So Fine a Stadium: A Life in Five Sporting Moments

I am a sports fan.

As a kid I played rugby, cricket, and running, representing my high school, KBHS, in all three sports.

And, of course, plenty of backyard cricket with Kim, my best sidekick-sister-mate—my southern hemispherical Huckleberry Finn.

These days, I’m a couch coach—screaming and yelling plays at the telly when I’m watching a game of note. But on rare occasions, I do visit an iconic stadium.

For that to happen, one, some, or all these criteria need to be met:

1. I am emotionally vested in one of the competing teams, including cursing the ref when he makes a bad call against my team. Suffered as the Bard stated in Hamlet, “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” and heartbreaking defeat. And even...prayed to Almighty God to take a break from running the universe to Bless my team with a victory. Pathetic? Desperate? Maybe. To quote the final words of Edgar Allan Poe (according to his attending physician Dr. John Joseph Moran), “Lord, help my poor soul.”

2. I attend the game with my crew, posse, best mates, fam, or loved ones.

3. The stadium/arena must be iconic, have a history with the community, and be a special space with a vibe and ambience that I want to experience again and again and again.

Here’s a list of the top five stadiums I have visited and watched games, from the most recent to the distant past.

December 27, 2025. SoFi Stadium
1001 S. Stadium Drive
Inglewood, CA 90301
Los Angeles Chargers versus Houston Texans
Texans won, 20-16.

In November 2016, construction began on SoFi Stadium. Rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the Hollywood Park Racetrack, which was demolished in 2014, it officially opened on September 8, 2020.

With a price tag in the billions (that’s a capital “B”), the 3.1-million-square-foot stadium seats approximately 70,000 and is the largest stadium in the NFL. It is also the first indoor-outdoor stadium.

Continuing with the B-word, SoFi Stadium is Big, Bold, and Beautiful. And the county—Los Angeles—in which it is located bustles with Beautiful people with Big, Bold dreams who expect Big winners!

The stadium was christened on Sunday, February 13, 2022, when Super Bowl LVI took place. In this matchup, the hometown Los Angeles Rams defeated the Cincinnati Bengals, 23–20.

On Saturday, April 1, 2023, WrestleMania 39, “WrestleMania Goes Hollywood” took place at SoFi Stadium. Some of my favourite peeps-posse-fam—B-Man, Chris, Kim, Denise, and Grandpa—attended Night 1 of a red-hot ticket, two-night event.

Later, as B-Man fondly recalled, “Everybody loved Grandpa: His aura was infectious, and it was easy to see why I remember many people asking to take pictures with him outside the stadium. This brought me great joy because if it weren’t for him and Uncle Miguel, Chris and I wouldn’t be the fans that we are today, and for that I’m forever grateful.”

By 1:33 p.m., I had nestled my nates in Section 542, Row 17, Seat 11. My posse included my wife, Teresa, daughter G, and her beau, Brandon. My seat included a bird’s-eye view of the field and Infinity (the screen, mate, the screen). It was game on, bolt up!

The bolt did not come from the blue and yellow, for within the first six minutes, C.J. Stroud had thrown two long touchdowns on Houston Texans’ first two drives. By halftime (14-3), I was feeling the blues, and left singing ’em.

July 17, 2019. Angel Stadium
2000 E Gene Autry Way
Anaheim, CA 92806
Los Angeles Angels versus Houston Astros/MLB Baseball
Houston won 11-2.

Happy birthday, sis!

And here we were at Angel Stadium to watch the Los Angeles Angels play the Houston Astros. A perfect way to celebrate my sister Kim’s birthday: watching a sports game live with my best sporting-mate-sis-fan!

Let me clarify: I am a sports fan; Kim is a sports fan riding/sculling a Red Bull! She talks the talk—rugby, cricket, rugby league—and don’t get her started on Australian Brisbane Broncos player “Alf” Langer, or South African cricketer Jonty Rhodes!

And when push comes to punch, she’s got a mean left hook (one time she gutted me with a blow so intense, it took all my thespian skills to smirk it off). Many a childhood afternoon, we played our own international cricket matches in the backyard. I was always a B-A-S-T-A-R-D, never cutting my younger sister any slack; she a C-O-M-P-E-T-I-T-O-R, never quitting, ever.

