Terry Francona, a.k.a. Tito, admitted that in his grandfather's language he cannot express a single concept. He does remember four words, though: "In the name of the father." Because the priest would say them in Italian, precisely, and when that moment came it meant that the liturgy was ending, "and it was almost the moment when you could finally play baseball."

We think of it far away, America. Hours of flying. And then discoveries, trends and sometimes even mindsets that anticipate, often by years, what will later, quietly, arrive here with us. If you then talk about baseball goodbye: the ocean is not enough to render the idea of distance. It would take three or four.

Yet: just put the Italians of America all in the same room. And it doesn't matter if six or seven of them sitting at the table could add up to the GDP of Umbria, as someone pointed out. Joking but not too much. Because in fact many, almost all, luck then made it for real. Although luck is a concept that almost never describes what happened, and it is certainly not the reason for their success.

Their riches, however ostentatious, do not matter, like the fact that Mike Piazza and John Franco, Steve Balboni, Mike Pagliarulo and dozens of coaches, observers, instructors from half of MLB are strewn about the room. When they are all together it matters the common home, which we imagine far away and they continue, wonderfully surprising you, to consider near. Around the corner.

Everyone in Italy should do some internships with Italian Americans. As a callback. Some of them try, to explain themselves in Italian. Then you hear a language that no longer exists. Stopped at who knows when and who knows where, between eras and dialects. In pendant with clothes that by us, in the old motherland, would be considered improbable and that instead on the other side of the Atlantic still seem in condition to look good.

However often accessorized by tricolor ties that even over there elicit some glee. Then you listen closely and understand sentiments that you would say have been extinct for decades or, more likely, have never existed at home. Almost reproducing a golden age actually never experienced by anyone.

Feelings, and a thousand stories of people who not only were not born in Italy, but-if they were lucky-will have been there three or four times. And for a few weeks, no more. Yet she calls herself Italian, and she does so with pride. More: in the name of this feeling Italian she sets up an organization, raises money to help out. The association is called IABF - Italian American Baseball Foundation . And last Thursday, November 30, in Marina del Ray, Bronx, she put on her annual dinner. Now in its 7th edition.

Only the first year the party had been in the pizzeria-Sports Bar of one of the founders, Carmine Gangone, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. With about 70 guests. Last Thursday the diners were nearly 500. Talk about how and how much being part of IABF is a coveted thing. Not least because attending the dinner was not exactly cheap: it took $300 per person, $2400 if you wanted to reserve a whole table.

Before getting to the table, there was a lot of business talk. Because, precisely, the association has grown. And the help it can give now is potentially enormous. In terms of relationships, even before funds. Perhaps even in capacity: because in that yes, they have become much more American than they have remained Italian. "You know how to cook, we know how to do business," one has heard.

There is some skepticism about our organizational skills, shall we say. As well as some disbelief in how sports is not considered business by us. Not as they understand it. Points of common ground have been found, though, more than one. There is a cordate that has been born, ideas that are waiting to be realized together with the FIBS - Italian Baseball Softball Federation, represented by President Andrea Marcon and Marco Landi: dreams that could make the history of baseball and Italian sport. But for real.

And so no, it was not just an evening of good feelings and nostalgia. In that sense, Italy and baseball, understood just as MLB, may soon not be so far apart.

Then the evening began. Everyone on their feet, hand over heart. And "Brothers of Italy." Actually, the national anthem performed by a singer. Mameli before "The Star Spangled Banner." And a number of other Italian arias sung by Charlie Romo.

The unspoken, I thought I understood, is that the Italian-American friends (Order Sons and Daughters of Italy in America )do not understand how we, on this side of the ocean, can miss all the poetry of baseball so light-heartedly.

That is, they, all of them, would be and are proud of any woman or man with an Italian surname capable of doing something significant in the United States. In sports as in any other sphere. If one of their children excels in the business, and many have succeeded, if they become artists, or celebrated athletes in basketball and in football, like Banchero, like Garoppolo or DeVito, it is a blessing. If one does it in baseball, as a player, coach, executive, journalist even, it's something more. It is connecting with America. It is to have entered not only into the news, but into history, somehow into the DNA he United States. And no, it was not a given. Quite the contrary: America gives you a chance to make your own way and your own fortune, but it doesn't normally work in a retroactive sense. With baseball it does, almost as if a success on the diamond can count as some kind of recognition of some nobility.

And so in all the names, called and evoked from the stage, as an outside observer I felt so much pride. These are our guys, who may be getting close to 70 years old in the process. Like Mike Pagliarulo who was third base for the New York Yankees and won the World Series with the Twins in 1991. Or like Steve Balboni, who won the World Series in 1985 with the Royals. Or who may be gone, like the two who left in the last few months and to whom a minute's mourning was dedicated, with the sign of the cross: Joe Pepitone and Sal Bando.

