Farewell, my sweet fascist.

January 7 – 2007

How sad it is when cruel circumstance and opposing ideology keeps people apart. Romeo and Juliet…the Fox and the Hound…me and Paolo Di Canio.

What was once a torrid love affair between a young, impressionable man and a balding fascist is ending this week. And though most man-crushes end with one guy punching the object of his affection in the face after too many fuzzy navels, this one ends with a jersey going up on EBay.

Why am I throwing so many good years away? Well, it’s complicated.

Paolo and I first met when he came to West Ham in 1999. Like the new girl in 8th grade that smelled of cigarettes and wore black bras under white t-shirts, he intrigued me. Clearly talented, but also bat-shit insane, it took a while for me to trust this Italian invader. Then the following happened:

Who needs trust when you have flying scissor kicks? I was Paolo’s, and he was mine. The affair was sustained by goals of remarkable quality, cheekily chipped penalties, and charmingly irreverent behavior. Sure, there were rumors of a darker past spent as a member of Lazio’s hooligan supporters group, the Irriducible. But this added to the mystery of DiCanio. He was a fantastically unpredictable talent, and if that came with a side-helping of radical politics and violent behavior, so be it.

His time at Upton Park coincides with my fondest memories as a Hammers fan, but all good things come to an end. A clash of personality with manager Glenn Roeder eventually reduced Di Canio’s role, and when the team found itself relegated at the end of 2003, the Italian Stallion moved on. Di Canio made a quick stop at Charlton, then returned home to his boyhood club, Lazio. In order to secure the move to Lazio, Di Canio had taken a pay-cut. This meshed perfectly with my glorified impression of him as a man who played football from the heart, and I found it easy to support him with his new team. Then our trouble started.

Fascist salutes and Mussolini tattoos tend to act as wedges in relationships, and it was the same with Paolo and me. Foolishly, perhaps, I forgave the first couple of times he extended his arm to Lazio fans. “Hey, he grew up in the culture of the club,” I’d tell myself, “He’s just reaching out to fans on their terms.”

But then it became clear the guy could barely get through a day without spreading the fascist love. Even on a game show, comically riding a tractor no less, Di Canio couldn’t resist throwing up the Roman Oath. Soon after, I became aware of a tattoo reading “DVX,” a reference to “Il Duce,” Benito Mussolini. Subtle Di Canio never was, but the in-your-face nature of his fascist ties was starting to strain our relationship. Was I cut out to be the Eva Braun of football fandom?

Dumping Di Canio might seem like a no brainer: fascism is a trump card that any sane individual would rather not have on the table. But in Di Canio, you have an opposite and (nearly) equal pole that makes the decision more complicated. Take this for example:

If that guy’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. It’s the single best act of sportsmanship I’ve ever witnessed on a soccer field. You’d have to kill people to end up with negative Karma after that one. How can you not love that?

But in the end, it comes down to the jersey itself. Rarely does a day go by in Los Angeles when I don’t spot an FA shirt. Immediately, and certainly unfairly, I experience a visceral reaction to the people sporting these jerseys. Chelsea jersey? That guy’s a front-running doucherocket. Manchester United jersey? Your mom ordered that out of a Eurosport catalog, didn’t she. These rushed judgments are unfair and might even expose me as a bad person, but there they are.

What, then, does my 2002 Hammers jersey with “Doc Martens” on the front and “Di Canio” on the back say about me? Well, I’m afraid it might say “I stomp fags,” or “Death to foreigners would be cool with me,” or some other unsavory sentiment. Yes, Di Canio was a great player, but I fear his legacy has become of the “sublime to the ridiculous” variety, erring on the side of the ridiculous. Maybe there was a time in my life when his Yin outweighed the Yang. But when the Yang starts to goose-step, well…

Goodbye, Paolo. And rather than remember you as the snarling quasi-nazi pictured above, I’ll prefer to keep you young, virile, and volleying a rabona straight off a cross during training.