I could not bear the Maremma. I had been seized by an intense aversion at the first document that happened to come before my eyes concerning the territory and its inhabitants. I had previously read many books about the horsemen of the American prairies, and I had seen innumerable films about their astounding adventures – books and films that had excited me. A couple of years of my life had been dedicated to the horses, lassoes, huge hats and pistols of those extraordinary men. In my heart there was no room for anybody else. When they arrived to free sidekicks captured by the Indians, I felt that their fluttering little flag represented freedom; and I would have hurled myself at the throat of whoever declared himself on the side of White Deer and Son of Eagle. When the wagon train, forced to form a circle to brave the attack of the murderous Indians, would return joyful and ready to set forth over the immense deserted prairies and the deep mountain gorges, I felt as if men had again won the right to traverse the world. The names of those horsemen – I used to know the names of every hero of every serialized novel and every film – were always on my lips. I judged every person by comparing him to them, and very few withstood the comparison. When I read that a stone’s throw from my house – one might say – there lived men who lassoed wild animals, tamed bulls, dressed in Far West gear (more or less) and camped at night beneath the starry sky wrapped in blankets around blazing fires with their rifles and faithful dogs close by, I burst into a fit of laughter. I couldn’t even take seriously the stories about the faithful dogs, which are common and accepted throughout the world. I pored over many maps and increasingly convinced myself that in an area so close to me there couldn’t possibly be wild animals, brave men or any likelihood of adventures. Nor could there be the sweetest dark-haired women who sang on canvas-covered wagons and, if need be, loaded their partners’ weapons. No, the horsemen of the Maremma were poor copies of the heroes of my acquaintance. Those in the books and films constantly fought against Indians and robbers; but there, a stone’s throw away, what robbers could there be? The era of the famous old bandits seemed to be distant, if they had ever existed; I had my doubts about them as well.

When I went to study at F., this is precisely the way I thought. I could not therefore stand the nickname ‘Maremmano’.

I used to play football with skill, but also with a certain roughness, notwithstanding that I was small and thin. I immediately distinguished myself the first time I went on the field with my classmates, and they put me at inside left forward on the squad that represented the high school in the student championship. I played several games, earning much applause.