Notes from Verona
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Notes from Verona

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Parklife

12/1/2022

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That strange little void when your kids get bigger and you don't need to push them on the swings.
A diary entry I wrote four years ago but never got around to publishing.
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One day in late May I find myself in the neighbourhood park with my four-year-old. My older son has gone off to play with one of his friends, so my burden has been halved.

It's stiflingly hot. I've spent the day cycling across town from one lesson to the next. The timing of my final class gives me a narrow window to pick up some snacks, race across town and get to school in time for the bell, but the prospect of spending the next couple of hours entertaining a cantankerous four-year-old in a mosquito-infested park isn't exactly appealing.

To my delight, though, he quickly latches on to a friend from school, and they soon disappear into the far reaches of the park, where a wooden playhouse provides the perfect hiding place for inquisitive four-year-olds. Their numbers soon swell and I, for the first time in nearly ten years, find myself at the park without the constant badgering of a demanding child. And the mosquitos are mercifully quiet today as well.
 
Usually arrival at the park stimulates a stream of unreasonable and often contradictory demands. Come and play football daddy. Come and look at the ants daddy. I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. Can we go home? I don't want to go home. Scapa la kaka [I need a poo]. Push me faster daddy. Slower daddy. Higher daddy. Stop. Don't stop. Go. Come. Run. Look.
 
Today. I'm surplus. No demands, no tears, no tantrums, nothing. My son is playing happily with the other kids. Are my boys finally growing up? Am I now redundant?

I had long harvested an image of being able to read the newspaper while my kids occupy themselves at the park (I blame Shirley Hughes for this unrealistic utopian vision), and I usually always have some reading material with me, which generally doesn't get read.

Today I have nothing. I curse myself. I have a rare moment of peace and tranquillity in the park, but I've got absolutely nothing to do. My phone, which is usually a constant if unsatisfying distraction, is dead. I castigate myself for such idleness, for not making better use of this rare moment of freedom.

Reasoning with myself, I decide to savour this rare moment of tranquility to practice some mindfulness. To meditate. To absorb the joy of children at play. To observe their funny little games, to cherish their laughter, their joy.
 
That lasts about three minutes.

I’m bored.

I wonder if he'll even notice if I run to the edicola across the road.

No, I couldn’t leave him alone in the park. He'd notice immediately I was gone. Worse, something might happen. He could fall off the monkey climber. Another child might hit him. He could get stung by a Calabrone.
 
Another five minutes spent shuffling about on the bench and my mind’s made up. I’m going.

I surreptitiously shuffle towards the gate and dart across the road so he doesn't notice my absence.
 
Usually a minefield of cheap toys, sugary sweets and unwanted comics, without children the edicola across the road from the park is a mind-blowing grotto of possibilities.

​The wide floor-to-ceiling racks of magazines, newspapers and graphic novels are slightly overwhelming. I can't decide. A travel mag - with a special feature on Sicily, this summer’s holiday destination? A newspaper? Don't think I can stomach more speculation about political events in Rome. Football?

The minutes pass.

I'm paralysed by infinite choice.

How long have I been here? Five minutes? Ten minutes. It's impossible to say.

Finally, I'm drawn to a magazine with a picture of a beaded adventurer in beanie cap and snow glasses - I think it must be an antidote to the heat. "Survival & Reporter" it's called, the jarring syntax of which leaves me somewhat perplexed.

I read the headlines on the front page: "La Neve", "Winter Training Course (Finlandia 2018)", "Survival in Europa". "Come Sopravvivere nel Bosco" [How to survive in the forest]. I'm sold. I quickly pick up a bottle of iced peach tea, exchange a few pleasantries with the newsagent and run back across the road to the park, the magazine tucked under my arm.
 
To much relief, I realise that he's still playing in the wooden playhouse, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd been abandoned, if only for a few minutes.

I find a shady spot, guzzle down some ice-cool tea and read about how to dig a survival refuge in the snow.

After a few moments, my son scampers towards me. "Where you went daddy?" [Like his older brother, he hasn't yet learned that in English we use an auxiliary verb when asking a question].

The little bugger, he doesn't miss a thing.

"Nowhere Sebo", I reassure him. "Do you want some tea?"
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World Cup memories.

11/22/2022

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Watching the opening games of the World Cup with my eight-year-old has triggered a lot of memories from my own childhood.

It’s the first World Cup he’ll properly remember and as a football daft kid he deserves to enjoy it.

In the last couple of years, despite the COVID-19 pandemic striking an existential threat to grassroots and community football here in Italy, he’s caught the bug. Playing it, watching it, wearing his big brother’s replica kits, collecting the stickers, poring over the Gazzetta. In fact, he reminds me very much of me at that age (apart from the Gazzetta)!
 
