Church, lunch, and the game are the three pillars upon which the Italian Sunday was built. 🍇 Three clustered events spaced a few hours within each other: first duty, then necessity, and finally pleasure. Even if it 🍇 does seem excessive calling it a pleasure, for all the times an afternoon defeat made our baked pasta go down 🍇 the wrong way and along with it, the entire weekend.

At my parents’ house I discovered a drawer full of old 🍇 pocket radios. I then found an identical one when we emptied my grandmother’s house. I was reminded of them present 🍇 in family photos, with that unintentionally vintage design, often surrounded by an engrossed group of people of all ages, hands 🍇 cupped around their ears. I remembered afternoons in the mid-nineties when they were still used. As a child I used 🍇 to take them with me on Sunday outings for the same reason everyone else took them: to follow the ball 🍇 game.

The cult of the game does not have specific areas of competence, no typical geographical indication, like wine does, but 🍇 it has always brought people together within its single large leather sphere. From North to South, from the countryside to 🍇 the big cities, from the mountains to the sea. Those who could went to the stadium, up to the time 🍇 it was more comfortable to watch matches on TV. Lunch was at home, then down to the bar, until the 🍇 call of the family became too insistent to be ignored. At that point the pocket radio came in handy.

But like 🍇 all cultural symbols, fans have had to deal with the progression of the sport’s economic sector growing disproportionately in just 🍇 a few years. The first change was the match schedule: after more than half a century of Sunday afternoon starts, 🍇 the delay was born. It was the 1993 of great changes, with Italy in political turmoil and television rights becoming 🍇 a greater feature of the sport. It was the first upheaval of many. In February 2024 the first round of 🍇 the Series A schedule was split between Friday afternoon and Monday evening, with no match played at the same time. 🍇 For the older folks this was an outrage. Who knows what my grandparents would have said, used to arriving at 🍇 Sunday dinner knowing the rankings were already updated. Obviously it was no longer possible to follow games on the radio 🍇 minute by minute, as I did as a child. My parents were never big fans, but when we would go 🍇 on our Sunday outings in the car, we listened to the live broadcast on the radio, which started immediately after 🍇 the iconic theme song, A Taste of Honey, by Herb Albert & the Tijuana Brass. And when we went for 🍇 a walk, I had the trusty pocket radio with me. The excitement was palpable as the reports came from field 🍇 to field, the format used then by the Rai network for live football events. The reporter was often interrupted by 🍇 the jingle announcing a goal in another stadium. I clearly remember the sensation I felt seconds before the correspondent would 🍇 give updates on the match; moments when I hoped news would be about my favorite team but – careful! – 🍇 also in that moment the opposing team could have scored. I swayed on that swing between relief and disappointment each 🍇 time, every Sunday.