Pizza Is Cheese, Pepperoni And, Maybe, Sausage — And Other Lies They Tell You
I wish my Grandfather would have experienced pizza in Italy
A quick story about my Grandfather that — I promise — ties into pizza, other food and drink, provincial and nationalistic norms and traditions, and how nobody knows what the hell they’re talking about anymore.
My Grandfather died a few years ago, in his mid-nineties.
He was Italian-American, but never made it to Italy. He was married to my Grandmother, who died quite a few years before him. Another Italian-American who never made it to Italy.
Anyhow, back in the day, I worked in sports radio. During a stint in Dallas, I got to know the head coach of the professional hockey team there. A solid Canadian guy named Ken Hitchcock.
One afternoon, I found myself in the elevator at the arena with Hitchcock. I said to him —
So, Hitch, you guys have the Rangers on Sunday, but Gretzky isn’t playing.
Hitch responded —
Yeah, but you know what Rocco, they might be tougher without Gretzky. When he’s in there, they don't focus as much on their game. They focus on Gretzky.