Of course, I'm giving away the punch line.
This was at the 1990 World Cup in Italy, when a bunch of traveling American writers were in Florence to watch Our Lads get waxed.
Searching for the press tribune, one of my colleagues spotted a man in a bright blue blazer standing in a portal.
What with the blazer, he could have been an usher.
"Excuse me," the reporter said, probably in slow, basic English, "but we're looking for the press section."
"My name is Giorgio Chinaglia," the man in the bright blue blazer replied with a smile.. "And I believe it is right over there."
My friend knew enough to be apologetic. Giorgio, who had what one might call a strong sense of self, thought it was funny.
Giorgio knew that current soccer writers might not recognize him. But defenders and keepers (and his own coaches and general managers) would always remember him.
This was at the 1990 World Cup in Italy, when a bunch of traveling American writers were in Florence to watch Our Lads get waxed.
Searching for the press tribune, one of my colleagues spotted a man in a bright blue blazer standing in a portal.
What with the blazer, he could have been an usher.
"Excuse me," the reporter said, probably in slow, basic English, "but we're looking for the press section."
"My name is Giorgio Chinaglia," the man in the bright blue blazer replied with a smile.. "And I believe it is right over there."
My friend knew enough to be apologetic. Giorgio, who had what one might call a strong sense of self, thought it was funny.
Giorgio knew that current soccer writers might not recognize him. But defenders and keepers (and his own coaches and general managers) would always remember him.
