by Bob Mitchell
Most of the locals, tourists, and phantoms can be found on the more bustling and ostentatious right bank of the Arno. But across the river is the Altr’arno, the left bank, quainter, more laid-back and tranquil. Cross the venerable Ponte Vecchio, continue on the Via Guicciardini, then hang a quick right, left, and right, and you will find yourself on the charming little Via dei Vellutini—tucked cozily between Brunelleschi’s strangely faceless Santo Spirito church and the imposing Palazzo Pitti—and looking up at the modest second-story flat of the widow Gioconda Bellezza and her thirteen-year-old son, Ugo.
Sitting by his bedroom window on this cool October day in 2043, Ugo Bellezza is mesmerized by the sight of a gorgeous little reptile—some sort of lizard or gecko perhaps?—crawling along the railing of the building’s exterior. He watches it for several minutes, lips puckered in awe. Suddenly, from nowhere, a violent flapping of black wings, a large yellow beak emerges, the unwitting reptile is plucked from its perch, and the famished bird—its motions too frenzied to identify it with any certainty—ascends in triumph with its unlucky prey.
It is Ugo’s first memorable encounter with mortality (his father died when he was barely a year old), and the fatal event edits the hyphen his mouth had been forming into a capital O.
His tummy is feeling icky, mimicking the pain the poor lizard must have felt. But the discomfort vanishes, as if magically, when Ugo comprehends the phenomenon he has just witnessed. He recalls Giglio quoting to him—maybe it was just last month?—a passage from Leonardo da Vinci’s Notebooks. All about the perfect balance that exists in nature and how everything happens for a reason. “Necessity is the mistress and guide of nature,” Giglio had recited from memory, as he looked straight into Ugo’s eyes.
Perhaps then this thought had appeared abstract and not entirely clear to Ugo. But now, he totally gets it. Animals are not mean-spirited or malicious or despicable when they kill. They just need to eat.
Virgilio Marotti, Ugo’s beloved “Giglio”—father figure, mentor, best pal, and tennis coach—enters the room and taps Ugo gently on the shoulder. The adolescent turns around and gives his coach a warm smile.
“Andiamo, ragazzo, it is time to play!” Giglio says, enunciating each syllable meaningfully. Ugo’s smile, widening, says yay yippee hurray evviva!
Ugo throws his tennis bag over his shoulder, and the two jog into the kitchen like excited schoolmarms to say good-bye to Ugo’s mother, who, at the sound of their sneakersteps, whirls around.
Gioconda Bellezza is standing by the sink, her hands dusted with flour and partially caked with clumps of bread dough. Hers are rough hands, toughened by decades of soaking, squashing, squishing, smushing, and sifting, to which she, as a Tuscan donna, has committed herself. They are also tender hands, softened by over a decade of love and nurturing, to which she, as a Tuscan mamma, has devoted herself.
These hands, dough clumps and all, wrap themselves around her Ugo and squeeze him tight. Gioconda smiles at her son, with her Mona Lisa smile that is just as knowing as but a smidge less mysterious than the one in the painting. She releases Ugo and throws a second smile Giglio’s way.
“A presto, ragazzi, see you boys for dinner,” she says, returning to her bread.
* * *
Virgilio Marotti chugs up to the parking lot at the Tennis Club Racchetta Novantanove on Via di Brozzi and deposits his beat-up 2026 Fiat 898 Veloce. The jalopy, which Giglio has tenderly named Viola, put-puts to a labored stop. Giglio finds the clunky sound slightly annoying; Ugo does not.
As they jog onto their sumptuous deep red clay outdoor court, reserved for two hours, it is the teacher who is the more noticeable of the two players. He is dashing in his canary-yellow Fila warm-up suit, his bushy brown mustache and virile beard stubble, his wiry physique. Preparing to hit the first practice ball of the session, his strong, long, lithe fingers dwarf the shaved thin grip of his Dunlop racquet just the way his tennis idol Ilie Nastase’s did his.
But as soon as Giglio hits this first ball, something happens that diverts all the focus from him to his pupil. Uncannily, Ugo is running to return the ball at virtually the precise instant that it leaves his coach’s racquet. Not a half second later or even a quarter second, but nearly simultaneously. To Giglio’s delight, Ugo reaches the ball in plenty of time, sets his feet, and cracks a forehand down the line that is unreturnable.
