Bassano del Grappa

Bassano del Grappa, Italy. At the foothills of the pre-Alps, and on the banks of the Brenta River, lies Bassano del Grappa. A small town, on the front lines for both of the great world wars, and temporary home to Napoleon, Hemingway, and F.Scott Fitzgerald. Best known as the home of Italian moonshine (affectionately known as grappa) and Diesel clothing; but filled with every other delicacy that small Italian towns present. Beautiful piazzas, wonderful osterie and trattorie, and a particularly talented chocolate chef. Another reason to leave the comforts of your home base in Venice, and venture out into the Veneto country side. Oh, and a great place to correct your coffee, with a ‘caffè corretto', a spot of grappa in your espresso — perhaps better paired with a sabbatical than a day at the office . . . .

Soave

What’s in a name. Soave, Italy. Like many Italian ‘goods' with which we are familiar, they are not just names of food or drink but places of historical origin and of ancient tradition. I was reminded of this on a day trip to Soave, another beautiful walled city a stones throw from Verona. Known outside of Italy as the wine producing region of Soave (mostly from the garganega grape), this reference comes many hundreds of years after its utility as a stronghold against numerous invaders. But this is the norm, rather than the exception, for many of Italy’s best products. Consider if you will spumante from Asti, parmeggiano from Parma, amaretto from (di) Saronno, grappa from Monte Grappa, or prosecco and gorgonzola from, well, Prosecco and Gorgonzola! Now, if only I could find the town of Nutella . . . .

Murano, Venezia

Murano, Italy. A short 20 minute boat ride from Venice lies Murano. From the late 1200’s, when the leaders of the Venetian Republic feared that glassmakers' fires could potentially destroy their mostly wood built buildings, glassmakers were ordered to move to Murano. Thriving at a time when man-made glass was still considered a rarity, glassmakers were heralded for their skill and contribution to the Venetian economy. Still today, Murano is known for production of high quality glass. It can also be a nice way to warm up and escape the crowds of Venice, depending on the time of year. Not to be missed if you have more than a day to spend in Venice.

School Lunch

School lunch. Vicenza, Italy. I am in an awkward and silent battle with the school lunch lady. Shameful as it is. As the cook in my family, I am tasked with taking all of the great Italian ingredients and fashioning them into a delicious meal. At least to the standards as set by Signora Elda, and the 3-course meal she prepares for my kids at school every day. Despite the fact that she cooks for 600, and I only cook for 4, this seems to be an unfair fight. The love I pour into my cooking can’t seem to match the sweat she quite literally drips into hers. I read the school menu each Monday, and am left salivating and defeated.

What this reminds me of most however, is the return to the US. The one my kids will soon make, and that I made so many years ago, trying to seamlessly reintegrate to the 3rd grade. A far cry from the daily prepared meals I had become accustomed to at my school in Verona, I was reintroduced to the monotonous and holy school lunch trilogy of Peanut Butter, Jelly, and White Bread. The lunch staples of an American grade school child, which was the norm surrounding us in our daily midwestern suburban lives. As far as I could tell, most kids didn’t even notice that they were eating the same thing every day . . . unless, of course, they were sitting next to me.

I was that kid, the one without a proper superhero lunch box, but rather a stainless-steel cylindrical trough filled with wonderful homemade food. The kid that drank aqua frizzante, instead of soda. The kid that was taught that meals should be eaten at a leisurely pace, savored and enjoyed; not devoured for the sake of playtime.

My new ‘merican friends would sit next to me in their Cleveland Browns coats and Wrangler jeans, devouring their PB&J’s with the crusts cut off. I, instead, would timidly unleash a mother-load of still-hot food, a primo, a secondo, a contorno and a dolce. Meatballs would be forked into a loaf of bread like commuters into a New York City subway car. Lasagna would be sculpted to fit with such precision, one might think Michelangelo (not the Ninja Turtle, the other one) himself had taken a turn. Often times, my mother would stack the veal cutlet sandwich to such towering proportions that I had to eat it in thirds – bottom, then middle, then top.

