Page 6 of The Medici Return

Game of the siege.

Its popularity increased through the 18th century, enjoyed on the streets and in the city squares. A way to vent youthful excesses, rivalries, and passions. The last official match happened in 1739. Two centuries passed before it was revived. Since 1930,except for the World War II period, games among the four historical neighborhoods of Florence had been held annually. The Bianchi of Santo Spirito wore white. The Azzurri of Santa Croce sported blue. The Rossi of Santa Maria Novella were noted for their red. And his beloved Verdi of San Giovanni donned green. All of the players wore baggy puffed trousers and shirts in their respective colors, lightweight so as not to hinder movement. Many, including himself, had already lost their shirts, playing bare-chested under a Tuscan sun.

Three defenders crashed into him, their powerful arms wrapping in a tight embrace. But he spun around, freed himself, and deflected their attempts to take him down. He cradled the ball close to his chest, which was coated in sand and sweat. Once, the balls were shells of cloth or animal skin, cut into sections, sewn together, and stuffed with straw or feathers. Today they were leather filled with air, like a football.

Probing hands tried to pry the ball from him, but he repelled their efforts and kept moving forward.

Nearly every town and village in Tuscany had a festival that paid tribute to history. Siena had its Palio. Arezzo, its Giostra del Saracino. Montepulciano, the Bravìo delle Botti. But none of those compared to Florence’s Calcio Storico.

More than a game.

A show of art.

Each team fielded four goalkeepers, three fullbacks, five halfbacks, and fifteen forwards. Fifty-four men engaging in close fights and continuous melee for possession of the ball on a five-thousand-square-meter sand arena set up in the heart of Florence, surrounded by four thousand cheering spectators and half a dozen ambulances ready to transport the injured to the hospital. And there were always injuries. Some quite serious. And a problem, since no substitutions were allowed for either injury or expulsion.

The game was a version of American football that combined boxing, wrestling, and rugby-style tackles. No pads. No helmets. Twelve men tried to score, fifteen defended. The objective? Advancethe ball to the end of the opponent’s side of the field and toss it over a meter-and-a-half-high fence to score a goal. Shoot and miss? The other side received half a point.

So you could not miss.

Four hundred years ago the winning team was given a Chianina white heifer to eat. Today they enjoyed a meal at a Florentine restaurant. But the real prize was the bragging rights that came from winning for the colors of your neighborhood.

He dug his shoes into the soft sand.

Violence was not just expected but encouraged by the cheering crowds that populated the bleachers, in an atmosphere reminiscent of millennia-old gladiator games. Each game started when the fifteen forwards began kicking, punching, tackling, and wrestling one another, all designed to tire the other side’s defenses. Once players were on the ground they could not get back up until a goal was scored. Many of his team were down, being held there by defenders. Calcio Storico came with five other rules. No choking. No ganging up on a single player. No criminals. Limited use of martial arts. And if a player said they were hurt, leave them alone.

Other than that, anything went.

Three Blue defenders converged on him. Two of his Green teammates managed to pry the arms and hands off him, adding a few well-placed punches to make the point. He rolled and tossed the ball to one of his teammates.

One other thing.

The ball had to remain in constant motion. If not, it was brought to the center of the field and placed “at bat,” up for grabs.

He pushed himself away and ran.

The day was hot and arid, typical for summer. Good thing, as spring had been especially wet. There’d been flooding north of Florence, and the River Arno’s banks had been tested as it wound itself through town. Nothing like the catastrophic flood of 1966, though.

That one had wreaked havoc.

Once only noble gentlemen—those who’d acquired lineage or military rank—from ages eighteen to forty-five were allowed toplay. No commoners. Now it was open to all. He’d first played at nineteen. Then a scrawny kid, he was now ninety-five kilos of muscle, which he worked hard to maintain through diet and exercise. The neighborhood in which you were born determined which team you were eligible to play for. And it remained that for life. No switching sides. Every year the four teams squared off. Two semifinal matches, the winners advancing to the final. Always held the last week of June. He was now thirty-eight and this was his fourteenth contest, the sixth in the finals.

The crowd were all on their feet.

He shifted right toward the other side of the field. The ball was still heading toward the end, two of his teammates trading it back and forth, buying time until everyone could get in position. One of the Blues blocked his way, fists raised.

A challenge.

He halted his advance, planted his feet, and delivered a solid right uppercut to the jaw, sending the man to the sand.

Where he had to stay.

The ball was heading back toward him. Over half of each team was on the ground, out of play. That opened up the field.

He smelled success.

And signaled for a pass.

The ball arched across above the players and into his grasp. He tucked it tight to his chest. No match could end in a tie, and this game was locked 3–3.

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