The Greyhound
Matt Kiebus
Issue date: 4/15/08 Section: Sports
OME - As I write this, study abroad officially ends for me in 10 days, and before next Friday I must complete two 2,000-word ethics papers, one 3,700 word paper for Pope Pius VI, one 1,500 word paper for travel writing and a 2,000 paper on Jesus. Why, you may ask, does he have so much work abroad? Frankly I haven't done anything but travel, drink and eat the last two months. It's been wonderful.
I've traveled the canals in Venice, wine tasted in an ancient castle in the Florentine hills, watched the sun set on the Amalfi coast, met the buffalos that supply our mozzarella cheese. I soaked up the rays in the Costa del Sol in Spain, I downed Guinness with high-school buddies in Dublin, and, oh yeah, I went to Amsterdam (wonder how that slipped my mind).
I schooled Italians with my basketball wizardry, Italian class schooled me -- I set record lows for my inability to speak Italian. I bought a fedora, slammed some limoncello, got lost in Rome repeatedly and fell in love, with a bar called Scholars.
One thing, however, will stick with me from Rome that I never thought would happen: I became a soccer, sorry, futball fan.
Now, this is completely out of character. Growing up, I hated "foot fairies." When people criticized baseball for being too boring I came back with, "Have you ever watched soccer?" I despised it more than lacrosse. (To clarify, I was a baseball player growing up; it was a rivalry about what was the real spring sport.)
Unless Spanish or Mexican announcers were doing the game, nothing about the "European cult" interested me. The game was slow and the players cry more than T.O. Sure, I would watch the World Cup and was bitterly disappointed at Poland, but that's about it.
Then I came to Rome. No SportsCenter, no Sports Illustrated, no ESPN, no Greyhound basketball, no Buffalo Bills football, no Arizona Basketball, no New York Mets baseball. Only AS Roma.
So it began. Games were always on the TV at dinner, and my host's boyfriend was a season-ticket holder, a Superfan of sorts. When Champions League play started I watched a city rejoice over their upset of Real Madrid. All this time I knew the game, but now I know the clubs, their histories, the players, their contracts, their absurdly attractive girlfriends. You thought being an athlete in the States got you tail? Imagine if the United States only had one sport. Life is good.
I've traveled the canals in Venice, wine tasted in an ancient castle in the Florentine hills, watched the sun set on the Amalfi coast, met the buffalos that supply our mozzarella cheese. I soaked up the rays in the Costa del Sol in Spain, I downed Guinness with high-school buddies in Dublin, and, oh yeah, I went to Amsterdam (wonder how that slipped my mind).
I schooled Italians with my basketball wizardry, Italian class schooled me -- I set record lows for my inability to speak Italian. I bought a fedora, slammed some limoncello, got lost in Rome repeatedly and fell in love, with a bar called Scholars.
One thing, however, will stick with me from Rome that I never thought would happen: I became a soccer, sorry, futball fan.
Now, this is completely out of character. Growing up, I hated "foot fairies." When people criticized baseball for being too boring I came back with, "Have you ever watched soccer?" I despised it more than lacrosse. (To clarify, I was a baseball player growing up; it was a rivalry about what was the real spring sport.)
Unless Spanish or Mexican announcers were doing the game, nothing about the "European cult" interested me. The game was slow and the players cry more than T.O. Sure, I would watch the World Cup and was bitterly disappointed at Poland, but that's about it.
Then I came to Rome. No SportsCenter, no Sports Illustrated, no ESPN, no Greyhound basketball, no Buffalo Bills football, no Arizona Basketball, no New York Mets baseball. Only AS Roma.
So it began. Games were always on the TV at dinner, and my host's boyfriend was a season-ticket holder, a Superfan of sorts. When Champions League play started I watched a city rejoice over their upset of Real Madrid. All this time I knew the game, but now I know the clubs, their histories, the players, their contracts, their absurdly attractive girlfriends. You thought being an athlete in the States got you tail? Imagine if the United States only had one sport. Life is good.
I heard the stadium from my house last week when they played Manchester United in the round of eight in the Champions League. I watched as Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney shattered the dreams of Roma fans. I sulked in the bar while they played depressing music after Roma was eliminated.