“Bravissimo!” Giglio says, initiating a second rally.
Carbon copy.
Looking at his pupil, sports fanatico Giglio recalls Armin Hary, the German sprinter who eighty-three years ago was the first non-American to win the Olympic 100-meter dash since 1928. What was so amazing about Hary (Giglio has seen actual video footage) was his ridiculously fast starts, based on his keen sense of hearing, as though he could react perfectly to the sound of the starter gun at the precise instant it went off. Of course, Giglio thinks, Ugo’s genius is due to something different, something God-given that has to do with some sort of heightened visual sense of anticipation that he was, well, just born with.
Coach steps it up, hitting balls closer to the lines to make student increase his effort, but again, Ugo reaches them all in plenty of time.
Giglio steps it up even more, moving young Ugo from side to side, but still the boy’s uncanny anticipation allows him to retrieve each shot with nanoseconds to spare.
I piedi! Move those feet! E…piccoli passi! Little steps!
Giglio is barking these fundamental tenets, but the thirteen-year-old, to whom they are second nature, doesn’t need to hear them.
Giglio continues the rallies uninterrupted for a good hour, working on footwork, strategy, and footwork.
“Piccoli passi!” Giglio barks, and there are those gorgeous tiny steps of Ugo’s balleting toward the ball.
“Preparazione!” and Ugo takes his racquet back instinctively as soon as Giglio’s makes contact.
“Fuoco!” and Ugo, having been taught that the word can mean both fire and focus, oozes both qualities from his eyes.
“Let’s take a blow,” Giglio says, and the two come together at the net for a moment’s rest. This is Ugo’s favorite part: watching tennis wisdom emanate from his mentor’s lips.
“Well, that was a terrific first half of our practice,” Giglio begins. “Your footwork was perfect, your racquet was back, you attacked your ground strokes, and, most of all, you thought about placement and strategy and really used your coconut!”
Giglio doinks the top of his head with the bent knuckle of his right hand’s middle finger and makes a loud clucking sound by releasing, violently, the vacuum formed between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
“Thanks,” Ugo responds, bending over in hysterics.
“Now, let me ask you one thing,” Giglio says. “That easy backhand you missed about two minutes ago when you had me on the ropes? What did you think of that?”
Ugo looks sheepish and apologizes.
“Ascolta, listen up: You never need to feel ashamed of making a mistake, whether it’s here on the court, or anywhere else. And do you know why?”
Ugo does not.
“Well,” Giglio says, “because we all make mistakes, and no one is perfect.”
Ugo is relieved.
“But do you know what is not good about missing a shot like that if it happened during a match?”
Ugo thinks. “Because I would lose the point?”
“Nope.”
“Because it would look stupid?” Ugo opines, making the point by using his hands.
“Wrong again, I’m afraid,” Giglio says, furling his right eyebrow, pursing his lips, placing hands on waist, and sticking out his right hip foppishly.
Again, Ugo cracks up.
“I’ll tell you why, ragazzo. It’s because when you play your very best and don’t make silly mistakes, you make your opponent play his very best, and that makes you play even better!”
A lightbulb flashes on in the thought balloon above the boy’s head.
Back to t
he workout, and Giglio and Ugo play a little cat-and-mouse game of tactics where the goal is to get to the ball more quickly than your opponent and to move the other guy closer and closer to the sidelines, then hit your winner into the open court. Giglio starts out as the cat, but this kid is pretty amazing, and after a few minutes, it is not that easy to determine precisely who’s the feline and who’s the rodent.
Bursting with pride, the coach watches his young charge retrieve balls from deep in the corners of the court and return them with pace and grace and precision.
And Giglio is now rallying with the younger, better version of himself and he sees his vita flash before his occhi and there he is, little Virgilio Marotti the thirteen-year-old prodigy from the town of Fermo, running down balls hit to him in the corners of a red clay court by his mentor, the great former champion Roberto Arpino, and the promise of a pro tennis career but then the cruel judgment from the cardiologo concerning his congenital bicuspid aortic valve with leakage, Non potrà mai giocare a livello professionale, you will never be able to play as a pro, and then the initial despair but the picking himself up and dusting himself off and starting all over again and throwing himself into his studies, then a career in advertising that was going nowhere and drifting about aimlessly until one day as he was passing by this very tennis court on Via di Brozzi he first laid eyes on Ugo Bellezza, this wunderkind with a world of potential and an extraordinary attitude, and he decided then and there that he, Virgilio Marotti, would help make this special boy into the best tennis player he could possibly be, perhaps surpassing anything the world of tennis had ever witnessed, and who knows on what wonderful odyssey that would take the both of them?
