30 days ago or so, I was dancing in front of the computer trying to learn Shakira's sinuous moves. Grandma Holly instead called home: "here's a thing, does your TV work?! Ooooohhhh deaaarrrr I hear a constant hum as if I had flies inside, it's unacceptable! And why can't I see Totti? And how come every player is drying his hands on his butt, I don't think that's polite!" The World Cup is started, and grandma is calibrated on the "national coach" version, with the problems of injuries and annoying vuvuzelas, the South African trumpets. Instead, I explore Corso Italia in search of a place to watch the first match, armed with the flag I bought here and so much-misplaced-confidence in our national team. I avoid the first local sports bar, full of exalted old people who sing loudly "Gloria" as if it was the anthem. Instead I sit in an ice cream shop where I order ice cream and watch the varied clientele. There is the owner's family, who speaks only dialect (I think Calabrese), and whose grandchildren answer in Canadian, although understanding his language; there are some beautiful South American girls, with light blue shirts and the myth -also misplaced, nowadays- of the Italian macho to pick up, the boy born in Canada but with a shirt that says, with the fonts of "The Godfather": "The Cup is ours", 15-year-old kids with the life-size cardboard shape of Buffon (and when Buffon injures himself the discouragement is widespread); the fortyish-year-olds who are wondering why Lippi hasn't brought Baggio... which Baggio?! No one sings the anthem but me, so I feel a bit observed and I doubt they even know it, but in the end everybody burst out clapping as an encouragement. Encouragement that is useless, as we know, and that soon turns into the frustration of the elderly owner who beats his hat against the plasma TV when he sees Lippi. I console myself with the arrival of two Canadian hot guys, who support Italy for "sympathy"... at least my eyes are pleased! For the last game against Slovakia I go back to the ice cream place for that weird Italian idea of luck that goes "even if it went wrong, you never know that if I change place it may go even worse" and there's only place outside, with a tropical temperature... but for Italy I can sacrifice! I start chatting with the other guests who are fascinated by my roots and the fact that Venice has not sunk yet and I dwell in technical explanations as to why Balotelli and Cassano were not called up... as if I knew any better, among other things! At half time, a streetcar stops in the middle of the intersection and the driver goes to find out what is Italy doing, blocking the traffic in the meantime. Unfortunately the game goes as we know and we go home downhearted, while the makeshift stands that pop up at every street corner that are beginning to sell Dutch and German flags instead of Italian ones... Yes, of course. Those I meet along the street who see the Italian flag give me their condolences as if someone had died while others stop me to ask me what happened... maybe I ask my grandmother and I can tell you. MM and other inhabitants of the area are very happy with the defeat of Italy, a little due to an atavistic dislike for the way we play soccer, a bit because the Italian ability to block every road with carousels is well known. Four years ago half the Toronto Police Service had undertaken to divert traffic due to the Italian celebrations. Not that the other Latins are any better, however: the Portuguese created 6 km queue in all directions to celebrate the advancement to the next round, with window flags, hood flags, so on and so forth. Now that the World Cup is over, and Spanish supporters celebrate the first title in their history almost no streetcars are running and some participate in the carousels; among other things, all the fans that I saw were Asian... melting pot or an excuse to pull girls?! Who knows? However, while the saddest World cup in Italian history comes to an end, the happiest for the nearby Iberian peninsula, the World Cup of Paul the Octopus who predicted all the results, the World Cup of vuvuzelas boasting a symphony orchestra, and the World Cup of Waka Waka that I eventually didn't need to learn anymore because there was nothing to celebrate... let's meet again in four years or if we believe in good luck let's go directly to 2020, with Buffon's heir in place of the beautiful (as many keep saying) Casillas, on the top of the world.
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