Memoir
It’s harder to rise from slumber than stay awake – or so I thought. I’m tempted by the hiss of Dad’s Moka pot on the stove, the comforting scent that feels like home.
With travel mugs in hands, my brother and I are whisked into the Commodore for the long drive to Leichhardt. I try to stay awake as the warm car and murmuring engine lull me to sleep.
‘When we get there, make sure you walk quickly,’ says Dad.
I pull my chin off my chest, forcing my eyes open.
‘Why?’
‘So we don’t miss kick off.’
Italy versus France, longstanding European rivals facing off in the grand final. As an 18-year-old bookworm I have zero interest in televised sports, but I’m told this game is a big deal for us Italians. Sport only appealed for two brief phases of my life: tennis lessons as a kid, and the time I glued magazine cut-outs of NRL players on the covers of my high school exercise books. My friends won’t let me forget the broad-shouldered naked torsos covered with plastic contact and air bubbles. It made maths much more appealing.
Opening the car door on Norton St, I can already hear the buzz of the crowd. A makeshift sign printed in Comic Sans font reads ‘World Cup Café’. My heart races – from too much coffee, the sudden rush of sound like a gale force wind, or both – as we follow Dad inside.
The café is dark except for the glow of the big screen. There are more men than women. As we fold into the mass of blue shirts and scarves, I spot my uncle in the crowd, standing on a chair, intermittently blowing into a vuvuzela.
Everyone in the room roars, primal, when Zidane headbutts Matterazzi.
Red card.
Send him off.
Scum!
A chorus of colourful language. Dad puts his hands over my brother’s ears as he tries to wriggle free.
‘Dad, I’m fifteen.’
The siren sounds. Game over. We win the penalty shootout. Is it an earthquake? A bomb? No, everyone’s jumping on the floorboards.
Italia. Italia.
We all empty out into the street and cross Parramatta Road.
Italia. Italia.
The occasional vehicle streams past, drivers oblivious to what has just occurred. Then a procession arrives: horns blaring, men hanging their torsos out of windows and sunroofs waving red, green and white flags. The sun rises, illuminating rows of terrace houses in pastel hues. Street lamps glow against a grey-blue sky.
‘The cafes are open. It’s a miracle,’ says Dad.
Even though it’s only 6am we’re gestured towards a table and handed a menu. I almost curl up on the wooden bench seat and sleep. A wave of light-headedness flows through me, my stomach empty and churning. I slouch over the table as two espressos and two lattes appear out of nowhere.
I bring the milky coffee to my lips. Equal parts creamy and bitter. Better than (in order from best to worst): all previous lattes, Ovaltine, Ecco, the instant coffee my friend made me at school camp. Perfetto.
Danielle Catherine 