Calcio and Sociology

"Batigol, Batigol, Bati-Bati-Bati go-oo-l."

The crowd roared it's approval for Batistuta, the Argentine star of A.C. Fiorentina - the soccer, or calcio, team of Florence. The star's nickname is "Bati-gol."

Gabriel Batistuta is a legend in Florence who, like Yanni and Madonna, is now one of the chosen few who is known by only one name. When Fiorentina was relegated to the bottom of the league in the early 90s, he stayed with the franchise instead of bolting to a different team.

In American terms, that would be like the Mets finishing in last place, being demoted to AAA and Robin Ventura choosing to play at a minor league level with the Mets instead of asking to be traded.

A brief history lesson is needed so you can fully understand the importance of calcio in Italian culture.

I found that most Italians don't think of themselves as "Italians," per se. People from Florence are Fiorentines. People from Rome are Romans, etc. Before there was an "Italy," each city was its own entity and therefore hated each other. These are rivalries. Although the fighting has stopped between the cities, the old feelings are still going strong. So when AC Roma and Fiorentina hit the field, centuries of hatred clash as well.

On any game day at Artemio Stadium in Firenze, overly passionate calcio fans of all ages are screaming for their boys in purple - Fiorentina.

On the way to my first Fiorentina game, the streets were overflowing with purple clad fans. (Hint: If you are in Firenze and want to go to a game, take a taxi - around ten dollars. It is a little more expensive, yet definitely worth the extra lira.)

Once we got off the bus, we looked around to find tickets. The best place to buy them, I think, is in a bar near the stadium. It will be easy to find, just ask "Dove biglietto?" and someone will point you to the tickets. You can also go to the ticket office on Via Faenza and buy tickets. You can also get all kinds of wonderful information, as well as ticket info here: Fiorentina's home page

Fiorentina games are indescribable. The visiting fans are enclosed by cyclone fences and must wait until all the home crowd has exited the stadium until they can leave. This is done so they don't get killed.

What the chain-links can't do, how-ever, is stop the lit road flares that old Italian men throw at the visiting crowd. Lit - as in on fire.

Once we got inside, we, being American football fans, immediately went to the beer vendors. Which cost many a lira (stadium prices cross borders). After about four or five beers, we noticed something wrong. Or, more to the point, we noticed that something was not wrong. We were still no where near any kind of "warm and fuzzy place." On our next trip to the vendors, we noticed that all the beer we had been buying was non-alcoholic. Every one in the stadium, including us and the flare-throwers, was stone-sober - making the outragous behavior that much more outrageous.

As far as really experiencing Italy, a calcio match is unrivaled. The fans there are not putting on airs for tourists. At no moment, other than maybe the birth or death of a loved one, is a person more exposed than when they are being a fan. At that moment, when you are living and dying with people you don't even know playing a sport you probably don't play, you are defenseless.

It is also at that moment that you can see what the Italians are really like - passionate, knowledgeable and loyal. I attended six or more games while living in Florence, and I found it was the best way to actually "blend" in.

Much is made of the "when in Rome" syndrome, but it is very hard to actually be able to just "hang" with Italians. Calcio allows that to happen because, like music, sport is an international language.

By the third game, I was no longer a tourist, I was a fan. I wore all purple, talked with old men in the streets Saturday afternoon about the following day's game and even placed bets.

I even had my own jersey, even though mine was the only one in the crowd with a name on the back that ended in a consonant.

Walking from my apartment to the Mercado Centrale every day, the same, semi-senile man would ask me my prediction for upcoming match. Soon, I was having coffee with this man.

I wasn't an American. I wasn't a tourist. I was a Fiorentina fan, and that was what mattered.