When the Games of
the 20th Winter Olympics open later this week in Turin, Italy, you’ll have to
pardon me for considering this my first hometown Games. It’s a stretch,
admittedly, but likely the closest geographic tie I’ll ever establish to the
Olympics.
You see, during
the 1976-77 academic year, my dad took our family of four to Turin — Torino to
those who live there — as he researched his doctoral thesis in economic history
(on Count Cavour, the kingdom of Sardinia, and the unification of Italy in the
mid-nineteenth century). He studied and taught a class at the University of
Turin’s Institute of Economic History. And I got to spend second grade a
cultural leap off the beaten path, at the American Cultural Association of Turin
(ACAT). Along with being the first woman I can confess to having a crush on, our
teacher — Ms. Travis — taught in English, a fundamental strategy of this
unique school. My classmates, though, were an international conglomerate of
7-year-olds. In looking at my yearbook, I count three American, nine Italian,
two British, and one German friend in my class. It was a year of education that
went way beyond the three R’s.
Along with my fond
memories at ACAT came the seeds of a love for sports that have grown to color my
life in ways I dared not imagine in 1976. Before I could recite the St. Louis
Cardinals’ batting order in less than a minute, I could shout “Forza Juve!” in
support of an Italian soccer club that just might rival the standing of the New
York Yankees here stateside. Founded in 1897, Juventus has won no fewer than 28
Italian league championships and is one of only four clubs to win all the major
European trophies (the UEFA Cup, the Cup Winners Cup, and the European Cup).
Taking the Yankees’ pinstripes up a bold notch, Juventus takes the field in
striped jerseys that are really no different from an NFL referee’s. Shouts of “i
bianconeri!” anywhere in northern Italy will call to mind instantly the
black-and-white soccer gods of Turin.
Our year in Italy
was extra special in soccer terms, as Juventus won its very first UEFA Cup in
May 1977. Stars like Roberto Bettega, Marco Tardelli, Claudio Gentile, and
goalie Dino Zoff found their way to my bedroom wall (thanks to posters inserted
in La Stampa, Turin’s daily newspaper) and permanently into the hearts of a
nation that loves soccer more than Americans do cheeseburgers. Tardelli,
Gentile, and Zoff, by the way, would gain a degree of global fame in 1982 when
they helped Italy win the World Cup.
So as U.S.
Olympians like Bode Miller, Sasha Cohen, and Apolo Ohno seek to add their names
to Italian — and international — sports history this month, forgive me for the
flashbacks to those soccer stars jumping off my collectible stickers to this
day. (I know Dad was teaching me the joy of baseball-card collecting, not to
mention some grade-school economics, when he had me approach sidewalk
newsstands, requesting “calciatori?” Discovering a Juve player as I opened a
pack was found gold.)
It’s been 29 years
since I’ve seen Turin, but I’m lucky enough to retain some appreciation for its
beauty — and chill! — nestled as it is at the foot of the mighty Alps. Better
yet, I retain memories of playing soccer at a nearby park, hopelessly
undermanned against my foil (his name was Aldo). And I retain some astonishment
at the street celebration when Juventus captured a championship, a party that
took some violent, fiery twists at the hands of Torino fans (Torino being the
other pro team in Turin; think Yankees-Mets with a dose of temperament that
would make Tony Soprano recoil).
The beauty of the
Olympics, of course, is that internecine rivals get caught up in, as corny as it
sounds here in the twenty-first century, the spirit of sport for two weeks. When
representing our country, our better nature tends to carry the day. It pleases
me to see the world visiting a place I called home at such an important time in
my life. I’m not sure who I’ll cheer the next two weeks, but I know HOW I’ll
cheer: Forza Torino!
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