Il Regno: September 2025

September 4, 2025

They Ruined It

Among my friends, it’s a running joke that I think everything has been ruined—intellectual properties, institutions, pastimes, et cetera. “They ruined it” has basically become my catchphrase. So when they asked how the Mets game I attended was, they already knew the answer.

Growing up, I went to more sporting events than I can count: Jets, Giants, Yankees, Mets, Cosmos, Rangers, Knicks. Even the Cyclones and Metrostars made the list. But over time, I lost interest in American sports altogether; the commercialization, sanitization, and ideological weaponization of the games ruined them for me.

To give you an idea of how out of touch I am, I only just learned at the park that there’s now a pitch clock and a designated hitter in the National League?! My attention has long since wandered elsewhere. These days, I follow only European football, above all Napoli, and, whenever I can, the occasional amateur contests, including la joute nautique, scherma, and the colorful pali and regattas of Italy.

Still, I broke my moratorium and went to Citi Field with my family. I wasn’t there for the Mets, but for the company. What my father and uncles could once afford on a regular basis for us kids—tickets, parking, food, souvenirs—is now financially impossible to replicate.

The decline showed itself even before we got inside. In the parking lot, security said no tailgating—not even tossing a football around. This was so alien to me, I thought they were kidding. They weren’t.

My first time inside Citi Field, I’ll admit the stadium itself was impressive. But the next sign of decline hit me at the concession stands. Whatever happened to peanuts, Cracker Jack, hot dogs, pretzels, cotton candy, beer, and soda? Now it’s Fiesta burgers, General Tso’s chicken, fondue, sushi, curry patties—you name it. It was all a little too effete for my taste.

It wasn't over there. The nonstop blare from the sound system and giant videoboard was relentless. Incessant gimmicks—games of chance, dance routines, music, fan cams—distracted from the actual game. Worst of all was the manufactured crowd energy: instructions telling people when to cheer, like Pavlovian cues. There was something vaguely Orwellian about it all.

Not everything was bad. A few charms remained: Mr. and Mrs. Met taking photos with kids, hearing about the “Grimace Seat” in right-field, and, of course, seeing the iconic red apple rise after a Mets home run. But even these couldn’t disguise how overproduced and dumbed-down the whole experience has become.

Happily, the Mets won. If nothing else, I hope the kids will look back and fondly remember their old uncle and their fathers at the ballpark, the way I do mine.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 3rd, Feast of St. Pius X

September 3, 2025

King

Going through family photos, I found a picture of me with our old dog King. It brought back a flood of memories—among them, King bounding at my side, his bark echoing down the block, the devotion that made him family—and with it, my first encounter with anti-Italian hatred.

Our block was mostly Italian, but there were Irish, Germans, Greeks, and Albanians, too. We generally got along; despite rivalries and the occasional fight, there was a quiet respect and community bond that came from living shoulder to shoulder.

One evening, a drunk staggered into our open doorway—back when people in New York City still left their doors unlocked. His eyes were glazed, his speech slurred. He kept demanding to see a “guinea!” That was the first time I heard that slur.

My father stayed calm. He didn’t shout or threaten. He simply said, evenly, “I’ll get one for you.” Then he called for King, our German Shepherd.

To us kids, King was more than a dog; he was a protector and friend. To my father, he was a weapon kept in reserve. At the sound of his name, King surged forward, all muscle and teeth, growling with a ferocity no man could fake. The intruder’s bravado vanished. He staggered back, wide-eyed, as King lunged at him with terrifying force.

His screams, rivaling my mother’s frightened cries, turned from mockery to panic. He tried to flee, but King had him. My father wrestled to pull the dog off, straining at the collar. For a moment, I thought King might kill him. Finally, the drunk tore free and scurried into the night—bloodied, clothes ripped, reeking of fear (and worse).

That night, I learned two things: hatred can come to your doorstep without warning. And we weren't defenseless—not with King, and not with my father, whose quiet authority stood guard over us.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 2nd, Feast of the Holy Martyrs of September

September 2, 2025

Photo of the Week: San Rocco by Domenico Guarino in the Chiesa di Sant'Antonio, Pomarico, Matera

Photo by Andrew Giordano

Our Lady of Siluva at the Shrine Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament in Raritan, New Jersey

September 1, 2025

Simple Pleasures: A Blessed Morning

My Labor Day Monday began in the quiet hours before most had risen, when the streets still belonged to the early birds as the first light kissed the earth. Beneath a vibrant mackerel sky, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the cool wind on my face were small blessings from God.

The morning unfolded with an espresso and fresh cornetto at my local caffè, where I chatted with the barista about the weekend’s Serie A matches. From there, I stopped by the bakery for warm bread, the cheese shop for fresh mozzarella, and finally the salumeria for olives, peppers, and other antipasti to share later at our family luncheon. Along the way, I greeted familiar faces, exchanged pleasantries, and was reminded that life’s richest joys are often the simplest.

God Bless you all, Happy Labor Day.