Over time, however, a peculiar thing began to happen in the cafeteria. Since I usually had enough food to feed the whole of St. Sebastian’s Elementary School, I would typically place food ‘up for grabs’ at my table. This ritual had normally been reserved for the kids who couldn’t bear to eat their 16th consecutive snack-pack pudding. But, in my case, it was a necessary arbitrage based on shear volume. I found that one thing Irish Catholic kids liked more than teasing me for wearing blazers with suede elbow patches, was my mother’s fantastic Italian cooking. With this additional help, I could return home with proof that ‘ho mangiato bene’. And, when my mom mom would inevitably call out to me, ‘So, how did your day go, dego?’, we could smile together. Her boy had eaten well after all, how bad could it be.

To be fair, I would have endured any insult or heckling to be able to savor my mother’s cooking – 7 days a week, 365 days a year. As the years and grades passed, my lunchtime meals never did get any tamer, and the crowd of onlookers continued to grow, as did the competition for my bountiful ‘surplus’. After all, you can take the cook out of Italy, but you can’t take the Italian out of the cook . . . . So, bring-it, Signora Elda, I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be!

An Accidental Truffle Hunt

A Doctor, a Widower and a Hunter Step Out in the World. Supiane, Lake Garda, Italy. Resting and chatting with old friends, newly arrived from the Hamptons side of New York, a hike was in order to shake the dullness imposed by a short seven hour flight from JFK to Milan. A hike with Dr. Hubbell and family would help us quickly fold back into our familiar friendship; gently evoking that feeling you get when you crawl into your bed for the first time after putting on a set of clean sheets: fresh and renewed, yet familiar and comfortable. From our temporary location in the western hills overlooking Lago di Garda, we headed up the steep hillside, intent on finding an even better vista from which to drink-in a sun soaked lazy Thursday. Climbing through alleyways, crossing roads, and summiting trails, we found our way to an overlook dominated by a towering, mature cypress tree majestically standing guard over the lake.

As we enjoyed our newly earned vantage point, we were led by our children to a ‘play area’ a short distance away. Two recliners and a hammock awaited, perched on a precipice overlooking olive groves and a great expanse of blue. Hardly a playground, but rather the private property of a long haired, gentle soul named Gianpietro. Recently retired from the hustle and bustle of the market business some 35 km away, now committed to meditation, well being, and living fully off the land. Opening us with open arms, Gianpietro encouraged us to forget the world outside and enjoy the view, quickly retrieving a bottle of red wine and the only two glasses he owns. Trusting that the alcohol would kill any residue still living in the gently overused glasses, we were happy to share his Dolcetto d’Alba, passing it around for all to savor a taste. On any day, this would have certainly been sufficient to bookmark an excellent afternoon. But there was more in store.

To the disbelieving eyes of our friends, who live every day life in a dazzling setting beset with Kardashians and other self created socialites, there was more to come. As if called out of central casting with Marcello Mastroianni, the final characters of the almost too perfect scene arrived.

Luigi, recently widowed at 86 years young, came ambling up the mountain with the aid of his trusted and slightly worn cane. Looking smart in his beige capello, he was quick to impart semi-inteligible words of wisdom in a half chewed Italian dialect. Clear that this was a daily visit, he would of course see us again tomorrow. Ah, if we had his vitality and outlook.

No sooner had we finished toasting Luigi and this lovely day, than Antonio and his four footed companion Lolla (short for Gina Lollobrigida) arrived. Asking permission to join the group, Antonio made a beeline for the lone oak tree and set Lolla to task. In an instant frenzy, Lolla went to work sniffing for a familiar and addictive scent: truffle. Excitedly scraping at the soft earth, she quickly uncovered 5 pellets of Bianchetti, much to the thrill of our guests, and to the incredulous wonder of our host and land owner. Happy to share his knowledge of truffles, Antonio generously parted with valuable hunting pointers and more than enough truffles to season our fresh pasta the next evening.

While not all days unfold as this one did, our adventure continues to encourage us to step out into the world to see what awaits. Sharing this day with John Hubbel and Allesandra Hubbel made it all the more special, and gifted us a view of our journey through fresh eyes. Eternally grateful for lifelong friends, new and unexpected acquaintances, and a continually evolving sabbatical.

