Watching Pallapugno

Text and photos by Isaac Marley Morgan

We arrived in Cortemilia as guests of Massimo Vacchetto, which, in local terms, is like arriving in Naples under the wing of Maradona. It had been over a year since we first met him, in the chill of February, 2024, alone on a court in Alba. 

Now it was June, over a year later, and the stage was set. Approaching the venue we were met with long rows of cars parked tightly against stone buildings. A crowd gathered at the ticket office housed in a small wooden hut. The air was warm with the smell of hazelnuts and Barbera, team photos being taken at the beginning, just as the sun tucked itself behind the hills, casting long shadows across the concrete court. 

“Four Tickets”

“English? Guests of Massimo!? No charge!” 

For the uninitiated, Palapugno is an ancient Italian sport that’s mostly played in a few corners of Piedmont and Liguria. Players occupy a 90 metre-long rectangular gravel pit, called a sferisterio, where, with intricately bandaged wrists featuring a tailor-made leather guard, they pummel a large rubber ball. It looks like a curious mixture of tennis, volleyball and squash… played with a closed fist.

There were no barriers, no stewards, no away fan pens. Home and visiting supporters sat elbow to elbow, while children leaned over fences, stretching to see. The stands line one side with a high fence and half a building on the other. 

Some fans were dressed for the occasion, others had come straight from working in the hills or an office job at Forrero. Some fans watched with intent, some made phone-calls and watched transiently pacing up and down the court. Others gathered at the bar, (at another wooden hut), waving notes to catch the barman’s attention. Most people knew somebody, waving and smiling and catching up while heads moved side to side like a metronome with each hit of the ball. 

“Tre birre, per favore.”

“Guests of Massimo! No charge.” 

Massimo played deep, just behind his teammates, coiling his body like a spring before unleashing it all in one explosive motion. Both feet left the ground as he swung, launching the ball long and high across the pitch. Sometimes returned, sometimes not. The centre of the court grew crowded, a scrappy knot of bodies as both sides battled to force the play deeper into enemy territory.

Cortemilia wore canary yellow and green. The scoreboard was a combination of a metal cube turned manually, and numbered plaques placed over one another by a man The scoring system much like tennis, although the winners are the first to reach 11 games. At 6-2 with no end in sight, and an early morning looming, we peeled ourselves away from the action and headed home.