Fanfic: Fuori (Out)
Title: "Fuori (Out)"
Author: J.J.
Warning: Unbetaed and no, I do not speak Neapolitan so I might have made mistakes using it... And yes Romano speaks only in Neapolitan and curses and insult everyone. Especially Germany. But well, you’ve to understand Neapolitan to understand what he’s saying or read the translations at the bottom.
Notes: Inspired by Italy’s loss, being told German newspapers were happy about it and the last press declarations the players and their coach did. Oh yes, and also by blue mozzarellas…
Characters: North Italy Veneziano (Feliciano Vargas), South Italy Romano (Lovino Vargas), Germany (Ludwig).
Time: 25/June/2010 (In case you’re wondering Italy lost its match on the 24th but the players took the fly to get back home on the 25th).
Disclaimer: "Axis Powers Hetalia" belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.
Hey, do I own something here? Oh yes, I own the plot and a sensible heart which would surely break if you give me harsh reviews... so please be honest but nice ok?
Summary: Italy is out of the World Cup.
His brother was still crying, still crying as he yelled and trashed the room trying to vent out his pain. He eyed him distractedly, unable to focus well on him from where he sat motionless and wished he could stop thinking and just… vent, like his brother was doing.
He wished he could stop thinking, stop thinking at how that failure was all his fault, at how he should have played better, trained harder, figured out better strategies, used better players, fought harder, did something, anything, not to lose like that.
They had been the previous champions and now… they were nothing and probably the whole world was laughing at them. Silly little Italians who thought they were good at something but, in truth, they couldn’t manage anything. Silly, little Italians.
His brother made more noise, he hoped absently Romano wouldn’t damage anything; they really didn’t need to also have to repay something before leaving. He rubbed his temples as he fought down an unpleasant headache and tried not to think at all the other things they had damaged that day, like their reputation, their pride, their…
“Guarda!” Romano yelled in a mix between indignation, fury and outrage, tears still in his eyes, waving under his nose some printed papers. “Guarda! Nun basta chillo scassacazzo Francese ce vule male pecché ce arrubammo ‘a copp d’ ‘o munno int’ ‘o 2006! Nun basta ‘a muzzarella tuòsseca! Guarda che redigetté chisto faccia ‘e merda Germanése int’ ‘o jurnale! Guarda che redigetté chisto cornute Germanése che tiene ‘na patàna pe’ capa! Chisto strunze tien ‘na cazzimm esaggerata! Chisto ci vo’ muorti!”
Veneziano took the papers slowly, his eyes falling on the ‘Out who ruined our dream in 2006’ before closing as he let the papers fall, refusing to read any further. No, he really didn’t want to read, didn’t need to know this. He sighed. So he did wrong in 2006 because he won and now he did wrong because he lost? Why did he always end up in no win situations?
Romano went on ranting, cursing Germany in all the dialects of his country, but more than anything, cursing himself and Veneziano.
They were the ones who had lost; after all, they deserved to be cursed.
After all Italians were good at getting angry at themselves or at the others. They could get so angry, totally furious, to the point they were almost scary if not downright murderous. Then, once they had gotten all their anger out, they could move forward, forgive and forget. Kind of.
Someone had told him that was why he failed at wars. To be good at it getting angry wasn’t enough, it lasted enough, it didn’t give enough strength, he had to be capable to hate his own enemies and hating… wasn’t in his style.
Football though… it wasn’t war. They could be good at it. Only evidently not in that day.
He stood tiredly and began to pack their things. They were out, there was no point to dwell on it further, it was time to get back home… to get back home and explain to his people, their people, why their hopes for victory had been crushed so early, why they had failed so badly, why they had played so pitifully.
Romano kept on crying, on yelling, on using dialect to express himself, rambling and gesticulating angrily in hope to make his thoughts more clears.
Veneziano tried to cut him out from his world as he continued his work calmly. So they had lost. It wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last time. It was just a game and some people were bound to lose it. Other people had lost it. Grand frère France had lost too. No point into making such a fuss. After all it was just a silly, meaningless World Cup. It wasn’t the end of the world if they were to lose it. It wasn’t the end of the world if they lost shamefully to one of the few things they were good at. It would just feel like it for a while.
Then he would move on and things would continue as they always had.
He was an expert in moving on after all, he did so for almost all his life.
Romano yelled at him then, how could he be so calm, did he not care at all they were out, that they had been… Veneziano let him yell until Romano finally paused and looked at him with an exasperated expression.
“Venezià, la saie na cosa? Dimane è a jurnata mondiale da raccolta da munnezza,” he began with a slightly calmer tone. “Faje del bene, fatte truvà vicino o bidone!” he continued yelling, his voice rising again. “Strunze! Abbraccaite ‘o cesso e canta ‘Nu so degno di te’!” then finally, he was finished as he threw violently his own suitcase on the bed and began to threw in it his clothes, without even bothering to fold them, still muttering curses against… the whole world really, himself included, but at least he was calming down. His brother would get over this soon, or, at least, Veneziano hoped so… wanted to hope so. Because deep down he knew Romano was strong and he would always manage no matter what. No matter what.
He continued on his work then stared at his suitcase with dismay as he realized he had finished preparing it. He… he couldn’t have finished already, he thought, no, he should still have something to do, he hadn’t finished, he wouldn’t stop now, he… he tried to set his things even better, to smooth the clothes inside, to… he wasn’t sure what but he knew he was wasting time, his work was done, time to close the suitcase and leave and…
He closed his eyes as he forced his body to move, as he forced himself to close the suitcase, and opened them again as he secured it with a locket, his fingers oddly shaking a bit and now he was done, he was done, he…
He closed his eyes again, took a large breath, opened them, turned toward Romano, smiled as if nothing was wrong or tried to.
“Brother, are you done?” he asked seeing his brother watching at his messily filled suitcase.
“Nun te lo dicette già che chi se fa’ e cazz suoj camp cient ann?” Romano muttered, closing the suitcase angrily. ‘Didn’t I tell you already that who mind his own business lives one hundred years?’ Veneziano mentally translated with more difficulty than usual as he wished his brother would go back speaking Italian. He normally liked the sound of Romano’s dialects but, at the moment, he was too tired to manage to translate them easily, yet he didn’t complained. Romano was still upset and complaining would only make things worse. So no complains, just smiles and calm behaviour.
“Yes, you did,” he agreed obediently, still smiling stubbornly. His brother turned to glare at him, his eyes still wet and puffy, though he wasn’t crying anymore, then frowned even more and with few quick steps, moved in front of Veneziano. Veneziano stared at him, confused, and Romano merely took Veneziano’s face in between his hands, holding it as he rested his forehead against Veneziano’s gently.
“Chiagnè, Venezià. Chiagnè quanto ‘e voglia,” he told him in a gruff manner, which was the tone his brother used with him when he was trying to be affectionate. “Chi chiagn fott a chi rìr.” he reminded him.
‘Cry, Veneziano. Cry as much as you want. The one who cries get more of the ones who laugh.’
Veneziano stared at him, wishing he could believe it but north was different from south, north was sure tears couldn’t fix things, nothing could fix things now, and he officially despised the ‘sceneggiate napoletane’ south did, they were… excessive, an act, embarrassing… and yet… maybe he would feel better if he could express his own feelings like that, because not that it was a big deal what had happened but… but… but it was all his fault and he… he… He closed his eyes and hugged his brother, leaned his head on his shoulder but tears didn’t come, stuck somewhere inside him, trapped into a net made of guilt and obligations.