Borghetto Sul Mincio

Tortellini Heaven, Borghetto (Valeggio Sul Mincio), Italy. Nodo d’Amore or ‘love knot', otherwise know as Tortellini, finds its passionate home in Valeggio Sul Mincio. But, like most great places, the real treasure lies just outside the main town. Such is the case with Borghetto, sitting just outside of Valeggio, is a small village established in medevil times to collect tolls for crossing the nearby bridge. Today, it is rather one of the most beautiful little towns you can happen upon. Made all the more worthwhile with its perfect and abundant tortellini.

Sirmione

Sirmione, Lake Garda, Italy. A favorite vacation spot for over 2,000 years, Sirmione delivers crystal clear waters, a treasure trove of Roman ruins, medieval castle, and stunning Alpine backdrops. Of course, ample cafes, restaurants and walkways are also on call. While besot with tchotchke shops and mediocre gelato on the main drag, the real treasures can be found a short stroll away. From Catullus to Callas, and a favorite of my parents, put it on your list for that virtual (or perhaps inevitable) trip to Lago di Garda

Rivoltella del Garda

Rainbow, Rivoltella, Italy. We returned to our old hometown today, tourists with a secret. Hidden in the long shadows of Sirmione and a short walk along the lake to the much sexier town of Desenzano, lies Rivoltella. A sleepy little village, with the misfortune of having a main square across the street from the water, hidden behind unattractive and obscure walls. But to us, former townspeople ourselves, it is a special place. Long since developed from our youthful days playing in farmlands, vineyards and dirt roads, it is still mostly a quiet and genuine village. Large enough for two bakeries, two newspaper stands, and a newly developed deuce of upscale restaurants. And, despite its competing neighbors, it too lies on the southern banks of the lake, with sweeping views of the Alps to the north and a quiet tranquil beach with clear blue water. It is the 40th anniversary of our departure, but no one knows that my sisters and I were once one of them, fated for an altogether different future. We watch towns people reach out to each other like old friends, asking about their day, going about their daily errands. We so long to be remembered, in search of validation for a long forgotten existence. Desperate for a connection, we ring the bell of our neighbors, the Zambelli family. 'Sono Cristoforo Pepe, con le mie sorelle,’ I announce. The much smaller-seeming duplex comes to life. Windows open, friendly faces appear, and heads begin to shake. We are welcomed with incredulous laughter, twinkling eyes and that warm embrace we were longing for. Photo albums with our former selves pictured, frozen in time, are presented. Hours roll by, connections are made, and promises to visit again are traded. We drive away, awash in memories and a renewed validation that we do belong. Content that someone remembers the Americans. This part of our lives was not dreamt, was not imagined, but was as real as we knew it could be. As if to ensure that this all had indeed transpired, the skies briefly opened and revealed a full multi-colored rainbow connecting the lake to our former hometown. For but a moment in time, a few minutes at most. And then it was gone. A fitting parallel for our time spent here as children, beautiful but fleeting; and destined to show ourselves again someday.

MLS Reflections (April 2016)

Twenty years ago today, I awoke as if from a dream, along with a small but incredible group of soccer loving professionals. We had just launched Major League Soccer (MLS) with the first-ever match, played in San Jose, CA. Mere weeks before, we were a rag-tag bunch of unknowns, yet to have finalized rosters, contracts, uniforms or facilities. Players like a young Cobi Jones and American heartthrob Andrew Shue were wandering the vast polo fields of La Jolla, training long days, trying to form teams and units that could entertain a country left hungry for the beautiful game after the ’94 World Cup. MLS was a promise fulfilled to FIFA for a first-ever US based World Cup, and a dream realized for thousands of players and fans that loved the game. This was an era where content was limited to TV and radio and soccer was still more of a punchline for Sportscenter anchors than a multi-million dollar business. The NASL had folded, and Rocky was still the star of the most popular US soccer movie (see: Victory).

