title: A Season With Verona: Travels Around Italy in Search of Illusion, National Characters
author:  Tim Parks 
description: arks (Italian Neighbors; Tongues of Flame) sets a daunting task of analyzing the life and mindset of a soccer fan in the wake of Nick Hornby's runaway hit, Fever Pitch, which is to many one of the finer books on soccer. He takes the reader on a tour of Italy, supporting his adopted home team of Hellas Verona through a season in Serie A. Parks in part sets out to examine the Italian national consciousness through the lens of Verona supporters. "The north-east of Italy, Verona in particular, is stigmatized as irretrievably racist. It is also considered bigoted, workaholic, uncultured, crude and gross." Hellas Verona have prided themselves on never having a black player on the pitch (until recently). Their fans shout monkey chants whenever an opposing black player touches the ball. It's a disgraceful part of soccer behavior that is well worth exploring, and this is when Parks is at his best. "I suggest... that the frequent talk about `defeating' racism on the terraces is a mistake. The word `defeat' only provokes the hardliners. They don't come to the stadium to think of themselves as defeated." When he applies his social criticism, he is able to engage on many levels, but when Parks gets caught up in play-by-play analysis he loses focus and his story. He travels with the team's fans in old creaky buses, singing songs and drinking beer. Parks's fanaticism toward lowly Hellas Verona is not unique, and the supporters are not the worst of Italy. Parks's prose often sings with the bravado of the terraces, but the result is at best a draw.<br />Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
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  # A Chain Of Italian Cities
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### By Henry James
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  This page copyright © 2004 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
      
  
  EText by Ian Hillman
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ONE day in midwinter some years since, during a transit from Rome to
  
  
  Florence too rapid to admit of much wayside dalliance with the
  
  
  picturesque, I waited for the train at Narni. There was time to stroll
  
  
  far enough from the station to have a look at the famous old bridge of
  
  
  Augustus, broken short in mid-Tiber. While I stood observing, the
  
  
  measure of enjoyment was filled up by the unbargained spectacle of a
  
  
  white-cowled monk trudging up a road which wound into the gate of the
  
  
  town. The little town stood on a hill, a good space away, boxed in
  
  
  behind its perfect grey wall, and the monk crept slowly along and
  
  
  disappeared within the aperture. Everything was distinct in the clear
  
  
  air, and the view was like a bit of background in a Perugino. The
  
  
  winter is ba