Or again like those who never broke through, or those like Sal who made his fortune on the diamonds of Italy: Salvatore Varriale. They rewarded him, too. His, of stories, I knew better than all the others. But only the Italian part. From the one I missed came out I think the essence of what we were doing there in that room. Sal introduced me to some of his friends. Young people almost in their seventies. "This is Frank, Frank Allegro. He was pitcher on my team in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn."

And Frank: "You know, Mario: all of us guys on the team had Italian names. All of them. Only the priest was Irish. The priest and the nuns, you can tell."

It's just that they, the paisan of that generation, don't want it to end there. Because in the meantime the story has become a saga. And it needs to be given continuity. Joe Quagliano, the president of IABF, then wanted to do something concrete for those who will still be passing it on a few decades from now. That is, the boys and girls, some Italian-American, some just Italian, who came to various colleges thanks to the scholarships - 13 in all - of IABF. So also Chiara Ruberto from Anzio, Vincenzo Bruno from Staranzano, Federico Tiburtini from Parma, and Samuele Bruno from Nettuno. All on stage, for a handshake, a "good luck." As in an ideal investiture.

As if to say: we have called you here on stage in a prequel, to tell you that you are the continuation of history, of our labors, too. The History with a capital S that we have written with all these characters in the room. Those physically present and those evoked, painted on James Fiorentino's paintings put up for sale-Joe Dimaggio, Yogi Berra and all the others.

Mike Piazza, first of all. With an aside. In the afternoon, before showing up for dinner at Marina del Rey, I took a walk downtown. To look at some of the Christmas atmosphere, between Rockefeller, St. Patrick's, Bryant Park. And then to Fifth Avenue. Next to the NBA store is another one with baseball and football merchandise. Hanging lots of jerseys. For the Yankees those of Judge, mostly. For the Mets those with Mike's number 31 on them. Only Piazza hasn't played for the Mets in 18 years. And then I got into Barnes and Noble, into Union teams: and his biography is still displayed among the latest baseball books that came out. To say that it really remains very difficult to explain the discord between the size of character Mike has in America and his availability to our Small World of Italian diamonds.

On stage Mike told a joke about our propensity to gesticulate when we speak. At the business tables just before, he had put his full weight behind it. And also some very, very, firm stances. To say that we should not mistake for weakness the kindness he never fails to flaunt.

After him the awardees. So Terry "Tito" Francona, the man who defeated the curse of the Bambino. Who won two World Series with the Boston Red Sox and came within a whisker of a third, with which he would break down another curse, Rocky Colavito's, with the Cleveland Guardians. As often, he threw in irony and mirth. But we also talked about the World Cup in Italy in 1978, about his many, even unlikely, knee injuries in his Montreal days. I will write about that.

And then Torey Lovullo who took the Arizona Diamondbacks to the World Series this year. Against all odds. "And yes, Torey stands for Salvatore." He is just an alternative to the many Sal's in the room. "I'm Italian to the extent that at my house at Thanksgiving dinner the turkey ended up being kind of a side dish... No come on, seriously, I think a lot of the people who are here in the room, Yankees fans or New York Mets fans, this year have been rooting a little bit for Cleveland or Arizona because of the coaches' last names. And that means a lot to me."

Because of their last names. United as in a sort of bond with everyone who took turns at the microphones during the ceremony. So Wayne Randazzo, broadcaster for the Los Angeles Dodgers. And Chris "Mad Dog" Russo, radio star, introduced by Tina Cervasio of MLB on FOX. And then also also from Fox, Jon Morosi to introduce the other awardees. Then Sal Varriale, Dan Bonanno who is supposed to be the liaison between MLB and Italy, and Sal Agostinelli, director of international operations for the Philadelphia Phillies. And Mike Candrea, mythological manager of the U.S. national softball team, from Arizona University, now advisor to the Azzurre. And Jac Caglianone, the great Italian hope. The one they are pointing to in the NCAA as the new Ohtani, since in his sophomore season - that is, his second year - with the Florida Gators he planted 33 home runs with 90 runs batted in and also pitched, with 7 won-4 lost, 4.34 pgl average and 87 strikeouts in 74.2 shots thrown. He was at the table with his whole beautiful family who came from Tampa. You'll hear about it. And who knows we may see him in the blue cap and white I.

Like the others. Like Sal Frelick, Joey Marciano, Vito Friscia, Ryan Castellani, Brian Sweeney, and, over all Joe La Sorsa. Out of all of them, yes. For in his enthusiasm in calling his teammates for pictures, in his cheerfulness, one saw again the impetus with which he had celebrated the three outs he had gotten with Holland at full bases. One understood the magic of this team at the 2023 World Baseball Classic. And it became clear why there is a need for evenings like this.

In which suddenly the Atlantic becomes little.