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The game begins. Dani is good — her first toss is a strike, or whatever they say, but the old man gets his ball down almost perfectly, and he knocks Dani's ball out of the way. He yells out something in Italian, and the crowd roars their approval.
Dani's got a problem.
Every ball she throws, she misses, but barely; every ball the old man throws, he hits. It's like watching a toddler run out onto a Major League baseball field and try to win a game against the Yankees. It's perfect.
The crowd loves it. They cheer louder for each near miss by Dani and each strike by the old man.
In the third round of their match, the old man hits a perfect shot, which sends Dani's ball flying right out of bounds, and he raises his hand in glorious triumph.
Then clutches his other hand to his chest. A shocked gasp breaks through his lips. He crumples to the ground, face going gray, and several of the younger men scramble to his side.
From the crowd, an elderly woman calls out, "He needs his pills. They're in his pocket. Get him his pills and he'll be fine."
After a heart-racing moment, someone fishes inside the old man's pocket, retrieves the pills, and gets them in his mouth. The old man swallows, color shortly returns to his face, and with the aid of several of the young men, he hobbles off the court.
The clipboard man then steps forward and raises Dani's arm.
"And the winner by disqualification: Danielle Green."
Everyone claps — especially several of the oldest members of the bocce competitors, who cheer loudly as well — and I drown my frustration with another beer.
Dani looks at me and smiles. "Aren't I doing great, honey? I think I'm learning how this game works."
I wave, and somehow stop myself from responding with a one-finger salute.
The matches continue, and when she's not putting her pitching prowess on display, Dani's huddled amongst Italian grandpas who I realize aren't smiling and leering at her like predators, they're giving her advice, input, doting on her like she’s their granddaughter. They've taken her under their wing, delighting in sharing their knowledge with a talented young woman who's showing an interest in their favorite pastime.
Dani advances.
She wins again, and again, and again.
With each match, I'm forced to admit she's stronger and more capable of blending in than I gave her credit for. This event's a humbling one, sure, but it's not Dani who's being forced to face facts. It's me.
The last match begins, and it's Dani against a man who looks like he's one of the groomsmen. He's in his mid-thirties, with slick hair and a smirk like he believes all of us belong on our knees, groveling for whatever skull-fucking he deigns to give us.
After just a look at his smug face, I need an entire beer to drown the hateful fire in my gut.
Suddenly, I'm not hoping for Dani to be humbled. I'm cheering for her.
At the start of the match, I'm on my feet, watching, clapping, cheering as her first tosses land exactly where they need to be, in places just fractions better than the punchable prick she's competing against.
The first few rounds go to Dani, but then, with a twisted look on his face, the prick mounts a furious comeback until it's tied going into the final toss.
Tied.
And I'm on my feet, hollering for Dani to kick ass as she steps up to her last throw.
I want her to win. Not just win, but dominate this Mafia motherfucker and send him crying back to his nonna.
She throws. With skill, precision, and grace, showing off every bit the expert pitcher that she is. I may not know much about bocce, but even I know that the toss she makes is one for the ages; it lands on the court with perfect placement and I pump my fist in the air, exultant, as the crowd erupts in cheers.
Dani's toss has put her on the verge of victory, and everyone knows it.
When the cheers die down, the Mafioso sets himself to take his final throw. He has one chance to win; he needs the perfect toss, and everyone watching knows he's not nearly man enough to pull it off.
The ball arcs through the air, graceful. It's a good throw, but not good enough.
It lands. He loses.
