It was a game against Juventus that finally shifted something in my psyche. I’d been in Italy about twelve years by then (twenty now). For a couple of seasons I’d been a desultory spectator at the Bentegodi. I had the excuse of my son, Michele, who was now just about old enough to sit through a game. Anyhow, the ground was unusually full that day, and when Juventus scored I realised why. The Curva Nord, the ‘guest area’, exploded with joy. That was to be expected. These people had bought their tickets in Turin. But then large areas of the more expensive stands were on their feet too, cheering and waving their black-and-white scarves. These people must be Veronese, born and bred. Yet they were supporting Juventus, a team synonymous with money and power, a team, in short, like Manchester United.
The Curva Sud rose as one man, besides themselves with rage, hurling their bodies against the perimeter fences. “Bastardi” they shrieked “Traditori.” My son too, in his shrill voice, was shouting, “Bastardi!” He meant it. Verona is a small club, it needs all the help it can get. “We know your names!” the fans began to chant. “We have your addresses!”
Then, caught up in the intensity of the emotions, I made a weird association. I have their addresses too, I thought. They are the addresses of all those well-to-do families whose children I gave English lessons to when I first arrived in Verona, families who paid late, cancelled at the last minute, asked if you had a proper hanger for their fur coats, departed without warning for Cortina or Buenos Aires and, in general, lived lives of enviable and obtuse complacency. People like that, I told myself, can’t bring themselves to support a team that might go into Serie B, so they whore after the interminable success of the wealthy giants.