With both Italy and Scotland boycotting the event, and some serious doubts lingering over the ethicality of Qatar even hosting the event, I was approaching the whole thing with something close to indifference.
 
But my son’s enthusiasm for the game is contagious. And who am I to deny him the dubious pleasure of Qatar struggling against Ecuador or an English goal fest against Iran?
 
The First World Cup I well remember was Mexico ’86.
 
In fact, my memory goes back slightly further, to the pre-tournament qualifiers as 121 nations battled it out for one of 24 places on offer.
 
It was the winter of 1985, and I was that wide-eyed football daft eight-year-old.
 
Scotland had finished second in their qualifying group, behind Spain, and that entitled them to a play-off spot against Australia, winners of the Oceania qualifying tournament.
 
In the home leg, Scotland beat Australia two-nil at Hampden. It was just before Christmas and sixty odd thousand had packed into the national stadium that evening. Davie Cooper and Frank McAvenie scored with Kenny Daglish contributing an assist.

Aberdeen had won the European Cup Winners' Cup Final against Real Madrid just a couple of years earlier, and the Legends of Gotherburg were well represented in the Scotland lineup that evening.

Even now, I could just about go through that entire Scotland team from memory - every single one of them were childhood heroes.
 
GK       1          Jim Leighton (Aberdeen)
DF        2          Steve Nicol (Liverpool)
DF        5          Alex McLeish (Aberdeen)
DF        6          Willie Miller (Aberdeen)
DF        3          Maurice Malpas (Dundee United)
MF       8          Gordon Strachan (Manchester United)
MF       4          Graeme Souness (c) (Sampdoria)
MF       10        Roy Aitken (Celtic)
MF       11        Davie Cooper (Rangers)
FW       7          Kenny Dalglish (Liverpool)
FW       9          Frank McAvennie (West Ham United)
 
But Scotland’s qualification was also tinged with sadness.
 
Just months earlier Davie Cooper had scored a late equaliser to give Scotland the point they needed to reach the play off. But, in the dugout tragedy struck, as manager Jock Stein collapsed and died of a heart attack. It was left to his assistant, an up-and-coming young coach named Alex Ferguson, to take charge of the Scotland team for the looming play-off campaign.
 
I distinctly remember watching the away-leg, played on the other side of the world in Melbourne, from our school television room!

As a naïve eight-year-old I didn’t fully appreciate why we were celebrating a 0-0 draw, and it must have been a pretty boring game to watch, but the players from that era remain etched on my memory. Guys like Paul McStay and Richard Gough (both future Scotland captains) made appearances in the second leg.
 
The World Cup in Mexico was intoxicating. High altitude training in exotic sounding places, weird kick-off times, teams from places I’d never even heard of before. And who can forget that delicious Scotland strip with the horizontal stripe across the shorts? I had the golden Leighton top as well.
 
Notwithstanding the abundance of schoolboy heroes in the team, Scotland lost to West Germany (who went on to lose to Argentina in the final) and to debutants Denmark, whose lineup boasted an in form Preben Elkjær and Michael Laudrup up front. To have any chance of staying in the tournament we had to beat World Cup winners Uruguay in the last game of the group.
 
The game ended 0-0 and fostered a life-long antipathy towards the Uruguayans and the cynical way they played football, which I think I’m only just beginning to come to terms with now!

Of course, Diego Maradona went on to lift the trophy, cementing his status as the world’s greatest player.
 
For Scotland, more glorious failure followed, first at Italia 90 and then at France 98, but at least we were there! Growing up in a household with three football daft boys, we were really spoiled with these unforgettable tournaments.
 
Italia 90 in particular was iconic (Beauty, Drama, Passion And Tragedy - Why Italia '90 Was The Best World Cup Ever). The drama, the passion, the beauty – it was operatic in its intensity. The Germans and Argentinians, England and Cameroon. And Maradona, of course.

Back then I wasn’t really aware of the antagonism simmering away behind the scenes between Maradona and the Italian fans. On the pitch, he remained such a compelling figure. Meanwhile, on the BBC, the effortless charm of Desmond Lynam, brought the World Cup into our living room each and every evening to the rousing soundtrack of Puccini’s spine-tingling aria.
 
But once again it all ended in glorious failure for the Scots.
 
I simply couldn’t understand how we’d been beaten by Costa Rica in the opening round. I didn’t even know where Costa Rica was!
 
Victory against Sweden (a late Mo Johnson penalty) provided the hope, leaving us the small matter of three points against Brazil to guarantee qualification to the knock-out phase. In the end it was only a late Mûller goal at the Stadio delle Alpi that ended Scottish dreams, once again.
 
