The Italian-American Baseball Foundation: A Bridge Between Two Worlds

Terry Francona, known as Tito, admitted that he cannot express a single concept in his grandfather’s language. But he remembers four words: “In the name of the father”. Because the priest said them in Italian, in fact, and when that moment arrived it meant that the liturgy was ending: “and it was almost the moment in which we could finally play baseball”.
We think of America as distant. Flight hours. And then discoveries, trends and sometimes even mentalities that anticipate, often by years, what will later, calmly, arrive here.
If we’re talking about baseball, goodbye: the ocean isn’t enough to convey the idea of ​​the distance. It would take three or four.

Nevertheless.
And yet: just put the Italians of America all in the same room. And it doesn’t matter if six or seven of them, sitting at the table, could add up the GDP of Umbria, as someone pointed out. Joking but not too much. Because in fact many, almost all, have actually made their fortune. Even though luck is a concept that almost never describes what happened, and it is certainly not the reason for their success.

Their riches, no matter how ostentatious, don’t matter, it doesn’t matter that Mike Piazza and John Franco, Steve Balboni, Mike Pagliarulo and dozens of coaches, observers and instructors from half the MLB are scattered around the room. When they are all together, what counts is the common home, which we imagine as distant and which they continue, marvelously surprising you, to consider close. Behind the corner.

Everyone in Italy should do some internships with Italian Americans. As a reminder. Some of them try to explain themselves in Italian. And then you hear a language that no longer exists. Stops at who knows when and who knows where, between eras and dialects. Matching with clothes that in our country, in the old mother country, would be considered unlikely and which instead on the other side of the Atlantic still seem capable of making a great impression. Although often accessorised with tricolor ties which even over there arouse some joy.

Then you listen carefully and understand feelings that you would say have been extinct for decades or, more likely, that have never existed in our country. Almost as if to reproduce a golden age that no one had actually experienced.
Feelings, and a thousand stories of people who not only were not born in Italy, but – if things went well – will have been there three or four times. And for a few weeks, no more. Yet she calls herself Italian, and she does it proudly. Even more: in the name of feeling Italian she sets up an organization and collects money to help out. The association is called IABF – Italian American Baseball Foundation. And last Thursday, November 30, in Marina del Ray, in the Bronx, he put on his annual dinner. Reached edition number 7

Except that the first year the party was in the Sports Bar pizzeria of one of the founders, Carmine Gangone, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. With around 70 guests. Last Thursday there were almost 500 diners. To say how and how much being part of the IABF is a coveted thing. Also because attending the dinner wasn’t exactly cheap: it cost 300 dollars per person, 2400 if you wanted to book an entire table.

Before sitting down to the table we talked a lot about business. Because, precisely, the association has grown. And the help it can give now is potentially enormous. In terms of relationships, even before funds. Perhaps even of ability: because in this way they have become Americans much more than they have remained Italians. “You know how to cook, we know how to do business”, we heard people say. There is some skepticism about our organizational capabilities, let’s say. As well as a certain disbelief in how sport is not considered business here. Not as they understand it. But meeting points have been found, more than one. There is a consortium that has been born, ideas that are waiting to be realized together with the FIBS – Italian Baseball Softball Federation, represented by president Andrea Marcon and Marco Landi: dreams that could make the history of baseball and Italian sport. But for real.

And so no, it wasn’t just an evening of good feelings and nostalgia. In this sense, Italy and baseball, understood as MLB, may soon no longer be so distant.
Then the evening began. Everyone standing, hand on heart. And “Brothers of Italy”. Actually, the national anthem performed by a singer. Mameli before “The Star Spangled Banner”. And a series of other Italian arias sung by Charlie Romo.

What is left unsaid, I thought I understood, is that our Italian-American friends cannot understand how we, on this side of the ocean, can so light-heartedly miss out on all the poetry of baseball.
That is, they, all of them, would be and are proud of any woman or man with an Italian surname capable of doing something significant in the United States. In sport as in any other field. If one of their children excels in business, and many have, if they become artists, or famous athletes in basketball and football, like Banchero, like Garoppolo or DeVito, it is a blessing. If one does it in baseball, as a player, coach, manager, even journalist, it is something more. It’s connecting with America. It is having entered not only the news, but also history, somehow in the DNA of the United States. And no, it wasn’t obvious. In fact, on the contrary: America gives you the chance to build your own path and your own fortune, but normally it doesn’t work retroactively. With baseball yes, almost as if a success on the diamond could be considered a kind of recognition of some nobility.

And so in all the names, called and evoked from the stage, as an external observer I felt so much pride. These are our kids, who perhaps in the meantime are approaching 70 years of age. Like Mike Pagliarulo who was third baseman for the New York Yankees and who won the World Series with the Twins in 1991. Or like Steve Balboni, who won the World Series in 1985 with the Royals. Or maybe they are no longer here, like the two who left in recent months and to whom a minute of meditation was dedicated, with the sign of the cross: Joe Pepitone and Sal Bando.

