I am a professional bocci ball scout. I search parks seeking potential players for my new league, a sport that will break all attendance records. Whenever I hear loud cursing in Italian, I know bocci ball matches are close by. Most players are old, some really old. Moving carefully, each step measured, their approach and delivery remind one of creaky, ancient egrets or aging pandas for those overweight competitors.
Some wear baseball caps, fedoras, flannel shirts, zip up wind breakers. No one wears a hoodie.
No women are allowed to play. Some wives sit on benches, huddled together like shivering toads. They are not allowed to cheer or boo. Italian wives are here to suffer.
I can tell right away who might be a bocci ball star. They have grace and class and refuse to pee in the bushes. They bathe regularly and get their teeth whitened. Maybe even learn some English.
There are worse things than being a bocci ball scout. My league is starting to take shape. If I can find enough Hispanics it would create quite an ethnic rivalry. West Side Story all over again.
From what I understand, the last eight Popes were avid bocci fans. Some even played. I'll bet there's video somewhere.
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