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.