 🤶 the stadiums of its origins or through the alternative of radio broadcasts, it has always been a fixture. Then came 🤶 TV, keeping thousands of fans comfortable in their armchairs and slippers, opening the doors to sharing more time with loved 🤶 ones, a custom strengthened specifically by the Azzurri national matches. Friends and entire families in front of a screen, ready 🤶 to cheer and perhaps celebrate in the streets. Similarly, the European and World cups have always gifted unforgettable moments, for 🤶 better or worse, even if only for the sake of following the great champions in their respective national teams. Paolo 🤶 Sorrentino sweetly told us about it in The Hand of God , with the Schisa family captivated by Maradona’s Argentina, 🤶 on the balconies of Naples.
Those radios often caused friction between couples, as men out for a walk were more taken 🤶 by the broadcast than by their female companion. At least the radios never physically kept anyone from their families; otherwise 🤶 Sunday would be spent at the stadium or at home in front of the television. Rita Pavone sang about it, 🤶 scolding her companion for preferring football and leaving her alone; Dino Risi painfully portrayed it in his episodic movie, The 🤶 Monsters, where in the episode What a Bad Life! , Vittorio Gassman plays a poor family man who spends what 🤶 little he has to go to the stadium; Alberto Sordi reiterated this in the memorable scenes of The Husband and 🤶 I know That You Know That I Know .
Church, lunch, and the game are the three pillars upon which the 🤶 Italian Sunday was built. Three clustered events spaced a few hours within each other: first duty, then necessity, and finally 🤶 pleasure. Even if it does seem excessive calling it a pleasure, for all the times an afternoon defeat made our 🤶 baked pasta go down the wrong way and along with it, the entire weekend.
At my parents’ house I discovered a 🤶 drawer full of old pocket radios. I then found an identical one when we emptied my grandmother’s house. I was 🤶 reminded of them present in family photos, with that unintentionally vintage design, often surrounded by an engrossed group of people 🤶 of all ages, hands cupped around their ears. I remembered afternoons in the mid-nineties when they were still used. As 🤶 a child I used to take them with me on Sunday outings for the same reason everyone else took them: 🤶 to follow the ball game.
The cult of the game does not have specific areas of competence, no typical geographical indication, 🤶 like wine does, but it has always brought people together within its single large leather sphere. From North to South, 🤶 from the countryside to the big cities, from the mountains to the sea. Those who could went to the stadium, 🤶 up to the time it was more comfortable to watch matches on TV. Lunch was at home, then down to 🤶 the bar, until the call of the family became too insistent to be ignored. At that point the pocket radio 🤶 came in handy.
But like all cultural symbols, fans have had to deal with the progression of the sport’s economic sector 🤶 growing disproportionately in just a few years. The first change was the match schedule: after more than half a century 🤶 of Sunday afternoon starts, the delay was born. It was the 1993 of great changes, with Italy in political turmoil 🤶 and television rights becoming a greater feature of the sport. It was the first upheaval of many. In February 2024 🤶 the first round of the Series A schedule was split between Friday afternoon and Monday evening, with no match played 🤶 at the same time. For the older folks this was an outrage. Who knows what my grandparents would have said, 🤶 used to arriving at Sunday dinner knowing the rankings were already updated. Obviously it was no longer possible to follow 🤶 games on the radio minute by minute, as I did as a child. My parents were never big fans, but 🤶 when we would go on our Sunday outings in the car, we listened to the live broadcast on the radio, 🤶 which started immediately after the iconic theme song, A Taste of Honey, by Herb Albert & the Tijuana Brass. And 🤶 when we went for a walk, I had the trusty pocket radio with me. The excitement was palpable as the 🤶 reports came from field to field, the format used then by the Rai network for live football events. The reporter 🤶 was often interrupted by the jingle announcing a goal in another stadium. I clearly remember the sensation I felt seconds 🤶 before the correspondent would give updates on the match; moments when I hoped news would be about my favorite team 🤶 but – careful! – also in that moment the opposing team could have scored. I swayed on that swing between 🤶 relief and disappointment each time, every Sunday.
In today’s connected world, the ball game now comes to us. Our grandparents would 🤶 have gone mad, as well as our parents limited by pay-TV, if with a few taps on a screen they’d 🤶 had access to live matches, able to watch them on the beach, at a wedding, on the road, anywhere. The 🤶 new football times may be irritating, or may seem like an obstacle to sharing, but these new means actually allow 🤶 for greater access. Of course, they take away a bit of the sentimentality, but watching matches is part of Italian 🤶 culture, and a fragmented schedule will not undermine this tradition. After all, even church times have changed, and Sunday lunch 🤶 is now often replaced by the American style brunch. Some things change over time, but the essence is the same. 🤶 The peanuts at the stadium still taste as they did when my grandfather took my father in the early 1950s. 🤶 And likewise when he then took me forty years later. Seeing the green lawn in person for the first time, 🤶 seeming so immense while climbing the bleachers, will always be an emotion shared by children from all generations. The same 🤶 as congregating in front of a screen with friends and family, cheering for a goal or consoling after a defeat. 🤶 The radio broadcast continues to accompany us, especially in the car; and – if there’s no signal – to this 🤶 day we still have the pluck to ask strangers “Who hit the goalpost?” like Paolo Fantozzi did in the iconic 🤶 movie scene. Because that’s how we like it, and we can’t do without.
It is so beautiful then, to call it 🤶 like they used to: the ball game “la partita di pallone”, a simpler and more common version of the “football 🤶 match”. A name handed down from generation to generation and now so obvious that it has been permanently shortened to 🤶 the “game”. It’s Sunday in Italy. If we’re going to see the game, it can only be football. So let’s 🤶 arm ourselves with an internet connection, radio, TV, or head to the stadium, and let’s watch it with our favorite 🤶 people.
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