Or again like those who never made it big, or those like Sal who made his fortune on Italian diamonds: Sal Varriale. They rewarded him too. I knew her stories better than all the others. But only in the Italian part. I think the essence of what we were doing there in that room emerged from what I was missing. Sal introduced me to a few friends of his. Young people almost seventy years old. “This is Frank, Frank Allegro. He was a pitcher for my team in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.”
And Frank: “You know, Mario: all of us guys on the team had Italian names. Everyone. Only the priest was Irish. The priest and the nuns, of course.”

It’s just that they, the paisa of that generation, don’t want it to end there. Because in the meantime the story has become a saga. And we need to give it continuity. Joe Quagliano, the president of the IABF, then wanted to do something concrete for those who will still pass it on in a few decades. That is, the boys and girls, some Italian-Americans, others Italians, who arrived at various colleges thanks to scholarships – 13 in total – from the IABF. So also Chiara Ruberto from Anzio, Vincenzo Bruno from Staranzano, Federico Tiburtini from Parma, Samuele Bruno from Nettuno. Everyone on stage, for a handshake, a “good luck”. As in an ideal investiture. As if to say: we have called you here on stage in a prequel, to tell you that you are the continuation of the story, of our efforts, too. History with a capital H that we wrote with all these characters in the room. Those physically present and those evoked, painted on James Fiorentino’s paintings put up for sale: Joe Dimaggio, Yogi Berra and all the others.

Mike Piazza, first of all. With an aside. In the afternoon, before showing up for dinner in Marina del Rey, I took a walk around the center. Looking at me with a bit of Christmas atmosphere, between Rockefeller, Saint Patrick, Bryant Park. And then onto Fifth Avenue. Next to the NBA store there is another one with baseball and football merchandise. Hanging many jackets. For the Yankees those of Judge, above all. For the Mets those with Mike’s number 31. Except that Piazza hasn’t played for the Mets in 18 years. And then I went into Barnes and Noble, into Union teams: and his biography is still displayed among the latest baseball books released. To say that it really remains very difficult to explain the discrepancy between the dimension of character that Mike has in America and his availability for our Small World of Italian diamonds.

On stage Mike told a joke about our propensity to gesture when we speak. At the business tables, shortly before, he had put all his weight behind him. And also some very, very, firm positions. To say that there is no point in mistaking for weakness the kindness that never fails to flaunt.

After him the winners. Then Terry “Tito” Francona, the man who defeated the curse of the Bambino. Who won two World Series and came within nothing of the third, with which he would have overturned another curse, that of Rocky Colavito, with the Cleveland Guardians. As often, he threw it at irony and cheerfulness. But we also talked about the World Cup in Italy in 1978, about his many, even unlikely, knee injuries in his time in Montreal. I’ll write about it.

And then Torey Lovullo who took the Arizona Diamondbacks to the World Series this year. Against all odds. “And yes, Torey stands for Salvatore.” It’s just an alternative to the many Sals present in the room. “I’m Italian to the extent that at my house at Thanksgiving dinner the turkey ended up being a kind of side dish… No come on, seriously, I think that many of those who are here in the room, fans of the Yankees or the New York Mets, this year have cheered a bit for Cleveland or Arizona due to the last names of the coaches. And that means a lot to me.”

For their surnames. United as if in a sort of bond with all those who took turns at the microphones during the ceremony. Then Wayne Randazzo, broadcaster for the Los Angeles Dodgers. And Chris “Mad Dog” Russo, radio star, hosted by Tina Cervasio of MLB on FOX. And then again from Fox also Jon Morosi to introduce the other award winners. So Sal Varriale, Dan Bonanno who should be the link between MLB and Italy, and Sal Agostinelli, director of international operations of the Philadelphia Phillies. And Mike Candrea, legendary manager of the US national softball team, of Arizona University, now advisor to the Italian team.

And Jac Caglianone, the great Italian hope. The one who in the NCAA is indicating as the new Ohtani, since in his sophomore season – that is, in his second year – with the Florida Gators he hit 33 home runs with 90 runs batted in and also pitched, with 7 wins-4 losses, 4.34 averaged PG and 87 strike outs in 74.2 snaps pitched. He was at the table with all his beautiful family who had come from Tampa. You will hear about it. And who knows, we won’t see him with the blue hat and the white I.

Like the others. Like Sal Frelick, Joey Marciano, Vito Friscia, Ryan Castellani, Brian Sweeney and, above all, Joe La Sorsa. On all, yes. Because in his enthusiasm in calling his teammates for photos, in his joy, we saw the impetus with which he had celebrated the three outs obtained against the Netherlands with the bases full. We understood the magic of this team at the 2023 World Baseball Classic. And the reason why we need evenings like this was clear.
In which suddenly the Atlantic becomes very small.

The beautiful ???? are by Chris Herder
Many thanks, from the bottom of my heart, to Chris Vaccaro

2023-12-07 17:28:39
#night #Atlantic #narrowed #IABF #gala