It’s nearly 6 P.M., there are eight minutes left in the workout, and it is time for the pezzo forte…
The Great Knocking Over of Chianti Bottles Challenge!
Giglio places three empty Ruffino Chianti bottles two inches inside the baseline, one in each corner of the court and one in the middle. He will hit balls to Ugo, who must move to his right, almost in the alley, and then, on the dead run, drill forehand drives toward each of three fiaschi until they are all knocked over. Six shots to knock over all three bottles is his personal record.
Ready. Set. Here we go.
Bling.
Bling.
Bling.
Little Ugo Oakley has fired at and knocked down all the bottles in the minimum of three shots.
A small crowd that has gathered courtside to watch the sharpshooting exploit explodes in wild applause. Oblivious to the clapping, a giggling Ugo pumps his fist in mock victory and joins Giglio on two plastic seats by the net while the crowd dissipates.
Ugo’s tennis shoes are stained with red clay, as are his shorts, shirt, and wristlet. He presents to his coach the gift of a humongous smile.
Giglio accepts the gift, wraps up the grueling pre-dinner hitting session with some food for thought.
“So, caro, let me ask you a simple question.”
Ugo is all ears.
“What is the purpose of playing tennis?”
“Allora…vincere, no?”
“To win?” Giglio says. “Well, that is part of it, of course, but if that is your sole purpose, it will be much more difficult for you to achieve that goal. You see, winning is a by-product—”
“A by-product?—”
“That means it will happen naturally when you have a more worthy goal, one that lifts your soul and your spirit, one that is above winning or, for that matter, money and fame.”
Instinctively, Ugo is understanding.
“Now, do you know what to express yourself means?” Giglio asks.
“I guess that’s when you say what you are feeling inside?”
“Molto bene, ragazzo. But it can be something other than spoken words that are your tools. For instance, what are the tools an artist uses to express himself?”
“Er, a paintbrush? Or maybe a…” Ugo gestures, gripping an imaginary tool and making a gouging motion, but stuck for the word.
“Ah, un scalpello, a chisel? Ottimo!” Giglio says. “And the tools of a musician?”
“A piano (Ugo’s fingers play on an imaginary keyboard)…or a trumpet (he toots an imaginary horn)…or a violin (he moves his fake bow across nonexistent strings)…”
“Evviva! And a writer’s tools?”
“A pen. Or a computer!” Ugo is getting into it big-time.
“And the tool a tennis player uses to express himself?”
Ugo looks down at his racquet and doesn’t need to say another word.
“Sì, hai ragione, you are right! Your racquet is your paintbrush and your chisel and your piano and your trumpet and your violin and your pen and your computer, all rolled up into one! And so, do not waste your time desiring only to win. This will come to you if you are faithful to expressing yourself with your racquet as well as you are able.”
A teeny tear glistens in the corner of Ugo’s right eye.
“Another way of putting it,” Giglio says, “is, well, have you ever heard the expression ‘Se son rose fioriranno’?”
Ugo shakes his head.
“If they are roses, they will bloom,” Giglio continues. “If your tennis game, like your life, is focused on creating something beautiful and that feels good inside, then it will flower naturally, because that is what it was meant to do. It means that if you do your work, the rest will take care of itself.
“Now, ragazzo, let’s take a shower so your mamma won’t have to put on her gas mask when we sit down at the dinner table,” Giglio says, covering his nose and mouth with his right hand to make the point.
* * *
The aroma of heavenly ambrosia wafts through Gioconda Bellezza’s second-story kitchen window, down to Via dei Vellutini, and into the four nostrils of Ugo Bellezza and Virgilio Marotti. Black cabbage. White beans. Baked bread. Grated cheese.
“Saliamo in paradiso!” Giglio says, sniffing the air, then looking at Ugo.
