Italians

My thoughts

Italians, man.

Right?

What an ethnic group. Legends. Sardinians, Calabrians, Ligurians, even the dastardly Milanese. What a lineup.

They really did it. Those crazy mfs, they did it.

We should all be so grateful!

Imagine life without Italian-Americans. Imagine we didn’t have rotini, orecchiette, or other enriched macaroni products filling our pantries! Imagine if David Chase’s game-changing series had never aired. Julius Caesar. The damn Appian Way. Aqueducts and shit. Imagine Sinead O’Connor never tears up the picture of the Pope on SNL—because the Italians hadn’t developed Roman Catholicism, because they didn’t exist!

Imagine the losses. Gut-wrenching!

That being said:

Have Italians ever considered apologizing to me? Maybe in the last week or so? Have they even ever thought about that for a change?

Because let me set the scene for you.

It’s a Saturday evening. The local Triple-A affiliate Syracuse Mets are having one of their final home games of the season—and it’s “Italian Night.” What does this mean? A celebration of all things Italian, ranging from Sopranos theme music interludes to sign-up tables for the “Protect the Columbus Statue” Association. And, crucially: the first 1,500 fans to show up receive a free Italian Night-themed Syracuse Mets jersey.

Aoohhhh marone a mia !

As for me? Well, I’m just gone off the vibes! 65 degrees and sunny, cortado hit just right at 3:17 pm, and I just finished a cursory rewatch of Danny Collins. Couldn’t be more primed. It’s time to watch some minor league baseball, and hopefully procure a free jersey, of course! What could go wrong?

Well, guess what.

Sometimes, the world doesn’t want to see you winnin’ (Kodak Black). They want you to feel the sweet, cool air of victory, let it dance upon your parched tongue, before ripping your heart out with the casual cruelty of the elites. The men upstairs. The Decision-Makers. Yes, those cocks. Those useful idiots who uphold the strictures of our system, gamifying life so that all its attendant pleasures and sorrows are merely tools to keep us pinned down in our ambition. They stomp on our chests then give us sweet succor, keep us fed on a steady, IV-drip diet of good fortune while the majority of life is a despairing nightmare. How dare we question their methods? How dare we challenge the status quo?

Ah, great…some new subscribers this week…people Ritam met at an official Substack event…I hope none of them are Italian.

Despite getting to the game more than an hour early, I was stymied on all fronts.

We PU (pull up) to the parking lot and it’s way more than 1,500 people. First pitch is at 6:35—we arrive at 5:20. The fuck? These Italians are insane. Why do they want the jersey so bad? I want the jersey so bad. They should let me have the jersey. They don’t need the jersey. Just let me have the fucking jersey.

Wait in line. Watch the last dregs of the jerseys get distributed from our lowly station outside the gates. Get our tickets scanned. Ask for a jersey. Dude says “none left, go to Guest Services.” If there are none left, why tell us to go to Guest Services? But we go nonetheless.

At this point I’m fucking pissed.

We PU to Guest Services on the main concourse. Along the way I’ve passed so many smug Italian diaspora. Some of them proudly wearing their new jerseys. Some of them just carrying it in the plastic cover like they don’t even care about them. Well why don’t you give the jersey to someone who cares then? God.

Guest Services I see a glimmer of hope. Oh shit—is that a box full of jerseys behind their table? I could cry. PU to the desk and we go:

“Oh my god please thank you we were worried they ran out of Italian Night-themed jerseys at the Syracuse Mets game.”

Guest Services: “These jerseys aren’t for free.”

My ass: “Then what are they for? How can I get one?”

Guest Services: “They’re not for you. They’re only if you purchased the Giveaway Pack Ticket that includes a seat and a guaranteed Italian Night-themed jersey.”

My ass: “The fuck?”

We walk away. Next door there’s a booth where you can bid on a jersey. You can bid money on a jersey that was supposed to be free. Look how much the bids are at online right now.

I know what the Italians want me to do: they want me to cry, and to beg, and send an email to the manager.

I won’t stoop to their facile little games. I walk over to the concession stand and buy $15.49 chicken tenders instead. They suck ass. I’m stewing in my anger for the next three hours. The Mets win. They score eight runs in the first inning. I couldn’t give less of a fuck. I’m scheming. I’m trying to figure out how to rupture the sturdy networks of Italian solidarity that bind this fragile nation. They don’t need to see me make a big fuss in public—I’ll save that for when I get home and I can scream into my pillow that I didn’t get the Italian Night-themed jersey.

This has changed my view of Italians in general.

I won’t say how. That would be kind of messed up, like if I got into the specifics of how my views have changed and stuff. I’ll just say this: it’s not cute to me anymore. All of it, the whole shtick. I see the game you guys are playing.

It’s not cute.

You may have everyone else fooled—ditalini, pastina, the nonna with the big stick, Tony Sirico, yeahhhh it’s all so charming and whimsical—but not me. I’m wised up now. I can see through it all.

Afterwards, there was an insane fireworks display, seemingly to exhibit strength and masculinity.

Not for me. I didn’t enjoy this at all. The whole time I was just thinking about the Italian Night-themed jersey. They’re all laughing at me, I know it. All the Italians. They’re laughing at me.

Ritam’s Footnote

Yo I put together a playlist for you! Here you go! Buen provecho, mon amour.