On Sunday, when Rachelle and I were it the airport in Toronto waiting for our flight to Italy, we happened to see underachieving Toronto Raptor Andrea Bargnani. He was standing at Alitalia’s Magnifico counter, which caused a tittering amongst the rest of us watching admiringly from the serpentine line stretching out from Economy.
Even though he was alone and carried with him no retinue, he was impossible to miss at seven feet tall. He wore a white sweatsuit and looked, well, out of place. Several people approached him for a photograph, and he complied with each one, but he did so joylessly, as if it was a contractual obligation. And after each shot– after making no effort to engage the starstruck fan– he returned to his duties, which was simply to wait.
When we got to Rome, Bargnani happened to be standing beside me at the luggage carousel. He had added sunglasses to his look now, and although we were indoors and the glasses offered no hope of disguise, they probably did make him feel a little less vulnerable. Regardless, a few people still had their photograph taken with him and he continued to discharged him self with a robotic efficiency that never once saw an actual smile or moment of pleasure illuminate his sad face.
I, like a lot o people probably, simply couldn’t take my eyes off of him, and eventually approached him and asked if he thought he’d be playing for the Raptors next year.
“I have a contract, but I do no know. It is up to management to decide.”
And then he looked at me, as if waiting to see what my next demand might be.
I told him that we liked him in Toronto(not true) and hoped he’d be back, and then gave him an encouraging little punch in the arm because he looked like he needed some encouragement and took my leave.
It’s easy to understand why such a man would want to be left alone and be free of curiosity seekers, but there seemed a more permanent or deeply cut nature to his melancholy. In spite of his great wealth and acclaim, he is always a singularity based on his height. People will always stare at him. From Italy, he was dropped into the alien culture of the NBA where everything was different. Criticized by media and likely marginalized by the presiding cliques within his even own team, it would be easy to understand how he might develop a protective, even defensive posture toward the world around him.
The hotel Rachelle and I stayed at in Rome was in a tourist district right near the train station. The area was dirty, chaotic and predatory in nature. Everywhere we went we were bombarded by all the things habitually bombard tourists, and I felt a little trapped, as if confined in a maze of aggressive commerce. While navigating this jarring maze, we came upon a church with an unremarkable exterior. When we stepped inside we were suddenly in a still, open space that opened limitlessly forth, as if surpassing the sky itself. It was astonishing to be amidst such unexpected and calming beauty, a place that had been so lovingly maintained for centuries.
The external world we had just come from, dissolved into peace.
Inside, at a table selling postcards and a variety of religious themed knick-knacks sat an ancient woman. Surreptitiously, against her leg and beneath the table, she was playing a Scratch-N-Win lottery ticket. Because I’ve seen The Sopranos and figure I know how to speak Italian, I started to shut-out, “Fortuna? Fortuna?” while pointing at her card. She shook her head, and then pointing at Rachelle standing behind me, she smiled and said, “Bella, bella!” I nodded, and then she shrugged, “fortuna,” now throwing open her arms in an expansive gesture of my good fortune, evident even half way around the world.