Words are not enough. I know this. And to think otherwise would be simply foolish. Yet, as I sit here with my hands trembling, my voice cracking, tears burning my eyes, for all the joy you have given me and every Juventino, it seems that words are the only gift that I can give you. I only hope that you will find them fitting
I am now 42 years of age. At this point in my life, I should have developed a sense, or character trait, of becoming jaded over certain things. I shouldn't let events or instances "get to me". I should just go with the flow, let it roll like water off of a duck's back, and every other possible cliche that you can imagine that would give me some sense of justifiable reason to not let certain emotions gum up the works in the machine that is my everyday life.
Yet, for 19 years, nearly as long as I have been with my wife, my soulmate, you have been there, lurking in the front and back and every corner of my mind, never escaping my thoughts for very long. Destroying every cliche, and yet at the same time, making it OK to have certain parts of your life fit into the tried and true cliches of our time.
I have a confession to make to you, Alex. It was hard for me to welcome you at first. I was, and in many ways, still am a "Roby Guy." Oh, but I knew of you. Yes, I knew. I heard about the wunderkind from Padova, the "next one", and I was being selfish, for I knew what was going to happen. Simply a matter of time, I thought. And sure enough, time waits for no one. And boy, you sure were worth the wait.
I'm not going to talk about your on the field accomplishments. There are countless others out there who are far more educated, more experienced, and certainly higher compensated, who have, and will continue to write about your exploits between the lines. The effect that you have had on our lives in a sporting sense are there for all the world to see. Memories that will be forever burned into our memories, be on VHS tapes that will be hidden away, so as not to be mistakenly recorded over with the latest episode of "Real housewives of New Jersey", and on our PC's, DVR's, and Ipod's, thanks to the latest technologies in storage mediums.
I don't want to talk about that. It is too concrete, too factual, too numerical.
Too easy.
I want to take a moment, and if I could speak, just this once, on behalf of all of the Juventini who have followed you throughout an amazing 19 year career with Juventus, and go into detail on the effect you have had on not as Alessandro Del Piero, footballing legend, but Alessandro Del Piero, the man.
You, sir, are the epitome of grace, class, diplomacy, and humility. Whether you realize this or not, you are a role model on not only how to be a great athlete, but how to be a great man. We know of all of your charitable works, your devotion to friends and family. A lot of us look to you for inspiration when we are in our moments of doubt, where our confidence is not where it should be, where we feel as if nothing or no one can help us.
I have found myself in times of trouble, and on more than one occasion, I have thought to myself, "What would Alex do?" "How would he handle this?" "What would he say?" and although more often than not, I wouldn't know what you would do, I know that whatever it is that you did do, it was done with far more class and aplomb than I could ever hope to achieve.
You are an inspiration to millions, a beacon of hope, and humanity, and all that is good with the world for the generations of football supporters who have ever set their sights on you. Your exploits on the field are the stuff of legends.
I envision you, walking down this marble hallway, with pillars of gold. On one side, are statues of the greats of Juventus, from Boniperti, Sivori, Charles, Scirea, Platini, Trezeguet, Zidane, Zoff, Nedved. Then, on the other side, are statues of the greats of the Italian game. Baresi, Meazza, Riva, Baggio, Piola, Totti, Cannavaro, Zola, Rivera. You take a deep breath, a breath of rarefied air. The type of air that can only be taken in by lungs of those who are champions. The air fills your lungs and you say to yourself if you are worthy. You notice that there is an open space next to the statues on either side, as if they are waiting for the next club and italian legend to take their rightful places. There is a name inscribed on the base of the Juventus statue. It is yours. You go to the next set of statues, to the open base, and your name is inscribed there as well. The footballing gods, and millions and millions of footballing fans of every generation, gender, religion, deem you worthy. Breathe deeply, Mr. Del Piero. Breathe Largely. Take in that air, you have earned your rightful place.
I will miss you terribly on that pitch in Torino. I won't lie. It will hurt, and hurt deeply. I hurt now, two hours after the fact. I will hurt in August when the season starts. I will hurt during the Champions League, knowing that the signature #10 will not be there, adorned with your name.
But I look forward to following Del Piero the man, the ambassador, the future club director, for the rest of my days, as one part of your life is drawing to a close, soon, many doors will open for you in the future. If you were to come to the USA, I must admit that I would be thrilled, and I will end this with a final few sentences, but before I do, I want to say that i love you, that I will miss you on the field in a Juve shirt, and that I, from the bottom of my heart, a heart, by the way, that you, and what you have meant to me, opened up far more than I ever thought it could, say THANK YOU.
I see myself, and my nephew, sitting in the front row of Gilette Stadium, as we are watching the NE Revolution getting ready to play either the New York Red Bulls or L.A. Galaxy. We see you coming out of the tunnel. My nephew and I scream your name, hoping that you notice us in our Juve kits. You come over, sign an autograph, take a picture with my nephew, and I go to shake your hand. A hand that is trembling, from a man whose face is stained with tears, the same way it was in the summer of 2003, when I met you the first time. You shake my hand and all I can say is "Thank You". And wouldn't you know it, in broken english, you give me the same response that you did a decade earlier. A broken english "You're Welcome", and a smile. Deja Vu in its truest sense of the word.
My nephew sits down on my lap as I'm wiping away the tears, and I say to him "Connor?", and he says "Yes, Zio?". I say "That man is Alessandro Del Piero, and when you grow up, if you manage to be half the man that he his, you will turn out to be 10 times the man that I could have ever hoped to become."