Fast-forward a few years to France 1998. By now I’m 21 and have returned to Glasgow for the summer break. It’s the first year of the New Labour Government, so there’s a tangible sense of optimism in the air (for some anyway). But somehow Scotland have once again found themselves drawn against Brazil, this time in the opening match of the tournament!
 
And what a Brazil team it was! They had Ronaldo (at his absolute peak). They had Cafu, Roberto Carlos, Dunga, Rivaldo and Bebeto. We had Gordon Dury and Christian Dailly. And in goals, that fading legend from Gothenburg, Jim Leighton, the oldest player in the tournament (at 39 years and 11 months). In short, we had no chance!
 
That afternoon in Glasgow was pure mental (as the locals like to say). Nobody was at work, the pubs were overflowing. We’d arrived super early to secure a decent seat. By kick-off the place was absolutely rammed. Stade de France for the opening game against the World Champions, we couldn’t believe our luck! We knew we were going to lose against the defending champions, but we were determined to have a good time anyway.
 
Sure enough, five minutes in and Brazil score. You’re thinking – on no, here we go again!
 
But then, on 38 minutes, something incredible happens. Scotland get a penalty - and John Collins scores!

Now we just need to hold on. Against the best team in the world.
 
And we did!
 
Brazil couldn’t score.

They didn’t score.
 
In fact, it was Tom Boyd who broke the deadlock. A 74th-minute own-goal that finally broke Scottish hearts.
 
Glorious failure. 



Again! 


But what a night in Glasgow that was!
 
As we sobered up, a draw against Denmark and a three-nil humiliation against Morocco brought another World Cup grinding to an abrupt halt.
 
It was to be the last time Scotland played in a World Cup.

So, neither of my kids have ever seen Scotland play in a major tournament. My eight-year-old has never seen Italy play in a World Cup! They've been robbed!
 
Despite that they love the World Cup. Like most kids, they're really into the big names. They’re desperate for Messi to win. For Ronaldo to lose. They’ve got the album, they know all the flags, all the teams, all the players.
 
Of course, they’re largely oblivious to the corruption and the intolerance and controversy that surrounds the game – in the same way I was unaware of a lot of what was going on behind the scenes in Mexico, Italy and France.

​They’re just focussed on what’s happening on the pitch, and in a way it’s fantastic to see the game through their eyes.

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Life after Twitter

11/18/2022

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Like so many others who are in the process of jettisoning Twitter, I too am beginning to consider my exit strategy and life without the ubiquitous bird.
 
It’s got something of the feeling of a pub at closing time at the moment - everyone doing their farewells and promising to stay in touch.
 
I suspect, like many things in life, we won’t truly appreciate it until it’s gone.
 
Then again, all good things must come to an end, and maybe this bird has flown?
 
If the truth be told, I’ve been increasingly underwhelmed by my Twitter experience in recent months (my increasingly sluggish android isn’t helping). But I still value the many daily interactions with friends and contacts forged over the last eight years.
 
I joined Twitter in December 2014 looking for a wider audience for my writing. It was a lot harder than I expected to build up a following, but joining a global community, centred around Italian cultural and footballing life, has been an unexpected pleasure.

I’m one of the fortunate ones who can say that the negative experiences I’ve had on Twitter have been negligible, far outweighed by the many, many positive interactions, not least welcoming so many friends and followers to Verona.
 
But like many of you I now spend far too much time scrolling. If Twitter’s current precarious plight allows us to reflect on how we might make better use of our time, then that’s no bad thing.
 
Personally, I’d love my reading to return to its pre-social media / pandemic / Smartphone levels, where it was a cherished daily experience.

I used to carry a book everywhere with me to fill in those moments waiting in line at the post-office or on the bus or at the park.

Now I just carry my phone with me everywhere.

For too long Twitter has occupied those quiet moments in between things and I’d like to claim at least some of that time back!
 
Once a week I’ve started to pick up a print copy of the Financial Times, and that seems like a far more sustainable way to absorb the news. 

I suspect Twitter will stagger on, and me with it! But in the meantime I’m going to shift some of my attention to GoodReads and Notes from Verona.
 
You can follow me on GoodReads here:
 
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20491414.Richard_Hough
 
Whatever you do and wherever you go, I hope we stay in touch.
 
You could even write a guest blog here for me on Notes from Verona!
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    About

    Richard Hough writes about history, football, wine, whisky, culture + travel and is currently working on a trilogy about wartime Verona. 

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    Author of Notes from Verona, a short collection of diary entries from inside locked down Italy and Rita's War, a true story of resistance and heroism set in wartime Italy.

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