It was all his fault, he had shamed everyone, he had to leave, he had to apologize, everyone else was probably glad they got rid of him, of them, maybe they were making fun of him, of them, right in that moment, his people was probably so angry… so disappointed… he was so angry… so disappointed… so despe-…
He swallowed, refused to think at it, hid behind his business mentality, behind the façade of this being just a job that turned out bad, after all he didn’t really hope to win, he wasn’t persuaded they (he) did the right choices on the matter of the coach and the players, he… he wanted to go home, he wanted to go home, he thought, among his people, among his people who was probably angry and sad like him but… was his people, was like him, would feel the same as him, understand him. Sort of.
There was nothing for him in Africa so he didn’t want to stay here a moment longer.
“We’ll better go or we’ll be late for the plane,” he said and thought his voice sounded… weird… stuck… he made sure to smile as he parted from his brother. Romano looked at him with a slight frown then sighed.
“Venezià, tu sì nu buono guaglione ma sient’amme tu tieni na capa chiù tòsta d’ ‘o mulo,” his brother stated as he patted his shoulder. Veneziano took it as a compliment as he kept on smiling. After all it was the fact that he was ‘more stubborn than a mule’ that had always allowed him to move forward and get what he wanted… or try to and now he needed to move forward so he kept on smiling as he and his brother reached out for their suitcases, he kept on smiling as they moved toward the exit of their hotel bedroom, his brother’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, he kept on smiling as they opened the door and walked out of the room, he kept on smiling as his brother froze next to him and no, maybe he wasn’t really smiling, maybe he had frozen too and his smile as well as his gaze fell on Germany, standing in the corridor.
He had no idea why Germany was there, maybe he was merely passing by, yes, he probably was, because if he’d come to pity him, reproach him, made fun of him or try to cheer him up Veneziano was sure as hell it wouldn’t improve things so it was better if he were to never find out.
He knew he should be a spot and do something nice like… wish Germany good luck for his next match but words were stuck along with his tears, besides Germany’s next match was going to be against England and England’s coach was an Italian and so he was partial toward England. Well, England’s coach really, but the result didn’t change. Not that he hoped England would defeat Germany, Germany was strong, it wasn’t like Italy, it hadn’t been kicked out by the World Cup so early but still…
Anyway maybe he should congratulate with Germany because Germany had won and was going to progress to the knockout stage, the knockout stage at which he wasn’t allowed to take part but, as he thought that, he felt his tongue was even more tied so maybe he should let Germany start the discussion since Germany was beginning to open his mouth, only he really wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what he had to say so maybe he should anticipate him but… but… but his brother anticipated them both, letting go of his shoulder and moving closer to Germany and Veneziano knew this was going to mean troubles and they really shouldn’t cause a commotion, their situation was bad enough but Romano was already too close to Germany and pointing at him, looking so very angry with his mo ‘o cazzèo chisto expression and…
“Ce vide bbuono? Faccia ‘e merda, ce vide bbuono?” he asked in a hissing tone and Germany blinked in confusion as he looked at his brother. More or less Germany could understand Italian but Romano’s dialects were out of his league, especially when Romano was so angry. Evidently Romano realized it too but the fact he switched to Italian didn’t really improve the situation though it allowed Germany to understand his words. “Can you see well, shit face? Ce vide bbuono?” he repeated switching back to dialect because evidently he felt Italian couldn’t express well enough his own feelings. Germany nodded, though he evidently didn’t see why Romano was asking him that. For a moment, not even Veneziano knew it, then, as his brother went on… “E vide e nu ce rompé ‘e pal-…” he hurried to cover his mouth so that the sentence remained unfinished.
“Brother, we’ll be late for the check in,” he stated still stubbornly smiling as if nothing was wrong while he tried to pull a recalcitrant Romano along. “See you soon, Ludwig!” he added cheerfully, using Germany’s human name since they were in public, and maybe that wasn’t nice but, really, he couldn’t think of anything else. Beside Romano was still trying to yell at Germany.
“È meglio ave’ a che fa cu Satana che cu tte, strunze! A cunfronte a te n’anguilla e comme a carta vetrata! T’adda fa a fine do piecure a Pasca! ”
Not that Germany or anyone around them could understand what his brother was saying, though it was pretty easy to guess it wasn’t nice and his loud voice was attracting attention, unwanted attention.
Veneziano could already see the titles on the foreigner newspapers.
‘Italians are, as usual, too loud and whiny with no sense of pride and doesn’t know how to lose with some dignity.’
He closed his eyes and longed to be back home. Not that once at home things would be better but, at least, he would be back at home.
Germany called him, he didn’t know why in the same way he didn’t know why he paused and turned. He wanted to believe Germany wasn’t the type who would gloat on his… situation but there wasn’t something Germany could say to make his situation any better after all. Evidently not even Germany knew what he wanted to say, since he just repeated his name then paused then…
“Next time it’ll be better,” he offered, which was probably meant to be encouraging and had been what Veneziano had been trying to repeat to himself all along but, hearing it from Germany only reminded him it was finished, his World Cup had ended, he was out and he won’t have the chance to prove he was worth of something now and… and his brother tensed further, swallowed then looked at him and then at Germany and then…
“Ma quande t’accatte na valigia chiena e cazze tuoi? Ma nun sputà ‘ncielo ca ‘nfaccia te torna!” Romano told Germany angrily trying to free himself from Veneziano’s hold. “Ma chisto è ‘o cane ca mozzeca ‘o stracciat! ‘O fetiente che nun tene cuscienza e nun tene rispetto! Capisc’a ‘mmé, strunze, nun c’è n’ata vota pe’ nuje chesto anno! Simmo fòra! Fuori! Out!” he yelled as loud as he could, panting slightly, his body trembling. Veneziano didn’t let go of him, actually he was clinging to him even tighter, though he lowered his head sadly. He really, really didn’t need that. He really…
Germany tried to say something more, probably to explain he didn’t mean anything bad with his words, which was a lost cause since he was talking to Romano and somehow Romano was always going to take the wrong way whatever Germany would say and, in fact, his brother didn’t even let him end his sentence.
“Nun m’aggio piglià a mal? Paziamme n’ata vota? Pazziamme a nascondino ia... scumpare e nu te fa truvà cchiù! Ma va fancul a tte e a chi nun to dice!” he yelled, uncaring of how Germany couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
Veneziano hated when his brother acted like that, embarrassing him to no end, uncaring of how everyone else around them wouldn’t understand, uncaring of how even Veneziano had a hard time understanding his behaviour.
Veneziano loved when his brother acted like that, defending his own opinions and feelings hotly and without shame, defending him too because they were family and one of the things Romano truly held dear beyond his gruff behaviour was family.
It was… really complicate.
Also… Veneziano could feel his brother trembling though, as if he too was trying to hide his pain behind his rage.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly in his, no _their_ mother tongue, his smile lost somewhere in all that yelling. Then, as his brother didn’t even look like he had heard him, he pulled his arm lightly and tried again. “Lovì… iamme Lovì, iamme ia!” he tried in a slightly louder tone, forcing himself to use the Neapolitan dialect his brother was so fond of though he was sure he didn’t say it right. It worked though as Romano turned toward him, stared at him with those green eyes of him that, due to a bizarre joke of fate, were an inheritance of those German who had resided in his land, a memory of Federico II whom he had loved as much as he now said he hated all the Germans. Or maybe he didn’t hate them. It was just they weren’t Federico.
