Synthesis
by great_whatsit
When Giorgio dreamed, everything was different. He was graceful, and straight, and young, and he moved with an ease and logic that made even the simplest actions pleasurable.
In his dreams, he never played football.
+
June 30, 1976
East Rutherford, New Jersey
The locker was neat as a pin, like a place a little girl had put all her grown-up things. There were lotions, colognes and hair gels, alongside what looked like a manicure kit, all arranged carefully on the shelf. There were packs of Gauloises Bleues, stacked neatly next to an ashtray and, behind them, two bottles of Chivas Regal, one half-full and the other unopened. Hanging beneath the shelves was a blue bathrobe, almost regal in its lushness and, in the bottom of the locker, what must have been slippers -- the fanciest, softest slippers Shep had ever seen.
Wearing nothing but plastic blue flip flops, dripping wet from the shower and so wired from his debut he could actually hear his nerves buzzing, Shep looked at that locker and laughed out loud. He laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes, and he had to sit down.
There was a rumble behind him that was either a growl or a chuckle (he'd eventually learn the difference) and the locker's owner appeared, a towel around his waist and nothing on his huge, almost prehensile feet. He lifted his towel and dried himself slowly and thoroughly, watching Shep. Finally satisfied, he turned around and began what Shep could only assume was his usual, post-shower routine, a routine with so many steps he briefly wondered if it was a joke. The ease with which the routine was performed, however, instantly ended that speculation, and Shep just sat and watched, a disbelieving audience of one. Finally, lotion and cologne applied, slippers on, robe belted, he produced two glasses from his locker and carefully poured two fingers of Chivas into each.
"I am Chinaglia," he said, his strangely noble face serious as a tombstone.
So full of adrenalin and so punchy he felt like he might actually burst into tears, Shep wiped his eyes, then took the glass. He threw the bourbon back and held the glass out for a refill. Chinaglia beamed.
+
Giorgio could hear the harsh breath in his ear, feel it on his cheek. There were hands clutching at his body, a knee in his back. He kept his balance, took the ball on his chest and turned awkwardly, hearing his kit tear as he staggered away, leaving part of the shirt behind. Looking up for a split second, he struck the ball as he had time and time and time again, watching it fly across the face of goal and bend inside the far post.
He sprinted away and leapt like a child who pictures himself as something very different than he is: Glorious and inspiring in his mind, in reality a body with limbs under only the most tenuous control. The boos kept coming as he came down to earth and pumped his fist, more in anger than in joy. "Keen-al-ya!" He chanted it to himself, like an incantation. "Keen-al-ya!"
+
August 19, 1976
Tampa Bay, Florida
Chinaglia fidgeted with his cigarettes and sighed loudly, looking around the hotel room with carefully composed disgust. Ignoring Shep's protests, he got up and turned off the TV, heading toward the door.
"Shep. We have to get out of here. Now."
Shep rolled his eyes and spit into his ever-present Styrofoam cup. (Chinaglia cringed unconsciously, so Shep did it again.) "We're not going anywhere, George. We leave the hotel, we pay a fine. I can't afford to pay a fine."
"My name is Giorgio."
Shep added more Skoal to wad inside his lip.
"How much is the fine?"
"$250, man. I ain't paying $250 to go out in Tampa. George."
Chinaglia didn't answer, just pulled out his billfold and counted quickly. "There. $500. Let's go." He leaned against the door, waiting with unaccustomed patience for Shep to rouse himself and get ready.
"And it's Giorgio."
+
Giorgio couldn't even stand to look at Pele. He was wasteful with the ball, he was lazy, he was always in the way. And yet he was adored -- worshipped -- by everyone. They let him do whatever he wanted and, when things went wrong, blamed Chinaglia, even when it was Pele's fault.
He clenched his fists and kept his head down, listening in silence to the lecture for as long as he could. Finally, though, it was too much, and the mantra that had been roaring through his head escaped into the wild. "I play my way. MY WAY." And he left. No one told Chinaglia what to do.
