church. Or they take communion at home if they live on the seventh floor, with their fluid retention and their walker and the liftâs out of order again. The tabloids scream outrage. In Genoa, a salesmanâs healthy skepticism is the norm, just as the pleasant shadow in the alleyways doesnât evaporate under any amount of sun. Jesus said that Peter wanted to build his church on a rock. Peterâs church in Genoa is on Piazza Banchi and it is built on shops. The foundations of trade still lie under the churchâs foundations. But even here, the mayor only has to come up with the idea of organizing a Gay Pride parade for the archbishop to put a stop to it the next day.
Being a Catholic doesnât have to be a conscious choice, not like the existential struggles in Dutch Protestantism that go with being doubly, triply, quadruply Reformed or Restored Reformed. In the fatherland, conversion to Catholicism is for men of my profession worthy of a press release, guaranteed fodder for an endless series of discussion nights in community centers. In Italy, itâs something youâre born into, just like being born a supporter of Genoa or Sampdoria, and just as youâre born someone who eats trofie al pesto and not egg foo young with noodles. God isnât someone you search for on a hopeless path with your hands cramped into a begging bowl, but someone like the coach of a football team or the chef in a restaurant: heâll be there, and no doubt heâll do his best, because thatâs how itâs always been. So you get baptized and you marry in a church, not because you particularly want that,but because it makes Granny happy and because thatâs the way itâs always been. Catholicism is the default, the standard setting, and too many complicated downloads and difficult processes are needed to deviate from it. Most people wonât go to all that trouble.
But this wasnât what I intended to talk about at all. Religion is a bit of a womanâs thing after all. The men in Italy celebrate their own holy high mass every Sunday at three oâclock on the dot. Since time immemorial the year has unfolded around the cycle of friendly duels and preliminary rounds that lead to the championship and the final position. The religion is called Serie A. Mass is each teamâs weekly match. At three oâclock on Sunday afternoons, millions of Italian men sit in their regular parish to be flagellated for ninety minutes by the live coverage on Skynet or some other subscription channel. Sampdoriaâs church is the Doge Café on Piazza Matteotti; Genoaâs church is Capitan Baliano, diagonally opposite. At halftime during the service, everyone smokes a fraternal cigarette together on the same square before returning to their own temple at exactly four oâclock for the second half and another forty-five minutes of suffering, hell, and damnation.
Nobody enjoys it, as befits a religion. Iâve watched a football match in a bar a few times back home. You have to drink a lot of beer and do the cancan together, and by the second half getting beer down each otherâs throats becomes more important than watching the match. In Italy, on the other hand, itâs a deadly serious matter. The men drink coffee and swear.
There isnât a single Italian male who doesnât know about food. He canât cook, his wife does that, but he knows better. Itâs his job to deliver negative comments about each course in an indignantmanner. And there isnât a single Italian male who doesnât know about football. Heâs incapable of sprinting fifty meters, but he knows better. Each Sunday itâs his job to give an indignant and scornful commentary of every move made by the top athletes in the stadium.
But Italians donât know a thing about football. They donât understand it and they donât even like it. Every time a player loses possession itâs the