The Roman Moon Is Not Always Romantic
AS Roma, the hometown soccer heroes, will be playing a quarterfinal Champions League match against Manchester United tonight at Olympic Stadium and the rafters will be rocking. Some 6,000 English supporters have arrived in town to cheer their guys on. Certain UK websites have called the Rome team fans “savages” and “animals” and warned the visiting fans to avoid certain areas of the city before and after the game. Look who’s talking. The word “hooligan” is not a Roman or Italian word and is sometimes applied to UK soccer fans. The City of Rome has forbidden the sale of beer and alcohol take-out and in glass bottles on the day of the match and until 3 AM the next morning.
The local fans are drunk with expectation. As I leave the house tardy to go to a late afternoon movie two cars loaded with young Roman rowdies slowly make their way down my narrow street. One young man has yet to get into a car with his friends and they egg him on as he walks beside them. On a whim, he drops his trousers and waves two very full moons at them and they all laugh and shout. I, of course, witness the spectacle because it would be hard to miss.
I am not offended, nor do I avert my eyes. In a flash, as it were, I have seen everything. One of the guys in the car looks at me and yells: “Lady, your cat ran out the door.” (“Signora, il micio è scappato.”) Maybe that phrase is a double-entendre I haven’t learned yet. I don’t recognize any of the guys. If they are from my neighborhood they may know I have cats. I start walking toward the main street and the taxi stand but then, I think, what if I was careless and one of the cats actually got loose.
Losing precious time, I turn around and go back in to do a nose count. All are lolling on the comfy new/used overstuffed down couch and armchairs except Carolina, the velvet grey beauty with the unfriendly personality, but she has a way of eclipsing herself at afternoon naptime. I am worried, but not to the point of missing the movie, so I count one more time and lock the door behind me.
Sometimes in the darkened theatre a man might take the seat next to me. I would feel his glance on the side of my face and, after a minute or two, with a restless hand he might start to palp my thigh. Those were the days.
After the movie I wait in a long line at the taxi stand under the drizzle to go home. When one drop of rain falls in Rome, taxis are hard, if not impossible, to come by (one girl’s definition of drama in the Eternal City: “how do I get where I’m going when one drop of rain falls?” Yes, this is a question that also has bearing on some of life’s larger issues.).
It is approximately 40 minutes before the match and four pleasant looking, well-dressed middle-aged Englishmen (one of whom is literally tipsy) precede me in the line. One of them asks me how they can get a taxi faster. I tell him they will just have to wait their turn. He and his mates comment more than once that they expect to be assaulted by Rome fans when they arrive at the stadium.
The Englishman shows me his tickets and invites me to the game with him. Hmmmmmm. Can this lead to something else? Soccer is not my idea of football and I graciously decline. I hold the precious package of fresh-raspberry topped cheesecake as my evening treat.
When their taxi finally comes the driver refuses to take them to the stadium because, he says, access has by now been blocked. I tell the driver in Italian that the English gents have tickets and which gate to drop them at, and off they go.
When I return home Carolina re-appears from her hiding place and shows me her pretty face.
The hometown heroes win tonight’s game 2-1. The re-match will be played in Manchester next week.
Eleven Manchester supporters wind up in the hospital after the match, one in serious condition with a knife wound in the neck, and the City of Rome is being accused of letting the situation get out of hand.
Italian officials have aired a tape showing a horde of UK fans surrounding a group of policemen inside the stadium during the match, insulting and pelting them with bottles, broken glass and other objects.
Training camp opens in late July. That’s when the good part of the year begins. NFL fans are a different breed of animal.