Forever in our hearts, and forever in mine, Dear Alex, I love you.
I am now 42 years of age. At this point in my life, I should have developed a sense, or character trait, of becoming jaded over certain things. I shouldn't let events or instances "get to me". I should just go with the flow, let it roll like water off of a duck's back, and every other possible cliche that you can imagine that would give me some sense of justifiable reason to not let certain emotions gum up the works in the machine that is my everyday life.
Yet, for 19 years, nearly as long as I have been with my wife, my soulmate, you have been there, lurking in the front and back and every corner of my mind, never escaping my thoughts for very long. Destroying every cliche, and yet at the same time, making it OK to have certain parts of your life fit into the tried and true cliches of our time.
I have a confession to make to you, Alex. It was hard for me to welcome you at first. I was, and in many ways, still am a "Roby Guy." Oh, but I knew of you. Yes, I knew. I heard about the wunderkind from Padova, the "next one", and I was being selfish, for I knew what was going to happen. Simply a matter of time, I thought. And sure enough, time waits for no one. And boy, you sure were worth the wait.
I'm not going to talk about your on the field accomplishments. There are countless others out there who are far more educated, more experienced, and certainly higher compensated, who have, and will continue to write about your exploits between the lines. The effect that you have had on our lives in a sporting sense are there for all the world to see. Memories that will be forever burned into our memories, be on VHS tapes that will be hidden away, so as not to be mistakenly recorded over with the latest episode of "Real housewives of New Jersey", and on our PC's, DVR's, and Ipod's, thanks to the latest technologies in storage mediums.
I don't want to talk about that. It is too concrete, too factual, too numerical.
Too easy.
I want to take a moment, and if I could speak, just this once, on behalf of all of the Juventini who have followed you throughout an amazing 19 year career with Juventus, and go into detail on the effect you have had on not as Alessandro Del Piero, footballing legend, but Alessandro Del Piero, the man.
You, sir, are the epitome of grace, class, diplomacy, and humility. Whether you realize this or not, you are a role model on not only how to be a great athlete, but how to be a great man. We know of all of your charitable works, your devotion to friends and family. A lot of us look to you for inspiration when we are in our moments of doubt, where our confidence is not where it should be, where we feel as if nothing or no one can help us.
I have found myself in times of trouble, and on more than one occasion, I have thought to myself, "What would Alex do?" "How would he handle this?" "What would he say?" and although more often than not, I wouldn't know what you would do, I know that whatever it is that you did do, it was done with far more class and aplomb than I could ever hope to achieve.
You are an inspiration to millions, a beacon of hope, and humanity, and all that is good with the world for the generations of football supporters who have ever set their sights on you. Your exploits on the field are the stuff of legends.
I envision you, walking down this marble hallway, with pillars of gold. On one side, are statues of the greats of Juventus, from Boniperti, Sivori, Charles, Scirea, Platini, Trezeguet, Zidane, Zoff, Nedved. Then, on the other side, are statues of the greats of the Italian game. Baresi, Meazza, Riva, Baggio, Piola, Totti, Cannavaro, Zola, Rivera. You take a deep breath, a breath of rarefied air. The type of air that can only be taken in by lungs of those who are champions. The air fills your lungs and you say to yourself if you are worthy. You notice that there is an open space next to the statues on either side, as if they are waiting for the next club and italian legend to take their rightful places. There is a name inscribed on the base of the Juventus statue. It is yours. You go to the next set of statues, to the open base, and your name is inscribed there as well. The footballing gods, and millions and millions of footballing fans of every generation, gender, religion, deem you worthy. Breathe deeply, Mr. Del Piero. Breathe Largely. Take in that air, you have earned your rightful place.
I will miss you terribly on that pitch in Torino. I won't lie. It will hurt, and hurt deeply. I hurt now, two hours after the fact. I will hurt in August when the season starts. I will hurt during the Champions League, knowing that the signature #10 will not be there, adorned with your name.
But I look forward to following Del Piero the man, the ambassador, the future club director, for the rest of my days, as one part of your life is drawing to a close, soon, many doors will open for you in the future. If you were to come to the USA, I must admit that I would be thrilled, and I will end this with a final few sentences, but before I do, I want to say that i love you, that I will miss you on the field in a Juve shirt, and that I, from the bottom of my heart, a heart, by the way, that you, and what you have meant to me, opened up far more than I ever thought it could, say THANK YOU.
I see myself, and my nephew, sitting in the front row of Gilette Stadium, as we are watching the NE Revolution getting ready to play either the New York Red Bulls or L.A. Galaxy. We see you coming out of the tunnel. My nephew and I scream your name, hoping that you notice us in our Juve kits. You come over, sign an autograph, take a picture with my nephew, and I go to shake your hand. A hand that is trembling, from a man whose face is stained with tears, the same way it was in the summer of 2003, when I met you the first time. You shake my hand and all I can say is "Thank You". And wouldn't you know it, in broken english, you give me the same response that you did a decade earlier. A broken english "You're Welcome", and a smile. Deja Vu in its truest sense of the word.
My nephew sits down on my lap as I'm wiping away the tears, and I say to him "Connor?", and he says "Yes, Zio?". I say "That man is Alessandro Del Piero, and when you grow up, if you manage to be half the man that he his, you will turn out to be 10 times the man that I could have ever hoped to become."
Forever in our hearts, and forever in mine, Dear Alex, I love you.
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