But, in Century City, CA a group of exceptionally big brains and shrewd investors had miraculously orchestrated the launch of what has become a globally credible professional sports league and sustainable business. Yes, there were many bumps in the road, and losses likely reaching the hundreds of millions of dollars. But, in a testament that hard work and determination can help even the craziest dreams come true, MLS thrives twenty years later, twenty teams strong. Arguably, MLS could be considered one of the most successful start-ups from an era that seemed to birth a hot new company every minute: Pets.com and Webvan are distant memories, MLS is alive and well. 

To be sure, the early days were marked with massive swings of success and failure: filling the Meadowlands one New Jersey day, and counting fans on one hand the next Kansas City night. ‘Waiting for the walk up’ became the recurring title of our collective nightmares; and when the inevitable 0-0 ‘draw’ occurred, we braced ourselves for the dreaded shootout (exciting, yes; part of the game, no). We spent equal time trying to find the whereabouts of our star goalkeeper in LA, as we did dreading the possible Monday morning headline: ‘Wiz Extinguish Fire’, an embarrassing parody of the game played in Chicago. 

As executives of the league, we criss-crossed the country trying to convince a skeptical nation that the game was here to stay . . . this time. We had learned from past mistakes and we would all look back in 2016 and have a laugh at the good old days. This was a time when our Japanese investors would receive despondent late night faxes with dismal attendance reports; when our Commissioner, the PT Barnum of US soccer, would spin another story extracting any possible positive media he could garner; when our President would go hat in hand for another ‘cash call’ to keep the doors open another quarter. Times were hard, and it often seemed everyone was waiting for the inevitable news that the league had folded. News, that we all now know, never came. 

Today, I think of the hard working people that dreamed the dream and drove it to reality. Now, founders of agencies, titans of industry, commissioners of leagues, team executives, heads of renowned football programs, a million dollar arm, and still leaders of the beautiful game in the US. Some that have passed away far too soon, but I imagine still help guide the league in their absence, through their legacy. I was with the league from 1996 -2000, and then joined the gold rush to California, working for numerous start ups, both failed and successful. Reflecting back, however, it was those early days at MLS that have impacted me the most. These were really great people, the kind you would want to work for and count as your friends. This often gets lost in the story of the league, the business of soccer. Great people made great things happen. Is MLS perfect? No, its not perfect. Is it ours? You bet your ass it is. And it is beautiful.

Loss of a Mentor

http://www.rrstar.com/news/20160219/rockford-attorney-thomas-johnson-was-gentleman-scholar/?Start=2

You come to dread reading your email in the morning. Being six-plus hours ahead of my family and most of the people I know, I constantly brace myself for bad news. A terrible habit I have developed, and one that I must shake. But every time I come close, I get that email. And, being far from those also impacted, out of range from any easy communication, you are left with your thoughts, your memories, your sadness. There is no attending visitations and funerals for final goodbyes, no seeing friends to reminisce. No exchanging stories over coffee, no hugs and no connection.

On this particular rainy Wednesday morning in Vicenza, I awoke to emails about the death of one of my mentors. The president of the law firm I first joined out of law school in the mid-90’s. The strange days that ushered in the advent of email and the internet, changing forever how lawyers researched and communicated. The final days of the dictaphone and paper log books. The end of shepardizing case law by hand, and heavy reliance on personal memory rather than cyber notes. 

Left with my own thoughts, my emotional outlet was facilitated by the keys below my finger tips. And, so, I penned the following to Tom Johnson, friend and mentor, and gone too soon. 

When I began as a junior associate at Willams & McCarthy, it was the end of an era. An old guard, from a generation of war-time heroes, gentlemanly exchanges, decorum and pride, was aging itself out of the firm; a generation of men that had established a prestigious and well-respected law firm, replete with links back to the Rockford Peaches and the development of Rockford Memorial Hospital. And a new guard, from a modern era that craved immediate results, pushing themselves to great achievements, focused on a growth business in an increasingly competitive world. Then, there was Tom Johnson. The Arbiter, the Referee, the Voice of Reason, the President.

Mr. Johnson was the personification of a gentleman and a scholar. Always level headed, sitting tall behind his spotless desk, where nary a file could you find covering the dark brown oak of its surface. He would look at you, without judgement, and allow you the time needed to recount your side of the story, your interpretation of events. It wouldn’t take long, but he would inevitably look through his round-framed tortoise shell glasses and steer you to the right answer. Without fail.