+
March 24, 1977
Rome, Italy
Shep couldn't believe his eyes. Sophia Loren was there. Sophia Loren. But no one was looking at her, they were looking at Chinaglia. The people everyone wanted to see, each and every one of them was looking at Chinaglia. Shep's eyes were on him, too. Shep was staring. Staring at the friend who was also, it turned out, a deity; a hero of such massive proportions that everyone in Rome -- literally everyone, at least as far as Shep could tell -- not only knew who he was, but would worship the ground he walked on, if only they were given the opportunity. What Shep was watching, though, wasn't the god Chinaglia. He was watching his friend, the most hated man in the NASL, and how his friend wore his adoration.
He didn't seem happy, exactly, but he was more relaxed than Shep had ever seen him in a place like this. Usually, when the group grew beyond three or four, Chinaglia would tense up, protecting himself from the attack he knew was coming; readying himself to respond. Here, though, he was different -- he was in a place he understood and that, maybe, understood him a little. He wasn't happy, but there was a peace about him. The peace was new.
Chinaglia caught Shep watching and gave him an uncharacteristically bashful smile, shrugging his shoulders. He gestured and another bottle of champagne appeared; the waiter refilled both their glasses.
Shep sunk back into the plush cushions and tilted his head toward Chinaglia. "Why did you leave this, man? How? Everyone at home -- I mean, this is it, George. This is what we dream about, to be able to get in anywhere forever, have anything we want whenever we want it ... "
Chinaglia cut him off. "My name is Giorgio." Shep grinned and rested his head against the top of the cushion behind him, watching Chinaglia light another cigarette.
"Chinaglia does not play to be adored. Chinaglia ... I have plans.There is more to life than this." He made a gesture that encompassed the entire club and whatever lay outside. (Waiters came running, only to be shooed off, having refused yet another tip.)
Shep looked around again; looked at the money and the fame and the potential, and at the man on whom it was all focused; the only one in the place who hardly seemed to care. He didn't know if it was the champagne or the jet lag, but his head was spinning. Shep closed his eyes.
+
Giorgio stopped and screamed at Pele, pointing to where the ball should have gone. He walked back toward the top of the box, ever-present boos ringing in his ears. He was past it, he was slow, he was a luxury player. He was lazy, he was terrible in the air, he was holding the team back. He'd heard and dismissed them all, but he kept them filed in his head -- a catalog of insults for times like this one.
As the ball soared over his head, nearly past him, Giorgio rose to meet it, redirecting it beyond the keeper and into the top corner of the net. He screamed as he ran toward midfield, leaping his awkward leap and chanting his own name and hugging anyone he could find, even Pele. That would show them. For a little while, that would show them.
+
August 28, 1977
Portland, Oregon
The moment they got into the locker room, Shep leaped on top of Chinaglia and screamed in his ear for what felt like an hour. Unintelligible things, mixed with "You deserve this -- YOU," and "Geoooooorge," and "When you scored that goal, I could have kissed you," and "SO THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE." He could feel Chinaglia shaking; when he thought about it later, he realized he didn't know if it was because of laughter or tears.
Then Smitty climbed on top of Shep on top of Chinaglia, and Werner climbed on top of Smitty on top of everyone else, and they all went down in a heap. After that, Shep didn't know where anyone was for a long time, just that at some point he'd started crying, and noticed that the locker room was full of strangers, and that all the towels (along with his kit, gloves, and right boot) had been stolen.
Through the crush of bodies -- most of them either wearing suits or nothing at all, and all of them soaking wet (there had been proper showers, improper showers, fully-clothed showers, and beer and champagne baths) -- he spotted Chinaglia. Smoking a victory cigar while sipping champagne from a highball glass, he had somehow managed to hang on to his blue robe, and looked for all the world like a cartoon king, surrounded by his soaking, naked, simple-minded subjects. A long-suffering, uptight king who wasn't always quite as fierce as he seemed.