“Iammuncenne. Iamme a casa, Felicià,” his brother agreed thought he evidently couldn’t leave without throwing a last glare to Germany and a last parting word. “Cap ‘e patàna, nu piglia’ assai sole sta stagione, ‘o sole assecche e strunze,” he stated before returning to wrap his arm around Veneziano, pulling him close to himself. Veneziano leaned into his hold, feeling vaguely better as he threw a quick glance behind himself. He should pack things up with Germany, after all he didn’t deserve to be cursed the way Romano had done, after all it wasn’t Germany’s fault if some of his people still held a grudge against him and his brother and felt the need to vent it, or maybe it was just a translation problem, maybe those articles wouldn’t sound as bad as it had done had Veneziano be a German, maybe he was simply too tired and upset and angry at himself to think straight and his luggage felt so heavy…
“See you again, Ludwig,” he said anyway, forcing another of his careless smiles, and it was all he was capable to come up with and maybe it was more polite than ‘See you soon’.
“See you again, Feliciano. Lovino,” Germany replied nodding firmly and Feliciano thought that yes, Germany probably didn’t mean to hurt his feeling or making him feel worse. He should phone him, he should phone him when he’ll feel a little bit more lively and… well, pack things up. And he should watch his match. Though he was definitely going to root for Fabio… well, Fabio’s team, he was sure Germany would play well and he liked to watch good football matches.
Maybe Romano too would watch it with him. Maybe. Or maybe not considering while they were leaving he was showing his middle finger to Germany. Evidently he wasn’t ready yet to apologize for what he said. Actually, knowing Romano, he likely would never be.
Veneziano tried to keep his mind busy, tried not to think at the present, tried to think only at the future though all the time he took to reach the airport, do the check in and finally climb on his fly. He latched his seatbelt, listening as Romano cursed and complained he didn’t want to latch his own, they both flirted without too much enthusiasm with a pretty hostess that tried to persuade Romano to latch it. Then, as she left them Romano crossed his arms in front of himself with a slight frown, his fingers digging a little too deep into his arms while Veneziano attempted to keep up a stereotyped conversation about some relatives they had in Africa and places in Africa he had visited and… and then he silenced himself as the plane began moving and kept silent as it increased speed and then… then he left the ground, then he began to fly, fly away from Africa, fly toward Italy, fly toward home.
He closed his eyes sighing and hugged himself as his brother was doing. He swallowed and found himself sniffling slightly. Probably he was coming up with a cold since he was also trembling. He felt startled when he felt his brother resting his hand on his cheek.
“Venezià, sient’amme, tu tieni na capa proprio tòsta, è ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero?” Romano asked him in a fond tone. “E chiagnè si tu vuò chiagnè, sceme!”
Cry, if you want to cry.
It wasn’t that simple, he couldn’t he… he… he sniffled again, unwillingly letting tears escaping from his eyes.
“Brother…” he whimpered. “Brother, we’re out, we lost and… and there’s nothing we can do or say, it won’t change and… and…” … and Romano pulled him close, letting him cry against his shoulder, hugging him tightly.
“‘O saccio, ‘o saccio. ‘O saccio bene,” his brother answered and Veneziano could feel he too was trembling, he too was crying. “Mo’ chiagné e statte cuièto che doppe tanto male tiempo, adda venì ‘o bontiempo! N’ata vota gli facimmo videre nuje comme se iuca cu’ ‘o pallone, Venezià! È ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero? N’ata vota vincemmo ‘o munniale e facimmo pure n’ata partita d’ ‘o seculo!” his brother promised and Feliciano smiled as Romano said so.
‘I know, I know. I know well. Now cry and don’t worry because after the bad times there should come the good times! The next time we’ll show them how to play football, Veneziano! It’s true, isn’t it? The next time we’ll win the World Cup and we’ll also play another match of the century!’
“Yes. Next time we’ll do it!” he agreed. He’ll have to apologize though, once at home he’ll have to apologize to everyone and listen as they would yell and complain and then… then he’ll need a holiday probably but then… then he would start preparing for the next time. Next time he’ll do better. They’ll do better. That was for sure. Because now the both of them truly wanted to win and they both had, as Romano put it ‘a capa proprio tòsta so there was no way they couldn’t do it. They’ll win. For sure.
For sure.
… and if they didn’t there would always be another World Cup, wouldn’t it?
Historical Notes, quotes, references and what else:
APH cares little about the true stereotypical differences between north Italians and south Italians but, in case you’re interested, it’s southern who have the reputation of being more passionate in their reactions and express more freely their anger and their pain while northern have the reputation of being calmer and more composed (though this is just a stereotype and trust me, when football is involved many northern too express themselves rather freely). Either way here I had Veneziano trying to be a little bit more controlled than Romano. Also northern have the reputation of being more stingy, which is why Veneziano worries about having things to repay.
If you’re wondering because Romano talks in Neapolitan instead than in Romanesco that’s due to my head canon. Since Romano represent south I see him as the personification of the kingdom of the Two Sicilies, whose capital was Naples. Neapolitan began to replace Latin in written documents in 1442 and often southern dialects are called Neapolitan even if they present slight differences from the true Neapolitan language. Romanesco is used in centre Italy instead, in what once was the Papal State and that in my head canon is a territory split between the two brothers and, due to this, less fitting for South Italy. Still both Romano and Veneziano know how to speak it (Romano better than Veneziano).
If you’re wondering why Romano talks in dialect that’s why I’ve noticed that when an Italian knows a dialect and is upset he seems to favour the use of the dialect to the one of Italian. Romano is very upset so he uses dialect, Veneziano is trying to keep calmer so he does not.
South Italy is rumoured to have little to no fondness for France… the French house of Anjou ruled South Italy just after the German house of the Hohenstaufen, is considered responsible of starting south decadence and was pretty disliked (see what happens in Sicily during the Sicilian Vespers…). Also south didn’t appreciate Napoleon’s invasion.
It seems the German newspapers ‘Bild’, ‘Tagessepiegel’, ‘Die Zeit’, ‘Stern’ and ‘Faz’ wrote some harsh things about Italy’s loss, cheering up for its defeat because Italy defeated Germany in the previous World Cup. I can’t read German to save my life, but I’ll be happy if you can prove this info is wrong.
Out of late some German minimarkets began selling in Italy some mozzarellas produced by a German manufacturer for an Italian company that, once left exposed to the air, would turn of a nice blue colour (pretty similar to the one of the shirt of the Italian football players). Needless to say normal, healthy mozzarellas aren’t supposed to turn blue (it seems it’s due to a bacteria though it seems they aren’t toxic enough to murder someone). However the blue mozzarellas hadn’t been sold only in Italy but in other 13 countries as well, Germany included so no, I don’t think Germany is targeting Italy specifically…
The behaviour of the Italian players and their coach included people who cried and people who did not and supported the playmates who were crying and a general apologizing and taking responsibility for what had happened. The behaviour of the rest of the Italians usually involved getting really angry with the players and the coach or really sad and disappointed. Due to this Veneziano and Romano are very angry at each other and at their team but also they are feeling very guilty and sad. Also the players also kind of tried to be optimist and said that after they recharged themselves with some holidays they would train harder and do better the next time… Let’s truly hope so especially since it would be difficult to do worse (even if it’s not impossible… -_-).