Mr. Johnson seemed a simple man, riding his bike from the Rock River Towers to the the bike path for exercise; driving through town in his spotless white convertible Mercedes Benz; enjoying lunches at the City Club; and presiding over numerous organizations, boards and events. Beneath the surface, he was a kind and gentle soul. A man that could smile with ease, calm a room with one glance, or break the ice with a witty quip. He was both counselor and friend, a difficult balance for one who was usually the smartest guy in the room.

I didn’t stay at WillMac long, but I took with me a lifetime of lessons learnt from Mr. Johnson. As he provided direction for me, and tried to make a lawyer out of young and clueless kid with a strong pedigree, I learned to always treat people with respect and to always listen with care. To not stray into the grey areas, but find guidance in the black and white, for there you could always find the right answer. To never leave your office without your suite jacket on, and to laugh with grace and style with others and at yourself.

Mr. Johnson was a mentor to many, and a friend to most. When I think of him, the words respect and elegance come roaring to the fore. While I hadn’t seen him in many years, following my own career first born in the office two doors down from his, I will miss him dearly. But, as only a mentor could, he left me a special gift; one of perspective and composure, fairness and humility; the gift of lessons learned from a great and generous man. 

RIP Mr. Johnson.

Italian American: Playing Youth Soccer in Italy

http://www.socceramerica.com/article/70378/italian-american-playing-youth-soccer-in-italy.html

Italian-American: Playing Youth Soccer in Italy (Soccer America)
By Christopher Pepe

Until last year, my son was playing for a U.S. Soccer-sanctioned Pre-Development Academy soccer team in Northern California. A young competitive team, eager to play 11-aside on a large field against much older kids. Well-coached, and filled with raw athleticism mixed with the bounty of racial diversity afforded in the USA, the squad was competitive even playing against faster and stronger kids from San Francisco and beyond.

After 15 years in Silicon Valley, however, we decided that we would throw caution to the wind and take a Family Sabbatical to Italy. A luxurious and foreign concept, that had us jettisoning team affiliations, jobs and friends alike. A frivolous and financially irresponsible endeavor to be sure; and a notion reserved for late night dreams and drunken dinner conversations. Certainly not for real life.

Irrespective, our minds were set, and the adventure would commence despite minor protests and complaints. My son, while upset at the prospect of leaving his starting midfield position for Redwood City’s Juventus PDA, was anxious to dive into the world of calcio, and ‘up' his game Italian style. He didn't speak any Italian, but when I told him he would be in class with Roberto Baggio's son, he was giddy with anticipation and could barely wait for our flight to Milan.

Having chosen the mid-sized town of Vicenza in the Veneto region of Northern Italy, we rented out our home, notified our friends, teachers and coaches and set out on our journey. A journey that has had us observing a beautifully different culture, and questioning some of our life choices.

Throughout, we found that soccer has been a wonderful connecting point for our family, and has provided numerous lessons into the lives of Italians. Not just within the sport and its youth development, but also into the attitudes and approaches that continue to make Italy one of the most desirable places on earth, and one of the most successful soccer programs in the world.

Having grown up as an American in Northern Italy myself, and subsequently finding my vocation in the business of soccer in the USA, I was fascinated at the stark contrast in how we approach the game vs. our new found friends.

The USA is built to always reach for the stars, in Italy you follow a well worn path

As Americans, we exist to build a better life for our children, just as our parents tried to do for us. And, we believe this is possible through hard work, dedication, etc, etc. An admirable, if exhausting, outlook on life, and one that has seen unparalleled growth in the 250 years of our existence as the United States of America. While the frescoes in my neighbor’s apartment are twice as old as the age of my home country, she has worked as hard at preserving history as we have at shaping it.

After all, an Italian perspective is to preserve and honor the past, and follow the well-worn path laid out in front of you. Certainly not an American outlook, as further exemplified by the expectations we have of our kids on the soccer field.