At first, Shep thought it was the giant, goofy grin that had temporarily deprived Chinaglia of his ferocity. Gradually, though, he realized it was something bigger than that; something broader. It wasn't just winning, it was triumph; it was being right. Vindication suited Chinaglia.
Shep bulldozed his way unsteadily through the crowd, stopping every step or two to be congratulated, or kissed, or doused in beer, or given a paper cup full of champagne. Eventually, much worse for wear, he saw blue.
"It suits you, you know."
Chinaglia cocked his head and grinned around his cigar, pointing to his ear, then at the madness around them. "CAN'T HEAR. WHAT?"
"Winning. Proving people wrong. VINDICATION. This -- it suits you. I said, IT SUITS YOU."
Chinaglia's face went serious, but his eyes were absolutely alive with joy, brimming with an almost palpable delight. Free, for the moment, of whatever it was that dogged his every step, he reached out and pulled Shep against him, creating a tiny, quiet place in a room so full and loud there seemed a very real danger of explosion. "You asked me before, about 'it'? This, my friend. All of this -- right now. Now is it." He lifted the bottle of champagne he'd been guarding and poured it, carefully and deliberately, over Shep's head.
+
Shep tasted like Skoal. Skoal and beer, with a hint of sweetness from the champagne. It was disgusting.
Giorgio tasted like Chivas and Gauloises; like cigars and champagne. It was ... it was pretty great, actually.
(After a while, Giorgio decided he didn't mind the Skoal all that much.)
Notes
•The North American Soccer League (NASL) operated from 1968-1984 in a state of almost constant flux; there were many seasons after which survival was very much in question, and teams folded and moved from city to city constantly. Briefly, though, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the NASL achieved not only stability, but also success. Pele arrived in 1975 and, when dozens of big names followed him to the States (Carlos Alberto, Franz Beckenbauer, Johan Cruyff and George Best are just a few examples), the attendance and quality of play both skyrocketed. The New York Cosmos were the glamorous, international face of the league, winning titles, regularly drawing crowds of 60,000-70,000, and touring the world every off-season, playing foreign national teams and clubs including Lazio, Barcelona and Bayern Munich.
•There's a bio post and picspam on Giorgio Chinaglia here. In brief, he spent eight years at Lazio, leading them to their first Scudetto in the 1973-1974 season. He remains the only Lazio player to lead Serie A in scoring and, when the club turned 100 in 2000, supporters chose him as their best-ever player. He joined the Cosmos in 1976 and spent eight years with them, setting the league record with 242 goals in 254 games. Because he spent much of his youth in Wales, he spoke fluent, vaguely Welsh-accented English when he arrived in New York.
As he was retiring, Chinaglia bought controlling interests in both Lazio and the Cosmos. He ran the clubs simultaneously and with great enthusiasm, traveling regularly between New York and Rome and taking a hands-on approach in both places. His enthusiasm for the jobs, however, did not make Chinaglia good at them, and he ran both clubs into the ground: The Cosmos collapsed along with the NASL, and Lazio were relegated to Serie B.
•Shep Messing was a New Yorker and Harvard University graduate who first came to the attention of the footballing world when he made 63 saves for the US in a 0-7 loss to West Germany in the 1972 Olympics. He planned to go to law school, but the Cosmos approached him about playing professionally and, after a tryout, he signed with them in 1973. His first stint with the club was cut short when was traded after appearing nude in Viva magazine -- despite the publicity the shoot brought the team and the very desperate league, the decision was deemed "unprofessional," and Messing was shipped to Boston. He returned a year-and-a-half later, having called the Cosmos president and asked for the job after hearing about their first-choice keeper's season-ending injury. Chinaglia was there when Messing got back; they played together for the rest of the 1976 season and all of 1977. (In 1978, Messing moved on to the Oakland Stompers, a new team which made him among the highest-paid Americans in the NASL.)
•The Cosmos won their first title on August 28, 1977 in Portland, Oregon. They beat the Seattle Sounders 2-1 on a late, headed goal by Chinaglia.
Enormous thanks, as ever, to applegnat, who is the best, smartest beta alive.
