The result unleashed another celebration, this one of even greater and more unbelievable dimensions. The nation once again took to the streets. The partying didn't subside--or even waver--throughout the night. Italians everywhere launched a frenzied celebration as if there were no tomorrow.

Inferiority Complex

It had been a long time since Italy had anything to cheer about of this magnitude. The Azzuri had last won the World Cup in 1938. Since then there had been no victories in war, no diplomatic triumphs, nothing but the frustrations of a small country trying unsuccessfully to distinguish itself on a world scale.

An underlying pessimism and cynicism had come to pervade Italy. I recall being shocked by a conversation with my Italian landlord when he told me that Italian history for the past fifteen hundred years was a national disgrace, and that he would leave for America right away if he was a younger man.

The World Cup victory provided an outlet for celebration which Italy had been sorely lacking. Eighty-five-year-old President Sandro Pertini called it the greatest day for Italy since he had assumed office seven years before.

In the euphoria which ensued the Azzuri were honored as conquering heroes, Goalie and team captain Dino Zoff was elevated by the government to the status of commandentore, one of the highest civilian distinctions possible in Italy.

Rossi became a national superhero Endorsement offers flowed in and a leading manufacturer granted him a lifetime supply of shoes. For Italy's leading scorer the irony was particularly striking. Just six months before he had been a national embarassment banned from organized soccer for collaborating with gamblers to fix games. Now he was worshipped.

For this observer, the night of the World Cup began in Turin with wild street celebrations. It ended in Milan, where I was expected to report to work the next morning. Somewhere in between came a two-hour train ride, but that journey has faded into oblivion.

What remains firmly fixed in memory is my trek from the Milan train station to my lodgings. Corso Venetzia at 3 a.m. that night was jammed with traffic, jammed with celebrants creating an enormous din. I passed a few street corners where three or four piece bands were staging impromptu jam sessions, complete with electric guitars connected to amplifiers.

Flashing

In a city--no, nation--gone crazy, one incident stood out clearer than any other, typifying Italy and the nature of her jubilation. At a certain point along the street the traffic snarled, and there in the middle of it stood a solitary man draped in an Italian flag which covered him from his waist to his knees. He stood amidst a throng of fans fenced in by several police cars casting a pall over the scene with their Hashing blue lights.

By his side were two carabinieri, the Italian uniformed authorities. They wanted him to put his pants on and get out of the middle of the street. For several minutes he steadfastly refused. The crowd backed him forcefully. "I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA! I-TAL-IA!" they shouted supportively reinforcing the lone man's patriotism.

The arguing continued for five full minutes. Finally, the man wearing the flag relented. He nodded his head. He hugged the carabinieri one at a time, kissing them on both cheeks Tears--or was it sweat--were visible on his face. The carabinieri smiled, while the blue lights continued to flash in the background.

The crowd continued its cheering. At last the man turned to his supporters and shouted a final "I-TAL-IA!" He waved his fist in defiance, then marched back to his Fiat parked in the middle of the street Slowly he undraped himself and put on his pants. The crowd loved it. Banners waved Women screamed. After a few moments more of encouragement, the throng moved on.

So did I. I headed home, thinking that the whole country had gone crazy, And over a soccer game