Rugby Underground is the extinction of a debt: mine, made of gratitude and appreciation for a magical place, a workshop that has transformed day by day, year by year, match by match, player by player, into a cellar.
In Milan, in the neighborhood of the old Fair, in the Sixties a working-class area, frequented even by criminals, over the decades becoming less proletarian and more bourgeois, fewer small shops and more bed and breakfasts, fewer utilitarian cars and more SUVs, less Milanese and more international.
Rugby as the greatest common divisor and the least common multiple, as existential and sentimental grammar, as a way of understanding life, among scrums, tackles, tries, and the bizarre, unpredictable, democratic bounces of an oval ball.
Thus, the workshop-cellar of Gabriele Cabrio – he, the electrician, from player to coach, from chaperone to cook, the host in that underground space – became a bivouac and refuge, a point of reference and perspective, a temple and brothel, a shrine and den, cave and tavern, cinema and theater, where all the attendees, from the humblest reserves to the divine All Blacks, stripped of titles and booklets, and united by eating and drinking together, magically discovered themselves as equals. All citizens of a small oval oasis, outside of time. Marco Pastonesi
Saturday at 9:30 breakfast. Coffee, tea, all the good things that help start the day well: biscotti made with organic flours baked in a wood-fired oven, yogurt and local cheeses, fruit jams from the garden, and whatever the awakening and the season inspire (for example, chiffon).
Or 12.30 light lunch, greetings and toasts. In between, chatter, questions, nice ideas. As much as you want.