When Giorgio dreamed, everything was different. He was graceful, and straight, and young, and he moved with an ease and logic that made even the simplest actions pleasurable.
In his dreams, he never played football.
+
June 30, 1976
East Rutherford, New Jersey
The locker was neat as a pin, like a place a little girl had put all her grown-up things. There were lotions, colognes and hair gels, alongside what looked like a manicure kit, all arranged carefully on the shelf. There were packs of Gauloises Bleues, stacked neatly next to an ashtray and, behind them, two bottles of Chivas Regal, one half-full and the other unopened. Hanging beneath the shelves was a blue bathrobe, almost regal in its lushness and, in the bottom of the locker, what must have been slippers -- the fanciest, softest slippers Shep had ever seen.
Wearing nothing but plastic blue flip flops, dripping wet from the shower and so wired from his debut he could actually hear his nerves buzzing, Shep looked at that locker and laughed out loud. He laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes, and he had to sit down.
There was a rumble behind him that was either a growl or a chuckle (he'd eventually learn the difference) and the locker's owner appeared, a towel around his waist and nothing on his huge, almost prehensile feet. He lifted his towel and dried himself slowly and thoroughly, watching Shep. Finally satisfied, he turned around and began what Shep could only assume was his usual, post-shower routine, a routine with so many steps he briefly wondered if it was a joke. The ease with which the routine was performed, however, instantly ended that speculation, and Shep just sat and watched, a disbelieving audience of one. Finally, lotion and cologne applied, slippers on, robe belted, he produced two glasses from his locker and carefully poured two fingers of Chivas into each.
"I am Chinaglia," he said, his strangely noble face serious as a tombstone.
So full of adrenalin and so punchy he felt like he might actually burst into tears, Shep wiped his eyes, then took the glass. He threw the bourbon back and held the glass out for a refill. Chinaglia beamed.
+
Giorgio could hear the harsh breath in his ear, feel it on his cheek. There were hands clutching at his body, a knee in his back. He kept his balance, took the ball on his chest and turned awkwardly, hearing his kit tear as he staggered away, leaving part of the shirt behind. Looking up for a split second, he struck the ball as he had time and time and time again, watching it fly across the face of goal and bend inside the far post.
He sprinted away and leapt like a child who pictures himself as something very different than he is: Glorious and inspiring in his mind, in reality a body with limbs under only the most tenuous control. The boos kept coming as he came down to earth and pumped his fist, more in anger than in joy. "Keen-al-ya!" He chanted it to himself, like an incantation. "Keen-al-ya!"
+
August 19, 1976
Tampa Bay, Florida
Chinaglia fidgeted with his cigarettes and sighed loudly, looking around the hotel room with carefully composed disgust. Ignoring Shep's protests, he got up and turned off the TV, heading toward the door.
"Shep. We have to get out of here. Now."
Shep rolled his eyes and spit into his ever-present Styrofoam cup. (Chinaglia cringed unconsciously, so Shep did it again.) "We're not going anywhere, George. We leave the hotel, we pay a fine. I can't afford to pay a fine."
"My name is Giorgio."
Shep added more Skoal to wad inside his lip.
"How much is the fine?"
"$250, man. I ain't paying $250 to go out in Tampa. George."
Chinaglia didn't answer, just pulled out his billfold and counted quickly. "There. $500. Let's go." He leaned against the door, waiting with unaccustomed patience for Shep to rouse himself and get ready.
"And it's Giorgio."
+
Giorgio couldn't even stand to look at Pele. He was wasteful with the ball, he was lazy, he was always in the way. And yet he was adored -- worshipped -- by everyone. They let him do whatever he wanted and, when things went wrong, blamed Chinaglia, even when it was Pele's fault.
He clenched his fists and kept his head down, listening in silence to the lecture for as long as he could. Finally, though, it was too much, and the mantra that had been roaring through his head escaped into the wild. "I play my way. MY WAY." And he left. No one told Chinaglia what to do.