At some point in the evolution of soccer in the USA, it seems we all became convinced that our children could or even would play professionally … statistics be damned! A truly American belief, born out of our eternal optimism and sometimes nauseating can-do spirit.

Despite the lack of a broad-based structure to scout and identify young talent, we still believe our kid will be the one. Irrespective of the millions of kids playing soccer for countless hours every day, we think the two hours on Monday, Wednesday and Friday is enough. Despite the desire buried deep inside the impoverished kid that needs to play to find a better life, we are convinced it can be done. It’s a matter of expectations, and if there is one area where the USA over-indexes against its soccer-rich counterparts, it’s in confidence and its closest offsprings: expectations.

In Italy, instead, it is generally accepted at an early age that your kid won’t play for Inter or AC Milan. The best talent is selected early-on, in some ways lowering the level of expectations that your son will become a professional player, and easing your desired outcome for this weekend's game.

Nationwide rankings are not discussed or, to the best of my knowledge, even kept at the youth level here. The game is not played to bolster coaches’ ratings or build association points or prestige.

Every town and village has its own top-flight squad, and a structure below that ladders its way up. Whether the top team plays in Serie A, B or C, or somewhere below, matters little other than the fact that it enables every player in every town to continue to play for as long as they may choose.

In our adopted town in Italy, knowing that the ‘best’ and most connected kids were playing for our local Serie B youth team, Vicenza Calcio, weekends have become much more relaxing. Oh sure, you do get to play against them, if only to see how the game is properly played.

And, yes, exposure is possible even at the lowest levels and in the smallest town, but is identified early on freeing the mind and the soul to play for the love of the game and with no particular professional ends in mind. Of course, I am still American at heart, and believe that my son has the talent and determination to succeed in soccer, even at the professional level. We don't squash dreams where I call home, and believe that he will and should continue to reach for the stars. 

Italians play soccer for fun, Americans play soccer on a schedule

My son’s new school in Italy is attached to one of the many local churches, Chiesa del Carmine. As tourists, we had often marveled at the number of churches in Italy, rarely seeing the hidden courtyard sheltering a small calcetto court behind (think: small-sided games of 5v5 on a basketball-style court).

The Carmine courtyard has a small-sized soccer field, and numerous well-spaced trees that act as goalposts for any number of after school pick-up games. As the courtyard turns into a public park in the afternoons, kids from the neighborhood rush to pick teams, wearing last years Juve or Milan shirt bought at the market for 10 euro.

They Ro Sham Bo to determine teams, and proceed to play with reckless abandon. There is no structure or hired coach, there are no fees or scheduled breaks. Kids only stop play to cheer the slickest new move, or to get pointers on how to execute the latest trick. Older kids look out for younger kids, and younger kids test their toughness against older kids.

No meals will be missed, but kids play until darkness descends and their hearts are full of the beautiful game. It is here among friends where new moves are tried, individual skills are honed, and confidence is built. In the USA, I would drop off my son at assigned times to run and kick and learn soccer's structured basic skill-set. I would then rush to bring my daughter to her practice at the same time; do a bit of shopping; or maybe sneak in a run.

There was never an after school pick-up game or other opportunity to play. I could often convince my friend Marvin, a Salvadoran-American, to bring his three sons and meet at the local park. But even then, we never had enough players for a spirited match, and would make up games or run through drills. I have often believed that U.S. youth soccer is dominated by ‘organized’ babysitting, as opposed to spontaneous play, and this notion has been reaffirmed while living in a country that has soccer as part of their very DNA.

While soccer remains perched on the cusp of a real mainstream following in the USA, we continue to excel at ‘soccer-by-appointment,’ rather than evolving into a sport driven by passion. Kids in Italy, while not quite filling every piazza with neighborhood matchups, still play calcio more for the fun of it, than the appointed necessity of it all.

Italy is a team-first country, the USA is a win-first country

On my son’s Italian team (San Lazzaro), sponsored by the local pizza joint (Pizzeria Albera), there is no one outstanding athlete that can out-run the pack, and score off a long ball sent from the defense. It helps of course that, at this age (until age 13), kids play 9-a-side games on small-ish fields, with even smaller goals. There are three periods of 20 minutes a-piece, and little substituting.