According to a Neapolitan old saying southern seem to believe expressing freely their pain/emotions will be more productive than holding them inside themselves. Northern however often find their way to express their feelings excessive, believe it’s all an act and call it ‘sceneggiata napoletana’ (which it’s not a polite thing to do). In truth however a ‘Sceneggiata Napoletana’ is a kind of popular representation, which alternates singing with dramatic acting and melodrama, born and developed in Naples, particularly between the ‘20s and ‘40s of the twentieth century. If you don’t know/failed to notice it, in the real world there’s an odd relation between northern and southern, kind of a love-hate thing. Really, it’s rather difficult for them to get along.
If you ask me I want to think that Germany was trying to be nice to Veneziano and Romano despite what had been written in the newspaper though since I don’t really know what the whole German population thinks I let it vague. The APH character is nice but if you feel more appropriate for Germany to be there to mock or reproach Italy… well, you’re free to think that’s what he’s trying to do. And yes, he’s very patient with Romano but I guess it also helped he failed to understand what Romano was saying. Though is possible for a not Neapolitan Italian to understand Neapolitan language Neapolitan and Italian are different enough to make very difficult for a foreigner who doesn’t knows Italian perfectly and doesn’t know Neapolitan at all to figure out what Romano is saying. Especially since Romano is speaking quickly and with a heavy accent also.
Fabio is Fabio Capello, England’s coach. He’s Italian and Germany’s next match is going to be against England.
It seems Italians with green eyes got them from their German ancestors and according to canon Lovino has green eyes…
Federico II is Frederick II of Hohenstaufen of Swabia, Holy Roman Emperor. He had birth in Jesi, Italy, he was the grandchild of Friedrich I, Barbarossa and child of Costanza d’Altavilla, queen of Sicily. He lived for long time in Sicily and some said it’s possible he felt more Italian than German. Under him south Italy lived its golden age and it seems he was very appreciated by southern Italians. The same couldn’t be said for north Italy which fought against him and refused to submit to him. According to some south’s decadence began short after Federico II’s death when south began again land of conquest. Due to all this I think Romano liked Federico very much even if he was technically a German, though Veneziano didn’t share his feelings. Oh, and in case you don’t know it seems Federico liked the Teutonic Order and gave it land in south Italy whose people, at the time, seemed to appreciate the Teutonic Order as well.
Veneziano would have liked to fix things with Germany but really he didn’t feel up for it.
If you’re wondering why I hadn’t translated the term ‘brother’ it’s because in Italian, when you call your brother, you do it using his name. Usually when an Italian calls someone brother he’s either a friar or talking to a friar.
‘Veneziano’ in Neapolitan should be translated as ‘Veneziàn’. I used ‘Venezià’ as well as ‘Felicià’ because in my head canon they are just Romano’s pet names for his brother. Same goes for ‘Lovì’.
During the semi final of the 1970 World Cup on 17 June 1970 West Germany and Italy played what was called the ‘Game of the Century’ (Partita del secolo/Jahrhundertspiel) at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City. Italy won 4-3 after five goals were scored in extra time, the only FIFA World Cup game in which this has happened. At the Aztec Stadium in Mexico City there is a monument commemorating this match. On a plaque is engraved a sentence which says: ‘The Azteca Stadium pays homage to the National Teams of Italy (4) and Germany (3), who starred in the 1970 FIFA World Cup, the "Game of the Century". June 17th 1970.’ Sadly the stress and effort spent in winning the match proved to be the undoing of the Italian team in the subsequent final game, where Italy was roundly defeated by Brazil 4 goals to one and lost the chance to have permanently assigned the Jules Rimet Trophy (it would go at the team who would win World Cup for three times… and back then both Italy and Brazil had already won 2 times…).
Dictionary:
Grand frère France (French) ‘Big brother France’
Sceneggiate napoletane (Italian) ‘Neapolitan Scripted representation’
Translation of the quotes in Neapolitan (Warning: they contain quite a bit of cursing and bad words):
(Also, mind you, Neapolitan isn’t Italian. It’s written and spoken differently (and I’ve heard it also has different grammar rules). Don’t mix them up. Also northern have their own dialects (and their own ways to curse people) which are different from Neapolitan or Italian. Again, don’t mix them up.)
Guarda! Guarda! Look! Look!
Nun basta chillo scassacazzo Francese ce vule male pecché ce arrubammo ‘a copp d’ ‘o munno int’ ‘o 2006! It’s not enough that annoying French hates us because we stole from him the World Cup in 2006! [‘Scassacazzo’ literally ‘cock breaker’ basically ‘very annoying guy’. In case you hadn’t figured out it’s definitely a vulgar insult]
Nun basta ‘a muzzarella tuòsseca! The toxic mozzarella isn’t bad enough!
Guarda che redigetté chisto faccia ‘e merda Germanése int’ ‘o jurnale! Look what this shit face of a German is having his people write in his newspaper! [‘Faccia ‘e merda’ usually imply you’re cheeky, impudent, insolent and that I can’t stand looking at you]
Guarda che redigetté chisto cornute Germanése che tiene ‘na patàna pe’ capa! Look what this horned German who has a potato in place of his head is having his people write! [‘Cornute’ which literally means ‘horned’ usually means ‘guy whose wife/girlfriend is having sex with another man’ but it’s generally used as an insult regardless if you’re married/have a girlfriend]
Chisto strunze tien ‘na cazzimm esaggerata! This piece of shit is exaggeratedly cruel/mean/unfair/asshole. [‘Cazzimm’ seems to be a Neapolitan word for which there’s not an exact translation in Italian… so consider my translation as a vague approximation of what it means]
Chisto ci vo’ muorti! This one wants us dead!
Venezià, la saie na cosa? Dimane è a jurnata mondiale da raccolta da munnezza. Faje del bene, fatte truvà vicino o bidone! Veneziano, do you know something? Tomorrow is World Day of waste collection. Do a nice thing, allow others to find you near the dumpster!
Strunze! Abbraccaite ‘o cesso e canta ‘Nu so degno di te’! Piece of shit! Hug a water closet and sing ‘I don’t deserve you’!’ [By the way ‘Non son degno di te’ (I don’t deserve you) is an Italian song sung by Gianni Morandi a north Italian singer. ‘Strunze’ literally ‘piece of shit’ is usually used to mean ‘bastard’ or ‘idiot’]
Nun te lo dicette già che chi se fa’ e cazz suoj camp cient ann?” Didn’t I tell you already that who mind his own business lives one hundred years? [Another old saying meaning it’s healthier to mind your own business. ‘Cazz suoj’ literally ‘his own dicks’ means his own business]
Chiagnè, Venezià. Chiagnè quanto ‘e voglia. Cry, Veneziano. Cry as much as you want.
Chi chiagn fott a chi rìr. The one who cries get more of the ones who laugh [Old saying meaning who complains get more than who’s happy of his condition. ‘Fott’ literally ‘screw’].
Venezià, tu sì nu buono guaglione ma sient’amme tu tieni na capa chiù tòsta d’ ‘o mulo. Veneziano, you are a good boy but, listen to me, you’re more stubborn than a mule.
Mo ‘o cazzèo chisto. Now I’m going to reproach this guy.
Ce vide bbuono? Faccia ‘e merda, ce vide bbuono?” Can you see well? Shit face can you see well?
Ce vide bbuono? E vide e nu ce rompé ‘e pal-… The complete quote would have been ‘Ce vide bbuono? E vide e nu ce rompé ‘e palle’ which means ‘Can you see well? Then see not to break our balls’ [It’s kind of a word play based on the fact that ‘vedere’ means ‘to see’ but also ‘to take care of’. Also ‘Breaking my/our balls’ means to bug someone so basically Romano is telling Germany not to bug them.]