+
March 24, 1977
Rome, Italy
Shep couldn't believe his eyes. Sophia Loren was there. Sophia Loren. But no one was looking at her, they were looking at Chinaglia. The people everyone wanted to see, each and every one of them was looking at Chinaglia. Shep's eyes were on him, too. Shep was staring. Staring at the friend who was also, it turned out, a deity; a hero of such massive proportions that everyone in Rome -- literally everyone, at least as far as Shep could tell -- not only knew who he was, but would worship the ground he walked on, if only they were given the opportunity. What Shep was watching, though, wasn't the god Chinaglia. He was watching his friend, the most hated man in the NASL, and how his friend wore his adoration.
He didn't seem happy, exactly, but he was more relaxed than Shep had ever seen him in a place like this. Usually, when the group grew beyond three or four, Chinaglia would tense up, protecting himself from the attack he knew was coming; readying himself to respond. Here, though, he was different -- he was in a place he understood and that, maybe, understood him a little. He wasn't happy, but there was a peace about him. The peace was new.
Chinaglia caught Shep watching and gave him an uncharacteristically bashful smile, shrugging his shoulders. He gestured and another bottle of champagne appeared; the waiter refilled both their glasses.
Shep sunk back into the plush cushions and tilted his head toward Chinaglia. "Why did you leave this, man? How? Everyone at home -- I mean, this is it, George. This is what we dream about, to be able to get in anywhere forever, have anything we want whenever we want it ... "
Chinaglia cut him off. "My name is Giorgio." Shep grinned and rested his head against the top of the cushion behind him, watching Chinaglia light another cigarette.
"Chinaglia does not play to be adored. Chinaglia ... I have plans.There is more to life than this." He made a gesture that encompassed the entire club and whatever lay outside. (Waiters came running, only to be shooed off, having refused yet another tip.)
Shep looked around again; looked at the money and the fame and the potential, and at the man on whom it was all focused; the only one in the place who hardly seemed to care. He didn't know if it was the champagne or the jet lag, but his head was spinning. Shep closed his eyes.
+
Giorgio stopped and screamed at Pele, pointing to where the ball should have gone. He walked back toward the top of the box, ever-present boos ringing in his ears. He was past it, he was slow, he was a luxury player. He was lazy, he was terrible in the air, he was holding the team back. He'd heard and dismissed them all, but he kept them filed in his head -- a catalog of insults for times like this one.
As the ball soared over his head, nearly past him, Giorgio rose to meet it, redirecting it beyond the keeper and into the top corner of the net. He screamed as he ran toward midfield, leaping his awkward leap and chanting his own name and hugging anyone he could find, even Pele. That would show them. For a little while, that would show them.
+
August 28, 1977
Portland, Oregon
The moment they got into the locker room, Shep leaped on top of Chinaglia and screamed in his ear for what felt like an hour. Unintelligible things, mixed with "You deserve this -- YOU," and "Geoooooorge," and "When you scored that goal, I could have kissed you," and "SO THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE." He could feel Chinaglia shaking; when he thought about it later, he realized he didn't know if it was because of laughter or tears.
Then Smitty climbed on top of Shep on top of Chinaglia, and Werner climbed on top of Smitty on top of everyone else, and they all went down in a heap. After that, Shep didn't know where anyone was for a long time, just that at some point he'd started crying, and noticed that the locker room was full of strangers, and that all the towels (along with his kit, gloves, and right boot) had been stolen.
Through the crush of bodies -- most of them either wearing suits or nothing at all, and all of them soaking wet (there had been proper showers, improper showers, fully-clothed showers, and beer and champagne baths) -- he spotted Chinaglia. Smoking a victory cigar while sipping champagne from a highball glass, he had somehow managed to hang on to his blue robe, and looked for all the world like a cartoon king, surrounded by his soaking, naked, simple-minded subjects. A long-suffering, uptight king who wasn't always quite as fierce as he seemed.
