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Michael Valleriano

 We all know what Italy has given the world—pizza, pasta, tomato sauce, Sophia Loren.  But do you know what we gave them?  Nope, not Starbucks.  Not even McDonald’s. Try:   football.  No, not soccer.  The other one.  Shoulder pads.  Touchdowns. Tailgates.

 Football, the Immigrant's Game?

I grew up loving baseball—thanks to my grandfather—but I wanted to be like my dad, so I played football.  My dad played in high school during the 1940s, despite my grandfather being a diehard baseball guy.  For many immigrants, loving baseball or football was a shortcut to becoming “American.” 

Why did Dad choose football over baseball?  My theory: fall football fit better with his schedule.  In spring, he was knee-deep in planting season and mushroom-farm work.  Come fall, with crops harvested, there was time to hit the field.  Most of his friends, guys that he bowled with into his 80s, were in a similar boat and played football.

Tony “The Roc” – 1944

His high school team of undersized immigrant kids nearly went the whole season without getting scored upon.  This included beating the child of another immigrant, Don Shula who eventually played in the NFL and East Liverpool, OH (Dean Martin’s high school) that had two Big 10 linemen.  Eighty years later, they’re still considered one of the best teams in Ohio—no small feat considering the sport was invented there.

My first coach, Mr. Vacca—who had played with my dad—told me at age 10, “If you become half the player your dad was, you'll be something!”  No pressure, right?  I must’ve done okay—I played into college.  Like many immigrant parents, his sole goal was for me to get to the next level – educationally!

 Dad loved watching me play.  But what really made him proud was seeing my son suit up for college ball near his home.  He never missed a game before he passed.  I’m just sorry that dad never had a chance to see his grandson go even further educationally.

Me and my son, his 1st College Game - on the same college field that I once played!

Football has been a constant in my life. I played, I coached, and I rarely miss a Browns, Buckeyes, or Penguins game (yes, I multitask across leagues).

Football in…Italy?

But here’s the kicker—whenever I’m in Italy during the fall, people ask about “American Football.”  And once they hear I’m a Browns fan, they usually offer condolences.  So, clearly, they’re informed.

One trip, I watched a Browns game on my phone while hiking Tuscan trails with a local.  Browns lost (shocker), but the 5G was spectacular!  Sharing “my” sport in the middle of wine country with someone who might be a distant cousin?  Surreal.

On another spring trip, our daughter was invited to play calcio (soccer) in Tuscany.  After her match, I spotted a group of Italian teens in full-on American football gear—pads, helmets, the works. 

Naturally, I walked right over.  Their English was way better than my Italian, but we bonded over blocking schemes and bad Browns seasons.  I even gave them tips on long snapping—a family specialty.

Turns out, American football is booming in Italy.  There’s even an Italian Championship of American Football—and this year, it’s in Toledo, Ohio on June 28, 2025.  That’s right.   Italian Bowl XLIV - Back in the Glass City Toledo, Ohio 2025. 

If you want a fun read, check out Playing for Pizza by John Grisham.  It’s about a washed-up NFL player who ends up on a team in Italy.  Who knew Grisham had a comic side?

So yes—we somehow gave football back to Italy.  Not sure that compares to being gifted pizza though!

Michael Valleriano

Italian American Life - Frank Di Piero

 NEW RELEASE: A Heartfelt Journey for Every Italian American!

We are thrilled to announce the release of a brand-new children’s book that’s a must read.

This bilingual gem is not just a story, it’s a powerful message to guide all generations on the true meaning of pride and heritage.

Click here: https://a.co/d/6YcJTd7

Why you’ll love this book:

*Bilingual Edition: A perfect way to celebrate both English and Italian language.

*Cultural Pride: The book helps instill the values of family, community, and resilience - vital lessons for children to grow up with.

*For all ages: Whether you’re a child or an adult, this book offers something meaningful for everyone.

*A Timeless Message: It’s more than a book - it’s a reminder to always be proud of where we come from, and to honor the real reasons that make us strong.