È meglio ave’ a che fa cu Satana che cu tte, strunze! It’s better to deal with Satan than with you, piece of shit!
A cunfronte a te n’anguilla e comme a carta vetrata! Compared to you an eel is like sandpaper! [Another old way to say. The whole sentence would be ‘Si na perzona talmente viscida che a cunfronte a te n’anguilla e comme a carta vetrata’ which means ‘You’re so slimy that compared to you an eel is like sandpaper!’]
T’adda fa a fine do piecure a Pasca! You’ve to meet the same end of a sheep during Easter! [In short you’ve to die…]
Ma quande t’accatte na valigia chiena e cazze tuoi? When will you get a case full of your own dicks? [Meaning ‘mind your own business’]
Ma nun sputà ‘ncielo ca ‘nfaccia te torna! But don’t spit in the sky because it will fall back into your face [Old way to say meaning ‘don’t do something mean because you’ll suffer of the consequences after’]
Ma chisto è ‘o cane ca mozzeca ‘o stracciat! But this is a dog that bites who has his cloche already ripped [Old saying meaning ‘he’s someone who goes against who’s already being in a bad condition’]
‘O fetiente che nun tene cuscienza e nun tene rispetto! A bastard who has no soul or respect!
Capisc’a ‘mmé, strunze, nun c’è n’ata vota pe’ nuje chesto anno! Simmo fòra! Understand me, piece of shit, there’s not another time for us in this year! We’re out!
Nun m’aggio piglià a mal? I don’t have to take it bad?
Paziamme n’ata vota? Pazziamme a nascondino ia... scumpare e nu te fa truvà cchiù! We’ll play another time? Let’s play hide and seek now… disappear and never let yourself be found!
Ma va fancul a tte e a chi nun to dice! But go to hell you and everyone else that doesn’t tell you this!
Lovì… iamme Lovì, iamme ia! Lovino… let’s go Lovino, let’s go now
Iammuncenne. Iamme a casa, Felicià. Let’s go. Let’s go back home, Feliciano.
Cap ‘e patàna, nu piglia’ assai sole sta stagione, ‘o sole assecche e strunze. Potato head, don’t remain too much time under the sun this summer, the sun dry up the pieces of shit.
Venezià, sient’amme, tu tieni na capa proprio tòsta, è ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero? Veneziano, listen, you are really stubborn, it’s true, isn’t it?
E chiagnè si tu vuò chiagnè, sceme! And cry if you want to cry, idiot! [‘sceme’ basically ‘idiot’]
‘O saccio, ‘o saccio. ‘O saccio bene. I know, I know. I know well
Mo’ chiagné e statte cuièto che doppe tanto male tiempo, adda venì ‘o bontiempo! Now cry and don’t worry because after the bad weather should come the good weather! [‘doppe tanto male tiempo, adda venì ‘o bontiempo’ it’s another old saying meaning after a bad time there should be a good time]
N’ata vota gli facimmo videre nuje comme se iuca cu’ ‘o pallone, Venezià! È ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero? The next time we’ll show them how to play football, Veneziano! It’s true, isn’t it?
N’ata vota vincemmo ‘o munniale e facimmo pure n’ata partita d’ ‘o seculo! The next time we’ll win the World Cup and we’ll also play another match of the century!
Don’t grumble silently, please let me know what you’re thinking of this!
Send me your comments!
Author: J.J.
Warning: Unbetaed and no, I do not speak Neapolitan so I might have made mistakes using it... And yes Romano speaks only in Neapolitan and curses and insult everyone. Especially Germany. But well, you’ve to understand Neapolitan to understand what he’s saying or read the translations at the bottom.
Notes: Inspired by Italy’s loss, being told German newspapers were happy about it and the last press declarations the players and their coach did. Oh yes, and also by blue mozzarellas…
Characters: North Italy Veneziano (Feliciano Vargas), South Italy Romano (Lovino Vargas), Germany (Ludwig).
Time: 25/June/2010 (In case you’re wondering Italy lost its match on the 24th but the players took the fly to get back home on the 25th).
Disclaimer: "Axis Powers Hetalia" belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.
Hey, do I own something here? Oh yes, I own the plot and a sensible heart which would surely break if you give me harsh reviews... so please be honest but nice ok?
Summary: Italy is out of the World Cup.
His brother was still crying, still crying as he yelled and trashed the room trying to vent out his pain. He eyed him distractedly, unable to focus well on him from where he sat motionless and wished he could stop thinking and just… vent, like his brother was doing.
He wished he could stop thinking, stop thinking at how that failure was all his fault, at how he should have played better, trained harder, figured out better strategies, used better players, fought harder, did something, anything, not to lose like that.
They had been the previous champions and now… they were nothing and probably the whole world was laughing at them. Silly little Italians who thought they were good at something but, in truth, they couldn’t manage anything. Silly, little Italians.
His brother made more noise, he hoped absently Romano wouldn’t damage anything; they really didn’t need to also have to repay something before leaving. He rubbed his temples as he fought down an unpleasant headache and tried not to think at all the other things they had damaged that day, like their reputation, their pride, their…
“Guarda!” Romano yelled in a mix between indignation, fury and outrage, tears still in his eyes, waving under his nose some printed papers. “Guarda! Nun basta chillo scassacazzo Francese ce vule male pecché ce arrubammo ‘a copp d’ ‘o munno int’ ‘o 2006! Nun basta ‘a muzzarella tuòsseca! Guarda che redigetté chisto faccia ‘e merda Germanése int’ ‘o jurnale! Guarda che redigetté chisto cornute Germanése che tiene ‘na patàna pe’ capa! Chisto strunze tien ‘na cazzimm esaggerata! Chisto ci vo’ muorti!”
Veneziano took the papers slowly, his eyes falling on the ‘Out who ruined our dream in 2006’ before closing as he let the papers fall, refusing to read any further. No, he really didn’t want to read, didn’t need to know this. He sighed. So he did wrong in 2006 because he won and now he did wrong because he lost? Why did he always end up in no win situations?
Romano went on ranting, cursing Germany in all the dialects of his country, but more than anything, cursing himself and Veneziano.
They were the ones who had lost; after all, they deserved to be cursed.
After all Italians were good at getting angry at themselves or at the others. They could get so angry, totally furious, to the point they were almost scary if not downright murderous. Then, once they had gotten all their anger out, they could move forward, forgive and forget. Kind of.
Someone had told him that was why he failed at wars. To be good at it getting angry wasn’t enough, it lasted enough, it didn’t give enough strength, he had to be capable to hate his own enemies and hating… wasn’t in his style.
Football though… it wasn’t war. They could be good at it. Only evidently not in that day.
He stood tiredly and began to pack their things. They were out, there was no point to dwell on it further, it was time to get back home… to get back home and explain to his people, their people, why their hopes for victory had been crushed so early, why they had failed so badly, why they had played so pitifully.
Romano kept on crying, on yelling, on using dialect to express himself, rambling and gesticulating angrily in hope to make his thoughts more clears.
Veneziano tried to cut him out from his world as he continued his work calmly. So they had lost. It wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last time. It was just a game and some people were bound to lose it. Other people had lost it. Grand frère France had lost too. No point into making such a fuss. After all it was just a silly, meaningless World Cup. It wasn’t the end of the world if they were to lose it. It wasn’t the end of the world if they lost shamefully to one of the few things they were good at. It would just feel like it for a while.
Then he would move on and things would continue as they always had.