At first, Shep thought it was the giant, goofy grin that had temporarily deprived Chinaglia of his ferocity. Gradually, though, he realized it was something bigger than that; something broader. It wasn't just winning, it was triumph; it was being right. Vindication suited Chinaglia.
Shep bulldozed his way unsteadily through the crowd, stopping every step or two to be congratulated, or kissed, or doused in beer, or given a paper cup full of champagne. Eventually, much worse for wear, he saw blue.
"It suits you, you know."
Chinaglia cocked his head and grinned around his cigar, pointing to his ear, then at the madness around them. "CAN'T HEAR. WHAT?"
"Winning. Proving people wrong. VINDICATION. This -- it suits you. I said, IT SUITS YOU."
Chinaglia's face went serious, but his eyes were absolutely alive with joy, brimming with an almost palpable delight. Free, for the moment, of whatever it was that dogged his every step, he reached out and pulled Shep against him, creating a tiny, quiet place in a room so full and loud there seemed a very real danger of explosion. "You asked me before, about 'it'? This, my friend. All of this -- right now. Now is it." He lifted the bottle of champagne he'd been guarding and poured it, carefully and deliberately, over Shep's head.
+
Shep tasted like Skoal. Skoal and beer, with a hint of sweetness from the champagne. It was disgusting.
Giorgio tasted like Chivas and Gauloises; like cigars and champagne. It was ... it was pretty great, actually.
(After a while, Giorgio decided he didn't mind the Skoal all that much.)
Notes
•The North American Soccer League (NASL) operated from 1968-1984 in a state of almost constant flux; there were many seasons after which survival was very much in question, and teams folded and moved from city to city constantly. Briefly, though, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the NASL achieved not only stability, but also success. Pele arrived in 1975 and, when dozens of big names followed him to the States (Carlos Alberto, Franz Beckenbauer, Johan Cruyff and George Best are just a few examples), the attendance and quality of play both skyrocketed. The New York Cosmos were the glamorous, international face of the league, winning titles, regularly drawing crowds of 60,000-70,000, and touring the world every off-season, playing foreign national teams and clubs including Lazio, Barcelona and Bayern Munich.
•There's a bio post and picspam on Giorgio Chinaglia here. In brief, he spent eight years at Lazio, leading them to their first Scudetto in the 1973-1974 season. He remains the only Lazio player to lead Serie A in scoring and, when the club turned 100 in 2000, supporters chose him as their best-ever player. He joined the Cosmos in 1976 and spent eight years with them, setting the league record with 242 goals in 254 games. Because he spent much of his youth in Wales, he spoke fluent, vaguely Welsh-accented English when he arrived in New York.
As he was retiring, Chinaglia bought controlling interests in both Lazio and the Cosmos. He ran the clubs simultaneously and with great enthusiasm, traveling regularly between New York and Rome and taking a hands-on approach in both places. His enthusiasm for the jobs, however, did not make Chinaglia good at them, and he ran both clubs into the ground: The Cosmos collapsed along with the NASL, and Lazio were relegated to Serie B.
•Shep Messing was a New Yorker and Harvard University graduate who first came to the attention of the footballing world when he made 63 saves for the US in a 0-7 loss to West Germany in the 1972 Olympics. He planned to go to law school, but the Cosmos approached him about playing professionally and, after a tryout, he signed with them in 1973. His first stint with the club was cut short when was traded after appearing nude in Viva magazine -- despite the publicity the shoot brought the team and the very desperate league, the decision was deemed "unprofessional," and Messing was shipped to Boston. He returned a year-and-a-half later, having called the Cosmos president and asked for the job after hearing about their first-choice keeper's season-ending injury. Chinaglia was there when Messing got back; they played together for the rest of the 1976 season and all of 1977. (In 1978, Messing moved on to the Oakland Stompers, a new team which made him among the highest-paid Americans in the NASL.)
•The Cosmos won their first title on August 28, 1977 in Portland, Oregon. They beat the Seattle Sounders 2-1 on a late, headed goal by Chinaglia.
Enormous thanks, as ever, to applegnat, who is the best, smartest beta alive.