At the start of each game, kids line up and walk to the center circle, while parents applaud both sides in an effort to set a standard for fair play. Once play begins, the focus is on playing the game properly and as one cohesive unit, one team. When the ball does cross the end-line, the keeper, no matter his skill level, must always play the ball from the back to his expectant defenders.

The team will then work the ball up through the midfield, and across the halfway line. Sure, this leads to countless mistakes and numerous unaccounted-for goals; irrespective, the emphasis remains the same, and the game must still be initiated from the back. It's a rare match when the keeper punts the ball more than twice, and even more rare for a long ball to be played.

It didn’t take long for my son to understand that despite his skill on the ball, in Italy teamwork is the central focus, the everything for soccer here. At the first team practices, my son learned to clap, skip and jump in synch with his team. Often doing simple drills over and over until each player learned to move in perfect unison with his teammate.

When he at first didn’t shower with the team after practice, the questions came fast and concerned (was the water too cold? did he understand that showers were available?); and if he arrived already dressed in practice gear for practice, people wanted to know why he didn’t change with the team (didn’t he like the other players?).

Now, he arrives and leaves fully dressed in his beautiful Italian street clothes, pants properly cuffed and hair appropriately gelled. Like the people of Italy, the sport is meant to be social, collective and enjoyed as a group. Not unlike meals, holidays, and life itself. Soccer is played with unity, with cohesion. Italian youth quickly learn that the pass is essential, and that there is no room or patience for selfish play. While a nifty move can be appreciated, it’s the beautiful pass that is praised. Certainly, winning remains an objective, however it’s the appearance of play, the ‘bella figura,’ that matters most. Losing well, and looking good, are acceptable; losing bad, and looking bad, are not.

Italy has only calcio, the USA is spoiled for choice

While the professional game in Italy is still often beset with corruption and racism, the youth game forms part of an intricate social structure that contains layers of amateur teams and professional associations that neatly ladder up to the professional Serie A. It is the king of sports, with no queen or royal family around.

With a daily best-selling pink newspaper dedicated exclusively to the game, and annual Pannini sticker books snapped up at the start of each season. While premium channels have gobbled up the rights to show the best leagues and matches, you can still watch commentators and fans watching and reacting to a match on free-to-air channels.

With limited choice of other sports to watch on TV, kids speak almost exclusively of their favorite local or champions league teams and players. There is no NFL, NBA or MLB; no World Series, no Super Bowl, no March Madness. There remains a deep seeded belief that Americans play baseball and American football, and that we have yet to discover the beautiful game.

There is no concept or understanding of the number of kids playing the sport in the USA, structured or not. Andrea Pirlo and Sebastian Giovinco help to extend the name of Major League Soccer (MLS), but recent decisions by the Italian national team coach do little to lend it credibility.

And Italy has generations of soccer heroes, players to emulate and aspire to. American kids still aspire to be more like the global marketing icons, likely as much influenced by the latest big company campaign, as the latest shoe or FIFA EA game. Pressured by fathers and grandfathers of Italy, boys learn to bleed the Azzurri of Napoli, and recall the antics of Dino Zoff or the legend of Maldini. Mondays in the USA are still dominated by NFL trash talk at the water cooler, and Steph Curry replays on the school courtyard. While there is no doubt that soccer will continue to grow in the USA, among the many choices available, it is hard to fathom a day when it is the everything that it is in Italy.

Despite these many differences, however, we found that a young American kid who is well-coached, learns the language, and has a passion for the game, can play at the same level as the kids at the upper end of Italian soccer. There is no slaughter rule, and there are no year-end trophies for participation. Finding 11 kids who can pass the ball and kick properly is not a chore, but a matter of fact given that most kids are born to eager fathers, former players, and ardent fans.

Italians have their own unique word for the game -- ‘calcio’ -- not used by any other country or language. Anywhere. Italy is a country that uses calcio to employ its retired ‘pensioners’ to manage youth teams and fields, and a more perfect marriage may be hard to find.