He was an expert in moving on after all, he did so for almost all his life.
Romano yelled at him then, how could he be so calm, did he not care at all they were out, that they had been… Veneziano let him yell until Romano finally paused and looked at him with an exasperated expression.
“Venezià, la saie na cosa? Dimane è a jurnata mondiale da raccolta da munnezza,” he began with a slightly calmer tone. “Faje del bene, fatte truvà vicino o bidone!” he continued yelling, his voice rising again. “Strunze! Abbraccaite ‘o cesso e canta ‘Nu so degno di te’!” then finally, he was finished as he threw violently his own suitcase on the bed and began to threw in it his clothes, without even bothering to fold them, still muttering curses against… the whole world really, himself included, but at least he was calming down. His brother would get over this soon, or, at least, Veneziano hoped so… wanted to hope so. Because deep down he knew Romano was strong and he would always manage no matter what. No matter what.
He continued on his work then stared at his suitcase with dismay as he realized he had finished preparing it. He… he couldn’t have finished already, he thought, no, he should still have something to do, he hadn’t finished, he wouldn’t stop now, he… he tried to set his things even better, to smooth the clothes inside, to… he wasn’t sure what but he knew he was wasting time, his work was done, time to close the suitcase and leave and…
He closed his eyes as he forced his body to move, as he forced himself to close the suitcase, and opened them again as he secured it with a locket, his fingers oddly shaking a bit and now he was done, he was done, he…
He closed his eyes again, took a large breath, opened them, turned toward Romano, smiled as if nothing was wrong or tried to.
“Brother, are you done?” he asked seeing his brother watching at his messily filled suitcase.
“Nun te lo dicette già che chi se fa’ e cazz suoj camp cient ann?” Romano muttered, closing the suitcase angrily. ‘Didn’t I tell you already that who mind his own business lives one hundred years?’ Veneziano mentally translated with more difficulty than usual as he wished his brother would go back speaking Italian. He normally liked the sound of Romano’s dialects but, at the moment, he was too tired to manage to translate them easily, yet he didn’t complained. Romano was still upset and complaining would only make things worse. So no complains, just smiles and calm behaviour.
“Yes, you did,” he agreed obediently, still smiling stubbornly. His brother turned to glare at him, his eyes still wet and puffy, though he wasn’t crying anymore, then frowned even more and with few quick steps, moved in front of Veneziano. Veneziano stared at him, confused, and Romano merely took Veneziano’s face in between his hands, holding it as he rested his forehead against Veneziano’s gently.
“Chiagnè, Venezià. Chiagnè quanto ‘e voglia,” he told him in a gruff manner, which was the tone his brother used with him when he was trying to be affectionate. “Chi chiagn fott a chi rìr.” he reminded him.
‘Cry, Veneziano. Cry as much as you want. The one who cries get more of the ones who laugh.’
Veneziano stared at him, wishing he could believe it but north was different from south, north was sure tears couldn’t fix things, nothing could fix things now, and he officially despised the ‘sceneggiate napoletane’ south did, they were… excessive, an act, embarrassing… and yet… maybe he would feel better if he could express his own feelings like that, because not that it was a big deal what had happened but… but… but it was all his fault and he… he… He closed his eyes and hugged his brother, leaned his head on his shoulder but tears didn’t come, stuck somewhere inside him, trapped into a net made of guilt and obligations.
It was all his fault, he had shamed everyone, he had to leave, he had to apologize, everyone else was probably glad they got rid of him, of them, maybe they were making fun of him, of them, right in that moment, his people was probably so angry… so disappointed… he was so angry… so disappointed… so despe-…
He swallowed, refused to think at it, hid behind his business mentality, behind the façade of this being just a job that turned out bad, after all he didn’t really hope to win, he wasn’t persuaded they (he) did the right choices on the matter of the coach and the players, he… he wanted to go home, he wanted to go home, he thought, among his people, among his people who was probably angry and sad like him but… was his people, was like him, would feel the same as him, understand him. Sort of.
There was nothing for him in Africa so he didn’t want to stay here a moment longer.
“We’ll better go or we’ll be late for the plane,” he said and thought his voice sounded… weird… stuck… he made sure to smile as he parted from his brother. Romano looked at him with a slight frown then sighed.
“Venezià, tu sì nu buono guaglione ma sient’amme tu tieni na capa chiù tòsta d’ ‘o mulo,” his brother stated as he patted his shoulder. Veneziano took it as a compliment as he kept on smiling. After all it was the fact that he was ‘more stubborn than a mule’ that had always allowed him to move forward and get what he wanted… or try to and now he needed to move forward so he kept on smiling as he and his brother reached out for their suitcases, he kept on smiling as they moved toward the exit of their hotel bedroom, his brother’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, he kept on smiling as they opened the door and walked out of the room, he kept on smiling as his brother froze next to him and no, maybe he wasn’t really smiling, maybe he had frozen too and his smile as well as his gaze fell on Germany, standing in the corridor.
He had no idea why Germany was there, maybe he was merely passing by, yes, he probably was, because if he’d come to pity him, reproach him, made fun of him or try to cheer him up Veneziano was sure as hell it wouldn’t improve things so it was better if he were to never find out.
He knew he should be a spot and do something nice like… wish Germany good luck for his next match but words were stuck along with his tears, besides Germany’s next match was going to be against England and England’s coach was an Italian and so he was partial toward England. Well, England’s coach really, but the result didn’t change. Not that he hoped England would defeat Germany, Germany was strong, it wasn’t like Italy, it hadn’t been kicked out by the World Cup so early but still…
Anyway maybe he should congratulate with Germany because Germany had won and was going to progress to the knockout stage, the knockout stage at which he wasn’t allowed to take part but, as he thought that, he felt his tongue was even more tied so maybe he should let Germany start the discussion since Germany was beginning to open his mouth, only he really wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what he had to say so maybe he should anticipate him but… but… but his brother anticipated them both, letting go of his shoulder and moving closer to Germany and Veneziano knew this was going to mean troubles and they really shouldn’t cause a commotion, their situation was bad enough but Romano was already too close to Germany and pointing at him, looking so very angry with his mo ‘o cazzèo chisto expression and…
“Ce vide bbuono? Faccia ‘e merda, ce vide bbuono?” he asked in a hissing tone and Germany blinked in confusion as he looked at his brother. More or less Germany could understand Italian but Romano’s dialects were out of his league, especially when Romano was so angry. Evidently Romano realized it too but the fact he switched to Italian didn’t really improve the situation though it allowed Germany to understand his words. “Can you see well, shit face? Ce vide bbuono?” he repeated switching back to dialect because evidently he felt Italian couldn’t express well enough his own feelings. Germany nodded, though he evidently didn’t see why Romano was asking him that. For a moment, not even Veneziano knew it, then, as his brother went on… “E vide e nu ce rompé ‘e pal-…” he hurried to cover his mouth so that the sentence remained unfinished.
“Brother, we’ll be late for the check in,” he stated still stubbornly smiling as if nothing was wrong while he tried to pull a recalcitrant Romano along. “See you soon, Ludwig!” he added cheerfully, using Germany’s human name since they were in public, and maybe that wasn’t nice but, really, he couldn’t think of anything else. Beside Romano was still trying to yell at Germany.
“È meglio ave’ a che fa cu Satana che cu tte, strunze! A cunfronte a te n’anguilla e comme a carta vetrata! T’adda fa a fine do piecure a Pasca! ”
Not that Germany or anyone around them could understand what his brother was saying, though it was pretty easy to guess it wasn’t nice and his loud voice was attracting attention, unwanted attention.
