In early October 2012 I received an email from Pasquale, an old acquaintance of mine. He had just opened a pizzeria on the other side of town and he invited me to check it out.
A few weeks later I visited Pasquale’s pizzeria. The busy eatery hummed to the buzz of trendy locals who, while not munching approvingly on their razor thin pizzas, were busy catching up with the zeitgeist.
“Ciao, Athas!” Pasquale’s voice boomed as he waltzed over to greet me in the good old Mediterranean way, hugging me so vigorously my loose change almost came out of pockets.
“Ciao, Pasquale, I am so happy see you and to see things are going so well but what the hell are you doing wearing a Sydney FC jersey. Have you lost your mind?”
Pasquale pirouetted like an overweight ballet dancer who had just consumed the vino equivalent of Swan Lake. With his back to me he raised his flabby arms above his head, stuck his thumbs out like Arthur Fonzarelli and motioned downwards to the writing on the back of the jersey.
“DEL PIERO, BABY, DEL PIERO!” he bellowed, clearly not giving a crap about looking so uncool to the cool cats watching on.
“Athas, I have gone pazzo for Del Piero” he declared. “Il Pinturicchio is my football hero and I can’t believe he’s here in Australia. Not only have I bought the jersey but I’m also flying up to Sydney four times to watch him play this season.”
Pasquale’s passion did not end there. He lifted up his shirt and showed me the tattoo. Across his broad shoulders in black ink “Del Piero” and in the middle of his back a big, bold number “10”.
It was the exact copy of the jersey; like the tattooist had used a Letraset on steroids.
“For me this would be like Totti coming to play for Melbourne Heart. Lou Sticca helped bring Del Piero to Sydney. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if he could help bring Totti to Heart. Do you think we have a chance? ” I asked Pasquale.
“Yes, Athas, that would be wonderful but Totti is not just a legendary Roma player, he was also born a Roman. His heart belongs to the eternal city. It would take an even bigger miracle, than Del Piero going to Sydney, for Totti to come to Melbourne.”
Pasquale realised his sobering response had dimmed my enthusiasm and wisely diverted my attention to the specials board.
“For you, I recommend the funghi di bosco. These mushrooms were expertly handpicked in the woods by my half-blind nonna.”
The delicious pizza was devoured with the help of two glasses of chianti. My mood had greatly improved by the time I bid a fond farewell to Pasquale.
I stepped outside and walked to the tram stop. I still couldn’t get the thought of Totti out of my head. Suddenly I started to feel a bit woozy. Surely it couldn’t have been the wine.
I boarded the tram and put my head in my hands. “C’mon Athas,” I said to myself. “Forget this Totti nonsense. The only way you will ever get to see him in the flesh is if you go to Rome.”
I looked up to acknowledge the motley collection of humanity around me and could not believe what I saw. Rubbing my eyes and cleaning my glasses had no effect. It was if the metal carriage had turned into the set of a Fellini film. Opposite me sat a beguiling Sophia Loren, beside me Marcello Mastroianni reading a copy of Corriere dello Sport and then my heart almost stopped when my gaze fell upon Monica Bellucci.
It was all too much. I looked out the window only to be confronted by a riot of Vespas and Fiat Cinquacentos noisily doing battle in traffic. The tram rattled over Princess Bridge. The dirty brown Yarra looked as majestic as the Tiber, Flinders Street Station as magnificent as St. Peter’s Basilica.
By now I was becoming delirious. I had to do something. I was in the Rome of my imagination. It was a thrilling but also disturbing. The best thing to do was to just go with the flow and do what any Roman would do, so I disembarked at Bourke Street and headed straight for Pellegrini’s.
It had an immediate effect. The sound of the Italian staff made me feel comfortable and the refreshing granita was just what my parched mouth so badly needed.
“Ciao Carlo!” came a voice from over my shoulder.
“Ciao Francesco!” replied Carlo the barista.
“Un espresso, per favore!
I turned around and there he was as I looked up his unmistakable, noble Aquiline nose.
“TOTTI!”
I got over the shock of having a footballing god in my presence and asked Francesco Totti what he was doing in Pellegrini’s.
This is was his reply.
I just had lunch at Grossi Florentino, I pass by here for a quick espresso, I then walk around the corner to The European to sit outside, have a glass of vino and watch the women do their passegiata. It’s a little bit like Roma, but they walk a little too fast here. It’s ok, I get used to it.
I am very happy I came to play for Melbourne Heart and I look forward to scoring a hat-trick in the derby.
I thanked him, wished him well and offered him the only useful piece of advice I could think of.
Francesco, whenever you get homesick, you must visit my friend Pasquale and his pizzeria. Just ask for the funghi di bosco. It will make you feel like you have never left Rome.
An earlier version of this piece appeared in Schip Happens in November 2012. Francesco Totti never came to Melbourne. He has since extended his contract with A.S. Roma until the end of the 2015-16 season. He will be 39.
