By now, most of the press had gotten used to Fiorenzo Tartoni – and actually, the other way around as well. Whilst the number of journalists fluctuated, often pending on the Tier of the competition, whilst printed on new and shiny accreditation badges, the same names could be seen day in, day out. As such, those familiar faces had lived along with Fiorenzo on his zero-to-hero story. In a way, they were the ones that wrote it as well. As they had grown used to one another, a fairly positive relationship had built. Tartoni understood enough of how the world works that answering their questions – how bizarre or outlandish they might be – did him well in the long run. And the journalists discovered that Tartoni himself had a style which some would described as chivalrous, others as gentlemanlike, a third category as open and one even had used the word ‘couth’.
His answers often tried to avoid the cliché – although he knew enough about PR to avoid any controversy. But he did, much to the surprises of the nationals who saw him as a bit distanced, try to lard it with some colorful descriptions or a pun here and there. It was not rare for him to add a bit of personal insight, just to keep them glued. It had made him fairly popular with the international press and the room had filled out well for his post-match conference. But the experienced ones noticed straight away that something was off, just by the way he walked in. It was a strut, the one from a boy who had been sent on detention. Fiorenzo Tartoni was annoyed, even a bit angered. Did he not want to be here? His mood seemed to have been like that before the first rally.
The opening question immediately hit the sweet spot.
“Fiorenzo, we noticed that there was a little conversation at the net after the game and even no handshake… What was the cause of all that?”
“He… It just disgusts me,” Fiorenzo stared in front of him, towards some point in the distance, “they’re all animals.”
Two hours earlier.
“Good luck, John!”
Officially, Fiorenzo had not been around for the Astello International. The ongoing conflict with the microcosm of the San Ortelian tennis world between the SOTA and the Tartoni family at the other hand had ensured that the tournament completely ignored the man who was, by far and large, the figurehead of the sport in the nation. His name was nowhere in the presentation, his picture wasn’t hung on banners. Fiorenzo, on the other hand, was not seen either but did follow the matches up close – and Ivanisevic had caught his attention right away. Especially the way Ivanisevic disposed himself of Giunti, known by Tartoni as a difficult opponent, impressed him. Calm, efficient and composed, it took a strong Stagnelius to keep the Baggie from his first title. Tartoni had it for his style.
“Thanks,” John reacted. He looked already to be in the zone.
Fiorenzo grinned a little – he was a fair player but a little bit of destabilizing just as they were going to be called on court for the warming-up, who could resist? A small hick from Tartoni and he remarked.
“Sorry, had a little too much for dinner. Been eating pasteis all week so had me some homemade pasta. Lasagna, to be correct.”
“Ah,” John smiled, “I like that as well. Baggieland is known for it, did you know?”
“I should give it a try,” Fiorenzo answered, but thinking ‘it probably will be decent at best’. Lasagna is a delicacy across the nation but nothing beats the one from his own grandmother, host of a small trattoria in Montelcampo.
“Yeah, lasagna,” Ivanisevic reminisced, “I could spoon out a bowl some days.”
“You could what?” Fiorenzo asked. His tone stiffened.
“Spoon out a whole bowl,” John chuckled, “but not too often of course, we’re still sportsmen.”
Tartoni didn’t reply anymore. His hand tightened its grip around his racket – losing was no longer an option.
Twenty-two years earlier.
“Nonna, can I help you?”
The little trattoria in Montelcampo was filled to the brim – no surprise as it contained only about six tables, but people had also taken up every possible spot near the bar. Many came in here over noon for a quick lunch and whilst they spoke long and loud to one another, time remained important. Hungry, rattling stomachs needed to be brought at ease for another half day of work.
Elisa Tartoni, née Capelotti, tried to ignore the two small hands tearing at the side of her dress for a second, but she couldn’t. Even if she was creating four different pasta sauces at the same time, she would not say no to her oldest grandchild, little Fiorenzo.
“Nonna, can I help you,” he repeated.
“If you want to be a big boy,” she smiled, “put the cutlery on the three tables by the window. The special of the day is lasagna, and the plate is almost ready.”
“Of course, nonna.”
With the eagerness of a young child – being a young child – Fiorenzo grabbed what he needed and rushed into the trattoria itself. Most of the visitors were people from the neighbourhood, regulars, who were used to the sight of her oldest grandchild dribbling around the place. Sometimes, they even made it a game to toss something to him for little Fiorenzo to grab: the kid had amazing reflexes. So when Fiorenzo placed everything on the tables, they were not surprised at first – but then one remarked something, and then the next.
“Nonna Tartoni, you’re not raising your grandchild properly!” one shouted and the hall laughed. Fiorenzo hesitated, was the cutlery not clean? Elisa just walked in with the first few portions as the most boisterous one repeated his plea, “Nonna Tartoni, you’re raising an animal! Look!”
Theatrically, he raised a spoon.
Elisa said nothing, hastily removed the spoons and went for the other portions. Fiorenzo did not understand, he had placed everything on the table as asked, then…
“Nonna, what is the problem?”
She turned to him and he was slightly startled. The kindest woman he knew looked to him as if he was filth for a second – but then she sank to his height and took his shoulder.
“Fiorenzo, you’re learning an important lesson today. You’re young, but from today on, you must be a big boy. We are Ortelians, proud Ortelians and they’ll eat their pasta only… Only!”
She halted, for dramatic purposes.
“Only with a fork. We’re no animals.”