Veneziano could already see the titles on the foreigner newspapers.
‘Italians are, as usual, too loud and whiny with no sense of pride and doesn’t know how to lose with some dignity.’
He closed his eyes and longed to be back home. Not that once at home things would be better but, at least, he would be back at home.
Germany called him, he didn’t know why in the same way he didn’t know why he paused and turned. He wanted to believe Germany wasn’t the type who would gloat on his… situation but there wasn’t something Germany could say to make his situation any better after all. Evidently not even Germany knew what he wanted to say, since he just repeated his name then paused then…
“Next time it’ll be better,” he offered, which was probably meant to be encouraging and had been what Veneziano had been trying to repeat to himself all along but, hearing it from Germany only reminded him it was finished, his World Cup had ended, he was out and he won’t have the chance to prove he was worth of something now and… and his brother tensed further, swallowed then looked at him and then at Germany and then…
“Ma quande t’accatte na valigia chiena e cazze tuoi? Ma nun sputà ‘ncielo ca ‘nfaccia te torna!” Romano told Germany angrily trying to free himself from Veneziano’s hold. “Ma chisto è ‘o cane ca mozzeca ‘o stracciat! ‘O fetiente che nun tene cuscienza e nun tene rispetto! Capisc’a ‘mmé, strunze, nun c’è n’ata vota pe’ nuje chesto anno! Simmo fòra! Fuori! Out!” he yelled as loud as he could, panting slightly, his body trembling. Veneziano didn’t let go of him, actually he was clinging to him even tighter, though he lowered his head sadly. He really, really didn’t need that. He really…
Germany tried to say something more, probably to explain he didn’t mean anything bad with his words, which was a lost cause since he was talking to Romano and somehow Romano was always going to take the wrong way whatever Germany would say and, in fact, his brother didn’t even let him end his sentence.
“Nun m’aggio piglià a mal? Paziamme n’ata vota? Pazziamme a nascondino ia... scumpare e nu te fa truvà cchiù! Ma va fancul a tte e a chi nun to dice!” he yelled, uncaring of how Germany couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying.
Veneziano hated when his brother acted like that, embarrassing him to no end, uncaring of how everyone else around them wouldn’t understand, uncaring of how even Veneziano had a hard time understanding his behaviour.
Veneziano loved when his brother acted like that, defending his own opinions and feelings hotly and without shame, defending him too because they were family and one of the things Romano truly held dear beyond his gruff behaviour was family.
It was… really complicate.
Also… Veneziano could feel his brother trembling though, as if he too was trying to hide his pain behind his rage.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly in his, no _their_ mother tongue, his smile lost somewhere in all that yelling. Then, as his brother didn’t even look like he had heard him, he pulled his arm lightly and tried again. “Lovì… iamme Lovì, iamme ia!” he tried in a slightly louder tone, forcing himself to use the Neapolitan dialect his brother was so fond of though he was sure he didn’t say it right. It worked though as Romano turned toward him, stared at him with those green eyes of him that, due to a bizarre joke of fate, were an inheritance of those German who had resided in his land, a memory of Federico II whom he had loved as much as he now said he hated all the Germans. Or maybe he didn’t hate them. It was just they weren’t Federico.
“Iammuncenne. Iamme a casa, Felicià,” his brother agreed thought he evidently couldn’t leave without throwing a last glare to Germany and a last parting word. “Cap ‘e patàna, nu piglia’ assai sole sta stagione, ‘o sole assecche e strunze,” he stated before returning to wrap his arm around Veneziano, pulling him close to himself. Veneziano leaned into his hold, feeling vaguely better as he threw a quick glance behind himself. He should pack things up with Germany, after all he didn’t deserve to be cursed the way Romano had done, after all it wasn’t Germany’s fault if some of his people still held a grudge against him and his brother and felt the need to vent it, or maybe it was just a translation problem, maybe those articles wouldn’t sound as bad as it had done had Veneziano be a German, maybe he was simply too tired and upset and angry at himself to think straight and his luggage felt so heavy…
“See you again, Ludwig,” he said anyway, forcing another of his careless smiles, and it was all he was capable to come up with and maybe it was more polite than ‘See you soon’.
“See you again, Feliciano. Lovino,” Germany replied nodding firmly and Feliciano thought that yes, Germany probably didn’t mean to hurt his feeling or making him feel worse. He should phone him, he should phone him when he’ll feel a little bit more lively and… well, pack things up. And he should watch his match. Though he was definitely going to root for Fabio… well, Fabio’s team, he was sure Germany would play well and he liked to watch good football matches.
Maybe Romano too would watch it with him. Maybe. Or maybe not considering while they were leaving he was showing his middle finger to Germany. Evidently he wasn’t ready yet to apologize for what he said. Actually, knowing Romano, he likely would never be.
Veneziano tried to keep his mind busy, tried not to think at the present, tried to think only at the future though all the time he took to reach the airport, do the check in and finally climb on his fly. He latched his seatbelt, listening as Romano cursed and complained he didn’t want to latch his own, they both flirted without too much enthusiasm with a pretty hostess that tried to persuade Romano to latch it. Then, as she left them Romano crossed his arms in front of himself with a slight frown, his fingers digging a little too deep into his arms while Veneziano attempted to keep up a stereotyped conversation about some relatives they had in Africa and places in Africa he had visited and… and then he silenced himself as the plane began moving and kept silent as it increased speed and then… then he left the ground, then he began to fly, fly away from Africa, fly toward Italy, fly toward home.
He closed his eyes sighing and hugged himself as his brother was doing. He swallowed and found himself sniffling slightly. Probably he was coming up with a cold since he was also trembling. He felt startled when he felt his brother resting his hand on his cheek.
“Venezià, sient’amme, tu tieni na capa proprio tòsta, è ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero?” Romano asked him in a fond tone. “E chiagnè si tu vuò chiagnè, sceme!”
Cry, if you want to cry.
It wasn’t that simple, he couldn’t he… he… he sniffled again, unwillingly letting tears escaping from his eyes.
“Brother…” he whimpered. “Brother, we’re out, we lost and… and there’s nothing we can do or say, it won’t change and… and…” … and Romano pulled him close, letting him cry against his shoulder, hugging him tightly.
“‘O saccio, ‘o saccio. ‘O saccio bene,” his brother answered and Veneziano could feel he too was trembling, he too was crying. “Mo’ chiagné e statte cuièto che doppe tanto male tiempo, adda venì ‘o bontiempo! N’ata vota gli facimmo videre nuje comme se iuca cu’ ‘o pallone, Venezià! È ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero? N’ata vota vincemmo ‘o munniale e facimmo pure n’ata partita d’ ‘o seculo!” his brother promised and Feliciano smiled as Romano said so.
‘I know, I know. I know well. Now cry and don’t worry because after the bad times there should come the good times! The next time we’ll show them how to play football, Veneziano! It’s true, isn’t it? The next time we’ll win the World Cup and we’ll also play another match of the century!’
“Yes. Next time we’ll do it!” he agreed. He’ll have to apologize though, once at home he’ll have to apologize to everyone and listen as they would yell and complain and then… then he’ll need a holiday probably but then… then he would start preparing for the next time. Next time he’ll do better. They’ll do better. That was for sure. Because now the both of them truly wanted to win and they both had, as Romano put it ‘a capa proprio tòsta so there was no way they couldn’t do it. They’ll win. For sure.
For sure.
