By Sal Guarino
When a mutual friend introduced Robert Nicolosi (then 29) and me (34) for the first time in a New York City pizzeria in 2002, he had no idea that the key ingredients for a lifetime friendship between us were already in place, just waiting to be assembled. Like a chunk of fresh Italian mozzarella, simple tomato sauce, and a small handful of basil, all set properly upon a thin-crust dough, ready to merge wonderfully in the oven, Rob’s and my New York City/Italian American upbringing, love of the New York Yankees, and unspoken belief that our Italian roots gave us a secret special edge over our American counterparts, little time was needed for our personal connection to congeal into something special – a whole that soon transcended the sum of its parts.
After introducing us, our well-intentioned friend, whose last name does not end in a vowel, suggested a few gourmet pies we might enjoy. He was naïve to the fact that his recommending pizza to Rob and me was akin to an eight-year-old kid who fancied the stars sharing his opinions on celestial bodies with Carl Sagan. Thankfully, his childlike exuberance did serve up a ready-made opportunity for Rob and me to assess each other’s pizza acumen, a fundamental prerequisite to any legitimate friendship with another paisan. After exchanging a few barely audible utterances via a private Italian American food dialect composed of grunts and demonstrative body language, undecipherable to our suddenly culturally excluded friend, about how crust should always be thin and well-done, the sacred balance of cheese and sauce, and that there was no legitimacy to such a thing as pizza with any words preceding it (deep-dish-pizza is an abomination), we advanced to the next important criterion of personal validity.
“Yankees?” I asked. There was no need to offer a qualifying question about whether Rob followed baseball or to frame the inquiry in an either/or format that would have required mentioning the secondary New York baseball team. The wrong answer to either of these questions would have drastically limited the depth of our potential friendship anyhow, so being true to my practiced habits of New York candor and brevity, I omitted the interrogatory extras.
“Of course!” Rob snorted simply.
With the basics now out of the way, as our mothers might have referred to clearing their kitchen counters and setting out the right preparation materials for cooking Sunday dinner, we could now proceed with getting to know each other. Perhaps comically considering today’s technology, much of our early exchanges came in the form of Yankee game score updates via text-messages when one of us couldn’t access a game directly. The frequency and tenor of the updates requested depended on the importance of the game, of course. Trusting each other to execute the provision of such vital information in a timely and balanced manner was critically important, as each of us was raised with his share of wonderfully dysfunctional, emotional dependency around baseball and the Yanks.
Rob’s great-grandparents emigrated from southern Italy in the 1920’s via Ellis Island, settling in Queens, NY around the same time my grandparents trekked from Naples to Brooklyn. Other than the clothes on their backs, they brought little more than a few fistfuls of hope, perseverance, and Italian optimism – products of an ancient culture whose habitual penchant for focusing on the joy in life had been paradoxically forged out of the unpredictability of eternally warring city-states and a long history of political and cultural tumult and disunity.
Our enduring friendship has been easy though – the way it should be. Just as water naturally seeks its own level, our consistent support of each other over two+ decades has been buoyed by a shared sense of gratitude for a truth our forefathers often took comfort in, that things could be worse. Much of our compatibility comes from embracing many such stereotypically immigrant values of our predecessors, such as working hard, being a stand-up guy, honoring personal trust and confidentiality, believing that God exists and is greater than we are, providing a seat at the table to those who need one, and being fiercely dedicated to family and friends. Victimhood does not have a spot on this list of ideals. It didn’t exist in the hearts and minds of our ancestors who crossed the Atlantic a century ago.
When mental illness hit Rob’s family suddenly and hard, he called, and I answered. While some of my feedback was practical, based upon experience, most came in the form of listening and calmly reflecting his array of difficult emotions. When I divorced and faced emotional and financial devastation, the same occurred in reverse. No catch-all solutions or impatient, selfish need to provide his opinion contaminated our exchange. Steady conversation, age-old empathy, and solution-focused encouragement constituted the recipe offered for making a much-needed emotional U-turn. These and a dozen other tough times over the years resulted in opportunities for mutual support and the deepening of an already close friendship anchored in truth, resilience, and optimism. Life was not always trying. There have also been hundreds of joyfully shared pizzas, properly prepared, and over 3,000 Yankee games to rejoice or commiserate over, including one of each shared virtually just yesterday!
Today’s world, especially in the U.S., often lauds diversity of everything above all else, including balance and common sense. The fallacy that different MUST be better is routinely taken to absurd extremes. I’m glad to have a lifelong friend in Rob who sees the world mostly as I do, including sharing my belief that much of it has gone a bit crazy.
Sal Guarino
Born in Brooklyn, NY, now settled in Centro with his Mexican wife, Sal brings a rich set of life experiences to the table. “SALudos de San Miguel!” shares his joy for living through a lens of gratitude and positivity here in SMA. Sal’s first book “SALutations!” was published in 2018. Contact: salguarino@gmail.com
