When planning my day trips from my four-day base at Pompeii, a few different people hinted that I might want to skip going to Napoli — Naples — because it is dingy, not on the sea, and a bit unsafe. Other people said I should go, and that I’d be fine, and I ultimately sided with their opinion because I had originally thought Naples an important place to visit.
When I got off the train there, it certainly seemed different. Less pristine than many of the Italian cities, such as Sorrento, by the sea, where I’d been the day before. Naples reminded me more of Philly or Boston — nice in some areas, with some veritable, modern skyscrapers, but also some areas that seemed a bit more rundown and rougher.
In other words, it felt like home.
I picked up some mozzarella di bufala — quite possibly the best darn cheese in the world — and a meat they call speck, and I ate and wrote while seated between two skyscrapers in a mini-park where kids played soccer and popped wheelies on bicycles.
“What’s so dangerous about this place?” I wondered. “Seems fine to me.”
Little did I know.
Walking away from the park, I headed toward the city center, and after a time I happened upon another, more urban park, where I contemplated writing some more next to some other kids playing soccer.
Then I saw the basketball court.
Five Italian guys, probably between 20 and 23 years old, were playing three-on-two on an outdoor court. In my Spanish-inspired broken Italian, I asked them if I could play. They asked where I was from.
“Estati Uniti.”
“Hey!” They all gave my high fives. One was wearing a Philadelphia 76ers Allen Iverson Jersey with L.A. Lakers shorts, another an Orlando Magic jersey. One had a Michael Jordan “Jumpman” tattoo and called himself Derrick Rose.
They didn’t seem so dangerous, but I cautiously placed my backpack — with my wallet and phone and watch and reporting recorder and all-so-important notebook inside — by a bush beside the court. Then one of them told me to hang it next to their bags in a tree. So I did.
During the first game, which my team won, I looked at my bag a couple times. Seemed fine. And so did the guys, who were a fun-loving but competitive group. In the second game, after switching Iverson to the other squad, I witnessed the most heated, good-natured argument about scoreboard deficiency I’ve ever seen. My team lost the argument (somehow, we were credited with about eight points when we should have had 11), and subsequently the match.
Still no problems with my bag.
Third game, I played with Iverson again, and a girl who had come along who couldn’t have been more than 15 years old, but who could hit any open jump shot within 12 feet like she was Annie Oakley, if Annie Oakley could ball. We won, handily.
Then Iverson departed, and I agreed to play one more game.
I should have known better.
The Italians proved powerless against my baby hook shot, which got our team two early buckets. But then, while I was guarding Derrick Rose on one of his slices to the hoop, I landed on the edge of the court, badly twisting my ankle.
Game over.
I watched the rest from the sidelines, worried about how an ankle injury might do some serious damage to my trip, considering that I have 31 days of travel to go. Lugging a large suitcase and backpack all over Europe is bad enough when you have two good legs — a bum wheel is bad news bears.
After a while, I tested the foot and was at least able to walk on my own power. I grabbed my backpack — with everything in it — and said goodbye to my baller friends, telling them it was a pleasure except for the whole injury thing. I grabbed one of the area’s famous lemon slushies on my way to the train station, worried about my ankle. It seemed Ok, but it has stiffened up considerably since, and tomorrow will truly reveal how bad it’s going to affect me.
They told me Naples was dangerous. They told me to be careful.
They just didn’t tell me to stay away from the basketball court.
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