… and if they didn’t there would always be another World Cup, wouldn’t it?
Historical Notes, quotes, references and what else:
Dictionary:
Grand frère France (French) ‘Big brother France’
Sceneggiate napoletane (Italian) ‘Neapolitan Scripted representation’
Translation of the quotes in Neapolitan (Warning: they contain quite a bit of cursing and bad words):
(Also, mind you, Neapolitan isn’t Italian. It’s written and spoken differently (and I’ve heard it also has different grammar rules). Don’t mix them up. Also northern have their own dialects (and their own ways to curse people) which are different from Neapolitan or Italian. Again, don’t mix them up.)
Guarda! Guarda! Look! Look!
Nun basta chillo scassacazzo Francese ce vule male pecché ce arrubammo ‘a copp d’ ‘o munno int’ ‘o 2006! It’s not enough that annoying French hates us because we stole from him the World Cup in 2006! [‘Scassacazzo’ literally ‘cock breaker’ basically ‘very annoying guy’. In case you hadn’t figured out it’s definitely a vulgar insult]
Nun basta ‘a muzzarella tuòsseca! The toxic mozzarella isn’t bad enough!
Guarda che redigetté chisto faccia ‘e merda Germanése int’ ‘o jurnale! Look what this shit face of a German is having his people write in his newspaper! [‘Faccia ‘e merda’ usually imply you’re cheeky, impudent, insolent and that I can’t stand looking at you]
Guarda che redigetté chisto cornute Germanése che tiene ‘na patàna pe’ capa! Look what this horned German who has a potato in place of his head is having his people write! [‘Cornute’ which literally means ‘horned’ usually means ‘guy whose wife/girlfriend is having sex with another man’ but it’s generally used as an insult regardless if you’re married/have a girlfriend]
Chisto strunze tien ‘na cazzimm esaggerata! This piece of shit is exaggeratedly cruel/mean/unfair/asshole. [‘Cazzimm’ seems to be a Neapolitan word for which there’s not an exact translation in Italian… so consider my translation as a vague approximation of what it means]
Chisto ci vo’ muorti! This one wants us dead!
Venezià, la saie na cosa? Dimane è a jurnata mondiale da raccolta da munnezza. Faje del bene, fatte truvà vicino o bidone! Veneziano, do you know something? Tomorrow is World Day of waste collection. Do a nice thing, allow others to find you near the dumpster!
Strunze! Abbraccaite ‘o cesso e canta ‘Nu so degno di te’! Piece of shit! Hug a water closet and sing ‘I don’t deserve you’!’ [By the way ‘Non son degno di te’ (I don’t deserve you) is an Italian song sung by Gianni Morandi a north Italian singer. ‘Strunze’ literally ‘piece of shit’ is usually used to mean ‘bastard’ or ‘idiot’]
Nun te lo dicette già che chi se fa’ e cazz suoj camp cient ann?” Didn’t I tell you already that who mind his own business lives one hundred years? [Another old saying meaning it’s healthier to mind your own business. ‘Cazz suoj’ literally ‘his own dicks’ means his own business]
Chiagnè, Venezià. Chiagnè quanto ‘e voglia. Cry, Veneziano. Cry as much as you want.
Chi chiagn fott a chi rìr. The one who cries get more of the ones who laugh [Old saying meaning who complains get more than who’s happy of his condition. ‘Fott’ literally ‘screw’].
Venezià, tu sì nu buono guaglione ma sient’amme tu tieni na capa chiù tòsta d’ ‘o mulo. Veneziano, you are a good boy but, listen to me, you’re more stubborn than a mule.
Mo ‘o cazzèo chisto. Now I’m going to reproach this guy.
Ce vide bbuono? Faccia ‘e merda, ce vide bbuono?” Can you see well? Shit face can you see well?
Ce vide bbuono? E vide e nu ce rompé ‘e pal-… The complete quote would have been ‘Ce vide bbuono? E vide e nu ce rompé ‘e palle’ which means ‘Can you see well? Then see not to break our balls’ [It’s kind of a word play based on the fact that ‘vedere’ means ‘to see’ but also ‘to take care of’. Also ‘Breaking my/our balls’ means to bug someone so basically Romano is telling Germany not to bug them.]
È meglio ave’ a che fa cu Satana che cu tte, strunze! It’s better to deal with Satan than with you, piece of shit!
A cunfronte a te n’anguilla e comme a carta vetrata! Compared to you an eel is like sandpaper! [Another old way to say. The whole sentence would be ‘Si na perzona talmente viscida che a cunfronte a te n’anguilla e comme a carta vetrata’ which means ‘You’re so slimy that compared to you an eel is like sandpaper!’]
T’adda fa a fine do piecure a Pasca! You’ve to meet the same end of a sheep during Easter! [In short you’ve to die…]
Ma quande t’accatte na valigia chiena e cazze tuoi? When will you get a case full of your own dicks? [Meaning ‘mind your own business’]
Ma nun sputà ‘ncielo ca ‘nfaccia te torna! But don’t spit in the sky because it will fall back into your face [Old way to say meaning ‘don’t do something mean because you’ll suffer of the consequences after’]
Ma chisto è ‘o cane ca mozzeca ‘o stracciat! But this is a dog that bites who has his cloche already ripped [Old saying meaning ‘he’s someone who goes against who’s already being in a bad condition’]
‘O fetiente che nun tene cuscienza e nun tene rispetto! A bastard who has no soul or respect!
Capisc’a ‘mmé, strunze, nun c’è n’ata vota pe’ nuje chesto anno! Simmo fòra! Understand me, piece of shit, there’s not another time for us in this year! We’re out!
Nun m’aggio piglià a mal? I don’t have to take it bad?
Paziamme n’ata vota? Pazziamme a nascondino ia... scumpare e nu te fa truvà cchiù! We’ll play another time? Let’s play hide and seek now… disappear and never let yourself be found!
Ma va fancul a tte e a chi nun to dice! But go to hell you and everyone else that doesn’t tell you this!
Lovì… iamme Lovì, iamme ia! Lovino… let’s go Lovino, let’s go now
Iammuncenne. Iamme a casa, Felicià. Let’s go. Let’s go back home, Feliciano.
Cap ‘e patàna, nu piglia’ assai sole sta stagione, ‘o sole assecche e strunze. Potato head, don’t remain too much time under the sun this summer, the sun dry up the pieces of shit.
Venezià, sient’amme, tu tieni na capa proprio tòsta, è ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero? Veneziano, listen, you are really stubborn, it’s true, isn’t it?
E chiagnè si tu vuò chiagnè, sceme! And cry if you want to cry, idiot! [‘sceme’ basically ‘idiot’]
‘O saccio, ‘o saccio. ‘O saccio bene. I know, I know. I know well
Mo’ chiagné e statte cuièto che doppe tanto male tiempo, adda venì ‘o bontiempo! Now cry and don’t worry because after the bad weather should come the good weather! [‘doppe tanto male tiempo, adda venì ‘o bontiempo’ it’s another old saying meaning after a bad time there should be a good time]
N’ata vota gli facimmo videre nuje comme se iuca cu’ ‘o pallone, Venezià! È ‘o vero o nun è ‘o vero? The next time we’ll show them how to play football, Veneziano! It’s true, isn’t it?
N’ata vota vincemmo ‘o munniale e facimmo pure n’ata partita d’ ‘o seculo! The next time we’ll win the World Cup and we’ll also play another match of the century!
Don’t grumble silently, please let me know what you’re thinking of this!
Send me your comments!