*Discover the deep connection between past and present while learning to embrace your roots with love and pride.

Hot Summer Days and Warmer Summer Nights

Check out Ed’s blog - edwrites.net

When I was a kid, it seemed that summers were bursting with uninterrupted days of scorching heat (“It’s a scortcha,” said the aunt), so we looked forward to rainy days in Narragansett, where from our rented summer cottage, our mothers took us to the Casino Theater for a movie. Sitting in a cool theater was a nice break from endless days at the beach. Woe to us, huh?

I enjoy hot summer days because they remind me of the days of my youth. In the neighborhood, when the sun shone brightly, we trudged to the swimming hole or the Boys Club pool to cool off.

On other days, it was more than just swimming.

Like commandos, with our water canteens hooked to our belts, we hiked along the burning country road to the distant woods and its swimming hole. Our thin-soled Keds made our scortchud feet pay. Nonetheless, we were energized and pleased. It was a good thing.

I appreciated our days on the run, free, out of school, with no homework and nary a care.

We lived outdoors.

We went to the drive-in movie, Red Sox games, stock car races, and the Boy Scouts Jamboree.

We awaited the bell-ringing ice cream man.

We went to the ice cream store, waiting for us.

We wore shorts and sneakers.

We slept late.

We stayed out late. Why? Street lights, the ‘go-home’ beacon, came on later.

We ate tomatoes from the garden, picked cherries and apples and pears and figs from grandpa's trees, and grapes from his vine.

We made tar balls from the hot tar we scraped off the steaming streets.

We fried an egg on the sidewalk.

We cooled under sprinklers.

Summer nights in the third-floor bedroom of the three-decker on Wealth Avenue were hot, ridiculously hot. It was scorching enough for the sewing bees to stop sewing and the lightning bugs to slow down on their evening soirees.

With neither fans nor air conditioners, our bedroom was a sticky oven. Sleeping, even without a top sheet and nearly nude, was impossible. Houses nearby were so close that no breeze, if it ever appeared, would bother to drift inside. Still, those nights brought back cozy neighborhood memories. How? Through the soft susurrations of the adults nearby.

Warm weather brought people together, usually in the evenings, on their porches.

Hearing soft chatter from the first-floor porch below, Peter and I decided to explore, to follow the murmurs and some soft laughter, even though we had orders to go to bed. The heat drove the adults to their porches and sidewalks.

Attracted by the sound of bees to honey, we rolled out of bed and snuck down the stairs to sit on the porch floor, invisible, or so we thought, just off to the side. Mom, Aunt Della, and Grandma glanced and continued their chit-chatting. Dad, Uncle Carlo, and Grandpa were absent, probably sleeping, or at least trying, in anticipation of their early morning rise.

As I remember, Mom was in her pajamas, Aunt Della in a nightgown, and Grandma, though in a housedress, broke her formality by wearing backless black slippers and no stockings.

Layers of stars dotted the night. The land light came from a nearby streetlight, bugs flickering to tap the light’s metal hat. Low talking rumbles came from neighbors sitting across the narrow street or next door, doing the same thing, chatting away the heat.

Nothing we heard was of interest to us. Mom, Grandma, and Aunt Della seemed to be repeating the same things they had already talked about during the day. However, just listening, being there was enough.

The sounds were soothing and comforting. People made the best of the crisp, clear, hot evening, understanding they were all in the same circumstances. The heat was tough, but not as tough as the workday, not as tough as making their way in a new country.

We sat, very still. We listened. We smushed the occasional mosquito and rubbed off the blood ever so gently. We wanted to hang out, to be a part of the neighborhood’s family, to endure the heat together. We were a part of it.

"Time for bed, kids." Ah, they noticed us. No squabble.

Up the stairs and back to the oven, we trudged. I got in bed and looked at the clock. It was eleven. My goodness, I stayed up late, like an adult.

At last, we dozed off to the ongoing music of the voices below.

Hot summer days and evenings chased us outdoors and to a recipe for fun and more chances to connect with friends, family, and neighbors.

I loved the summer evenings almost as much as the days.

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