A country that habitually collects team uniforms after matches to wash them, and returns them the day of the following match. A country that aligns the youth soccer season to mirror the school year, from September to May. Calcio and life are inextricably intertwined in so many ways here. Even if game times often seem like suggestions rather than agreed start times, calcio is precise in its contribution to Italian life. To be sure, here, you learn from a very young age that soccer is much more than a game. It’s a way of life.

(Christopher Pepe is a founding executive of Major League Soccer, and has spent over 20 years advising numerous brands globally about the marketing and commercial aspects of the beautiful game. He is finishing work on his book retracing his family’s struggles, reflections and adventures abroad. His son and daughter both played in the Italian youth soccer system and are now back with their teams in Redwood City, California.)

Sabbatical Lessons

Lesson 4: The latter stage of a sabbatical can feel quite similar to the latter part of an Italian meal that one purposefully draws out to allow time to savor the parts before. Yourbellies and hearts will be full of Italy, but a year is not enough time to truly digest all that this wonderful country has to offer; rather, it is just enough time to feel the effects, and wear its impact home. 

• I sometimes leaned forward in my Fiat 500 to try to get better acceleration
• I often circled the same roundabout 3-4 times before selecting my exit 
• A soda will cost you more than a glass of wine in Italy
• People don’t eat on the run, but they do run to eat
• Men and women shop together, with equal vigor and interest
• Sabbaticals should not be unconventional
• Every sabbatical day surprises, like that feeling you used to get waiting for a roll of film to be developed
• At the end of the day, I learned how to laugh at myself again
• With a little bit of planning, a dose of courage and just enough ignorance, you can do this too some day!

Sabbatical Lessons

Lesson 3: A foreign country sabbatical reminds you that empathy is learned one way - experiencing it from the other side. Where it will nest deep in your heart and settle in your soul, until it is called upon to soothe someone else someday.

• I passed the Via Quasimodo bus every day, and was reminded to stand up straight.
• I struggled with the timing and direction of the side-to-side cheek-kiss, and accidentally lip-kissed more new friends than I care to admit.
• I am now a full fledged second-hand smoker.
• You have to be as patient as clever to live in Italy.
• The US looks scary (ie. guns) and misguided (ie. election) from afar.
• I see friends last names often when passing signs for small towns.
• It's ok not to be ok some times
• Our life isn't nearly as glamorous as it may seem on Facebook.
• Americans aspire, Italians dream. There is a noticeable difference.
• I accomplished less, and lived more, than I imagined this past year.
• I am witness that if you dream big, the world will indeed dream with you.
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Sabbatical Lessons

Lesson 2:  Worry less about what you will accomplish on a sabbatical. It is not about the destination, but rather the journey; Not meant for accomplishments, but for space and time to enjoy the simple things in life.

• You can't text and drive a stick shift
• The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker still do a brisk business
• No one in Italy ‘counts their steps’
• My daughter's math was really hard: she had to translate it to english, convert from metric and then understand the concepts 
• My Italian teacher told me a yellow traffic light means 'speed up'. Aha!
• Boys can openly cry, and it's ok
• The crossing guard still thinks he has a shot at my wife, and may have told his friends 
• A year long family sabbatical is not a year long vacation
• Not playing it safe may feel unstable at times, but will reward in unexpected ways
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Sabbatical Lessons

Lesson 1: We live ’picture-perfect’ California lives, buta one year journey outside our collective comfort zones, to struggle against new obstacles and to challenge ourselves in new and exciting ways, can be incredibly refreshing. 

• Life is simpler with fewer choices
• Once you are an outsider you will have empathy for the outsiders you encounter
• Italians are warm, welcoming, witty and wise, and to borrow a joke I heard recently —always look like they just had sex 
• They don’t judge their wine by how much it costs 
• Soccer is still for boys
• If you gain too much weight, you can’t fit in the shower
• Cigarettes are still a big business
• There’s no shortage of confidence and bravado - even an old Italian crossing guard thinks he has a shot at your wife
• Meals are not to be ‘worked on’, but savored over hours of discussion
• I saw more old people in a day than I do in a year at home
• Dressing nicely isn’t just for special events
• Everything works, but only part of the time