There was a heart to the game, a soul. It's a culture here, like football in Green Bay or basketball in Indiana. Easy to follow and play, there are soccer pitches all over the city, from school yards to along the Tiber River. Romans and Italians are passionate about it.
I have been lucky enough to attend a game, against a small-town team, in the rain, with the cheapest seats in the stadium. It was an event. The Roma diehard fans were behind the goal waving their flags unceasingly. Their scarves are worn with pride, a badge of honor.
Win or lose, they are always there to support their team. Futball is life.
I have legitimately enjoyed every minute I've spent in Italy. Anyone reading this who is contemplating going abroad, trust me -- go. It'll be the time of your life.
It's another shot at reinventing yourself, or finding out who you really are.
I've had homemade Italian meals every night for dinner. I walk past the Spanish steps everyday for class. Michelangelo sculpted a urinal I frequent on Thursdays. I now dance -- like a fool -- but I dance none the less. I'm friends with a kid nicknamed Slayer, who has an alter-ego known as Destroyer. You can't make this stuff up.
I grew long hair. It does make you feel cooler; you were right Pete. I was introduced to a card game called superlatives. I mastered Rome's public transportation system. I listened to the Gladiator theme song in the Colosseum.
Read a John Grisham book in the Circus Maximus. Visited a brothel in the bustling city of Pompeii. Lost my keys. Met ex-Celtic Allen Ray in a bar. Found my keys. Didn't do my laundry enough. Laughed a lot. Became a little nicer.
I'm going to walk away with plenty of new friends, priceless memories and a healthy share of embarrassing moments.
I also found out that no ocean or distance can stop me from being frustrated with my sports teams. Thank you New York Mets, Arizona Wildcats and Loyola Greyhounds basketball for pissing me off once again.
Right now, I'm going to rock my fedora, possibly buy some stunna' shades and hit the town. But I'd request for someone to alert the Wendy's staff on Central Avenue in Clark, N.J., that my flight gets in at 1:30 p.m. on Sunday the 20th. Be ready.
There was a heart to the game, a soul. It's a culture here, like football in Green Bay or basketball in Indiana. Easy to follow and play, there are soccer pitches all over the city, from school yards to along the Tiber River. Romans and Italians are passionate about it.
I have been lucky enough to attend a game, against a small-town team, in the rain, with the cheapest seats in the stadium. It was an event. The Roma diehard fans were behind the goal waving their flags unceasingly. Their scarves are worn with pride, a badge of honor.
Win or lose, they are always there to support their team. Futball is life.
I have legitimately enjoyed every minute I've spent in Italy. Anyone reading this who is contemplating going abroad, trust me -- go. It'll be the time of your life.
It's another shot at reinventing yourself, or finding out who you really are.
I've had homemade Italian meals every night for dinner. I walk past the Spanish steps everyday for class. Michelangelo sculpted a urinal I frequent on Thursdays. I now dance -- like a fool -- but I dance none the less. I'm friends with a kid nicknamed Slayer, who has an alter-ego known as Destroyer. You can't make this stuff up.
I grew long hair. It does make you feel cooler; you were right Pete. I was introduced to a card game called superlatives. I mastered Rome's public transportation system. I listened to the Gladiator theme song in the Colosseum.
Read a John Grisham book in the Circus Maximus. Visited a brothel in the bustling city of Pompeii. Lost my keys. Met ex-Celtic Allen Ray in a bar. Found my keys. Didn't do my laundry enough. Laughed a lot. Became a little nicer.
I'm going to walk away with plenty of new friends, priceless memories and a healthy share of embarrassing moments.
I also found out that no ocean or distance can stop me from being frustrated with my sports teams. Thank you New York Mets, Arizona Wildcats and Loyola Greyhounds basketball for pissing me off once again.
Right now, I'm going to rock my fedora, possibly buy some stunna' shades and hit the town. But I'd request for someone to alert the Wendy's staff on Central Avenue in Clark, N.J., that my flight gets in at 1:30 p.m. on Sunday the 20th. Be ready.
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