Let’s climb to heaven indeed, and the two returning tennis heroes clamber up the steps that lead to the Bellezza flat, two at a clip.
“Ciao, mamma!” Ugo says, hugging Gioconda and unconcerned about getting sauce on his shirt.
Gioconda hugs him back, very tight, and says to the two, “È ora di pranzo, ragazzi. A tavola! Dinner is served!”
The tennis players rush to the modest dining room and hold their utensils in both hands, perpendicular to the table, two ravenous cannibals preparing for a feast.
The mock barbarians are not disappointed: In waltzes mamma, carrying a savory assortment of manna on a large tray. Schiacciata al rosmarino e salvia (flatbread with rosemary and sage). Prosciutto, salame, melone e fichi (ham, salami, melon, and figs). A side dish of fagioli all’uccelletto (white Tuscan beans in tomato sauce). And her pride and joy, scamerita col cavolo nero (pork with Tuscan black cabbage).
Plates are filled to the brim, a lovely vino nobile di Montepulciano is poured (a quarter of a glass for Ugo), and a prayer of thanks emanates from the lips of Gioconda.
“Ti rendiamo grazie, Signore, per tutti i tuoi benefici e per il cibo che stiamo per prendere.”
“Amen!”
“Amen!”
Giglio—who lives in a flat only a few blocks away, on Via Santa Monaca, right near the Santa Maria del Carmine church and the Brancacci Chapel—is one of the steady and special dramatis personae in the lives of the two Bellezzas and a frequent and welcome dinner guest.
The coach takes a bite of the luscious pork that is imbued with the flavors of garlic, tomatoes, and kale. Well, four-fifths of a bite, anyway. The remaining 20 percent, in the form of a gnarly, slightly chewed, bitten-off piece, is furtively transferred from his mouth to his right hand to the gullet of the trusty and unbearably goofy family dog, Micromega, a large mastiff mix who is mighty famished right about now. The gangly mutt inhales the heavenly chunk in a single unchewed gulp, looks up semigratefully at his adopted master and benefactor, and resumes his prone and persistent be
gging position at the coach’s feet.
Giglio smiles innocently across the table at Gioconda and she gives him that look and he knows she knows.
Gioconda’s dining area is engorged with love. SCDs (Super Compact Discs, developed in 2020) of her favorite singers fill up an Entertainment Center: Gino Paoli, Milva, Peppino di Capri e i suoi Rockers, Roberto Vecchioni, Francesco De Gregori, Fabrizio de André, Caruso and Callas and Pavarotti. Gorgeous oak built-in bookshelves house her favorite tomes, including Pellegrino Artusi’s La Scienza in Cucina e l’Arte di Mangiar Bene, plus Dante’s La Divina Commedia, Petrarch’s Canzoniere, and works by Michelangelo, Leopardi, Montale, Trilussa, Boccaccio, Ariosto, Machiavelli, Castiglione, Tasso, Goldoni, Foscolo, Manzoni, Pirandello, Lampedusa, Calvino, and Shakespeare.
Dominating the room, however, is a Plexiglas pedestal there in the corner, on top of which is a magnificent inscribed silver bowl. It was awarded to Ugo just yesterday, at the All-Italian Under-18s Tennis Tourney. The fact that Ugo was barely thirteen at first turned heads, then, by the end of the tournament, signaled to Italy and to the entire tennis world that this ragazzo is really going places.
Gioconda Bellezza has filled the bowl with the bounty of apples and pears.
“I bet I know something you don’t know,” Ugo says, his mouth full of yummy beans and pointing to his fork. “If it wasn’t for Catherine de’ Medici of Florence, Italy, who, in 1533, introduced the fork to France, the French would still be eating with their fingers! We learned that in school yesterday.”
Gioconda and Giglio nearly choke with hysteria on their respective bites of flatbread.
After recovering from the hilarity, Giglio says, “And I bet I know something you don’t know.”
This is the part of the dinner where the conversation turns to serious tennis stuff.
“Sprezzatura!”
Virgilio Marotti enunciates the four syllables in an impassioned whisper to Ugo, who gives him that quizzical huh? look.
“Che significa?” Ugo asks.
“What’s it mean?” Giglio repeats the word a second time, slowly, for Ugo’s sake, the boy watching his lips intently as they pronounce each of the four syllables carefully, lovingly.