Italian (early) holiday

This week I watched the Champions League clash of the titans, AC Milan vs. Barcelona, in the appropriate languages.

I viewed the first leg in a Spanish social club in New York City. It was a fiesta, really, without a word of English spoken all afternoon, and when Ludovic Giuly latched onto Ronaldinho's Picasso-esque pass for the goal, the place erupted in ol�s and sangria spills. Instinctively, we all knew we had just witnessed a twitch of genius -- and we celebrated that fact.

Then, Wednesday night, I caught the second leg here in the capital, submerged in Italian and surrounded by the usual calcio-obsessed locals. I got to read the pink sports daily's 24-7 coverage, chat with some soccer-mad locals and, I hoped, partake in a little Champions League merriment, Italian-style. Hell, I even brought my cleats just in case Milan pulled off a miracle and someone decided on a spontaneous celebratory pickup game.

But the only party last night was on Las Ramblas in Barcelona. The Blaugrana held the Rossoneri scoreless, leaving me here in Italy with nothing to do but people-watch in Trastevere and feast at Osteria Gusto till my paunch resembled the dome of Saint Peter's.

How can it be that no Italian team has made the final? Le squadre italiane are built for the long gruel of the Champions League, aren't they? Don't they all have perfect technique, efficient goal-scorers, astringent defenses and tactics seemingly devised by Da Vinci himself? Sure, they might trip now and then against a backwater team like Shakhtar Donetsk in the group stages, but their eyes-on-the-prize focus usually means they're around when the band strikes up the final tune.

Wednesday night, however, Milan slouched from the ballroom that is the Camp Nou like the kid who dressed in Armani but didn't get to dance with the pretty girl. They never really bothered Rafael M�rquez & Co., did they? Filippo Inzaghi was nonexistent. Kak� moved in slow motion. And Andriy Shevchenko -- the great Sheva -- looked frantic and desperate, shooting wildly wide on one decent chance and then only halfheartedly arguing his case after his sly little header was called back (incorrectly called back, by the way). If Dida, Milan's Brazilian goalkeeper, had not turned in a Thermopylaen performance, I Rossoneri would've received the kind of thumping usually reserved for MLS "all-star" teams visiting Spain

So what happened to the Italian teams, specifically the big boys, Milan, Juventus and Inter? Why did they all stumble in Europe this year when they seemed so determined to revenge last year's Istanbul debacle?

To put it simply, the Italians' faults lie in the very fact that they continue to approach the game in a very Italian way -- those aforementioned joyless goal scorers, constricting defenses and medieval tactics so necessary to survive in Serie A -- while the international game, led by the EPL and La Liga, moves in a delightfully different direction.

The teams that today emerge from the Mexican standoffs that continental knockout matches have become are the ones that embrace speed and panache and originality. Sure, there is still strategy, but more and more, artistry is emerging as the deciding factor. Thank God, because the late shift toward negativity was killing the game.

Last week's Milan- Barcelona first leg at San Siro seems a flashpoint in the new world order. Both teams were trying to break through, and everyone within view of a TV knew it was going to take bit of artistry to do so. Then, midway through the second half, Ronaldinho shrugged off Gennaro Gattuso and curled a perfect ball into the path of Giuly, who also should be given credit for a brilliant, intuitive run. To me, that pass resembled one of those single-line sketches that Picasso used to do when he was just doodling. Blithe but masterful.