When Dirtbunny first came out of the closet as a football lover and found some Juventina friends, one of the first things she made sure to explain to everyone was that ADP was her true love. What she heard back was this: “Honey, he’s all of our true loves.”
I could have wised up at that point and accepted reality — that Alessandro Del Piero belongs to us all — but instead, I returned stubbornly back into my head. A place where I have a glorious imaginary life with my boyfriend Alessà.
Wanna see? Well come on then.
★ ★ ★
Oh, it’s not all paradise. He’s gone all the time and when he’s here, he steals my Dr. Hauschka’s Regenerating Eye Cream
(and that shit’s expensive).
Plus, we’re having a bit of a tiff right now. We both thought he would stay at Juve for as long as he wanted. Now that we know that’s not happening, I want him to retire and spend more time with me. He wants to keep playing. I get that, but he’s too special to continue on at some second-rate club and, let’s face it: after Juventus, they’re all second-rate clubs.
Sure, it sounds great to have him playing at DC United and coming home for dinner every night. No one here really has much idea who he is, so we could live quietly without a lot of hoopla and I could use a strong man around here to tote bales and split rails and so forth.
However, I just can’t see him playing in United’s toilet of a stadium, or in a league where they think Landon Donovan is the greatest player of all time.
Also, he looks terrific in pink and here in the U.S. we do not dress our male athletes in pink kits under any circumstances.
So I continue to lobby for him to retire, which is kind of difficult when he keeps jetting off to places like Japan instead of staying home with me.
★ ★ ★
I’ve noticed that the press statements he and his agent (that’s him on the left, Ale’s brother Stefano. I hope our children inherit the Del Piero smile) have been making lately are starting to sound a little less “Wow, what wonderful opportunities there are to consider! I’m a lucky man!” and more like he’s holding out for a decent gig that isn’t coming.
He’s good at waiting. Just fiddle with the nose, focus the mind on the task ahead, and listen for the ref to blow the whistle. Me, not so much. He says be patient. He says we have our whole lives to spend together. Easy for him to say.
He’ll be beautiful forever and I won’t.
Whatever happens next, he’ll always be Juventino to me.
★ ★ ★
Hmph. If he tries lounging on the grass like that around here, he’ll be covered with chigger bites when he gets up. And that’s another reason for him not to come home to Bunny until September. I’ll just sit here and flip through my photo albums and half-listen to Olympic football.
He’s a nice boy, and he’s not comfortable being objectified, so we won’t be looking at his junk. I promise.
I like him best when he’s showing a little bitchy attitude, like here, when he demonstrated his displeasure at Ranieri subbing him out against La Viola.
Or when he gets all butch, like here. Thiago Motta was just begging to get his ass kicked.
★ ★ ★
Another of his many advantages is a healthy immune system. ADP’s proven himself to be largely immune from cooties.
I’m highly susceptible to cooties. One single cootie can knock me out of commission for weeks, so his resistance to cooties is important. We can’t be havin’ with no cooties up in here.
No we can’t.
Aw, hell. Who am I kidding? I’d happily suffer from a lifetime of cooties if that was what it took for us to be together.
★ ★ ★
If you were wondering, the above is proof that it is possible to make him look awful in photographs. I’m not sure who that is on the left, but it isn’t my Alessà.
I’m not referring to her, of course. She’s lovely and she seems feisty and awesome and she’s way too good for the loser next to her. I’m sure I would like her a lot if she existed.
Which she doesn’t.
*shrieks* OMG! I have always wanted a crappy little pink sparkly tiara just like that! We’re TWINS!
But if we’re twins then that means she’s, um, well, some people might say Psycho Bitch from the Fiery Pit of Hell, but I like to think of it as “Crazy But Worth It.” And if he married her, then that means he’s up for all the Bunny!dramaz. And that means………… I COULDA HAD A CHANCE IF ONLY HE’D WAITED FOR ME! AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHH
*runs off to smash laptop*
Wait! *hits “save”*
OK. I’m back. I’m using Mr. Dirtbunny’s laptop. Don’t tell, OK? He gets kinda touchy given my history of tantrums and throwing things. Anyway, where was I?
★ ★ ★
Oh yeah. I’m with you Zizou. Get a room. Gross. *sniffles*
This here is some snogging I can get behind.
Gigi makes Alessà look awfully small, doesn’t he? Now I’m starting to have a bit of a sad moment, and not because I mourn the impending loss of the rest of his hair. We’ll never see this again. Nothing lasts forever.
Of all of the survivors of the old pre-Farsopoli days, Gigi is now the only one left. They’ve been through a lot together. Stand by your man and all that.
Unlike some people.
I suppose I ought to say something about the records, or his velvety touch — on the ball, if you please (geez whatta bunch of pervs) — or his sneaky & devious creativity, or his artistry with the ball in the box. Or the many dozens of free kicks that were so fucking perfect they made us sob with happiness.
Well, they made me sob.
The eloquence in his game has no equal.
He was (is) a special, special player and I don’t see how football can ever be as good without him, no matter how many times Ale Matri takes his shirt off.
He’s so special that Chiambretti Night pulled out the Naughty Nuns (plus one regular nun) just for him. He squirmed, but he kept it together. Poor bastard. All Gigi got was a dancing girl wearing a dress made of post-it notes.
It’s hard for me to imagine anything that tops Naughty Nuns for creepy variety-show fare (WTF is up with Italian TV anyway?), but he deserves the very best of whatever is on offer.
He’s so special that he won the Golden Foot back when it still meant something.
Aww. You’d think he’s seen everything that PR hacks can possibly dream up, but they can still manage to break through his public facade and give us a wee glimpse sometimes of the little kid who just can’t believe all this is happening to him.
Lordy, does he clean up nice. Paolo Rossi agrees.
★ ★ ★
Oh yeah, him and me, see, we’re always going out to these fancy galas so this formal dress is nothing new to me. Lots of times, we don’t get home until it’s daylight. We make out in the car all the way home and then, if it’s nice out, we’ll have some, uh, alone time out back by the pool house.
I miss him so much already.
Come home, baby. I made a blueberry pie for you. We can watch the new football season together and you can explain Mirko Vučinić to me because most of the time I have no idea what the fuck he’s doing out there.
And ask Martín Cáceres to come over. I’ll get him fixed up in a jiff.
This post was powered by grief, joy, lust, and lots of ice water.