As we entered the stadium on that fine Wednesday evening—warm, clear, quintessential Southern California weather—the irony of naming moniker did not escape me: two sibling “angels” enjoying time together at this glorious stadium. As kids in West Auckland, New Zealand, the term “naughty devils” was frequently bandied about by some of the rellies (fortunately, this game was being played on a field, not ice; in Anaheim, not New Jersey).

Things did not go heavenly for the darling Angels in the outfield, infield, pitcher’s mound, or home plate. Grrr—in part due to the pitching of Astros’ Gerrit Cole and a three-run homer by George Springer in the fifth innings.

Despite the loss, we did get to see Shohei Ohtani before he became “SHOHEI OHTANI.” And as almost foreshadowing his future free agency signing, my sister did quip to me on our exit, “We should have gone to a Dodgers game.”

March 29, 2015. MCG
Brunton Ave
Richmond VIC 3002
Australia
New Zealand versus Australia/ ICC Cricket World Cup Final
Australia won the match by 7 wickets.

MCG. The “G.” G-zero of the heart of Australian sport. Located in Yarra Park, it is one of the blue-blood stadiums of sporting venues with a long, sacred history.

In 1877, it became the birthplace of Test Cricket when it hosted the very first Test match ever played (Australia versus England). It was also the main venue for the 1956 Summer Olympics and the 2006 Commonwealth Games.

On March 15, 1956, this sacred ground also hosted America’s Pastor, The Reverend Billy Graham, when he held a historic religious crusade.

On March 29, 2015, the ICC final was a day-night match. My crew included my wife, Teresa, my sis Kim, her husband, Len, and 93,009 other spectators. Got my derrière to Level 4, Q37, Row FF, Seat 7. Game on.

New Zealand won the toss and elected to bat first.

I can’t believe I’m here at the MCG watching New Zealand take on our perennial nemesis Australia in the final. Pinch me!

My reality check came in the first over when New Zealand Captain Brendon McCullum was bowled for a duck by Mitchell Starc; I knew duck/kiwi-hunting season was now officially open. In 45 overs (out of a maximum of 50), we scored 183 runs. Australia reached 186/3 in 33.1 overs to win the game.

After it was all over, Teresa and I ducked out to avoid any trash-talking from the victorious Australians. None came. They were graceful winners. Even my best mate, Aussie filmmaker/auteur Mark Savage, whom I love to chaff whenever the All Blacks wallop the Wallabies, remained silent. Add “Gentleman” to his résumé!

And “Chagrined” to mine.

Years later when I asked him about his verbal restraint, he quipped with typical Aussie assurance, “Why would I need to sh*t on your cricket team; they’re miserable enough!”

Ouch.

July 28, 2011. Fenway Park
4 Jersey St.
Boston, MA 02215
Boston Red Sox versus Kansas City Royals/MLB Baseball
Royals won 4–3.

Boston is one of my cherished world cities (tip of the Jacaru also to Auckland, Edenborough, Las Vegas, London, Melbourne, Nashville, Rome…) Its history, culture, accent, and vibe all enchant me. And they do know how to throw a tea party!

The city has had its fair share of famous visitors: When Paramahansa Yogananda first visited America, aboard The City of Sparta, he arrived at Harbor Pier in Boston, on September 19, 1920.

Visiting Titletown was part of an East Coast road trip I took with Teresa and the sprogs. My mum, who was visiting from New Zealand, also joined us.

On a warm, sunny New England Thursday afternoon, my eldest daughter, Sadie, and I visited Fenway Park, the oldest continually operating ballpark in Major League Baseball, as part of a dad-daughter day (none of the others were interested in attending). We were there to eat pretzels, see the Green Monster, sing “Sweet Caroline,” and cheer on the Red Sox. We were there to enjoy, in her words, “a fun day!” My word: together.

We did all that and more, including watching Royals Billy Butler hit a knock-your-socks-off fourth inning, three-run home run off Red Sox starter Josh Beckett. Ouch.

Sadie left with a pair of red socks; I with a contented heart.

February 1975. Eden Park.
42 Reimers Avenue
Kingsland, Auckland 1024
New Zealand
New Zealand versus England/Cricket
England won by an inning and 83 runs.

Spending time with my father, “hanging out,” involved toiling alongside him in the orchard during all hours of the day and night. His given name was Paul, but in reality, he was the reincarnation of Sisyphus, and I was Sisyphus’s son. His shoulder-to-the-boulder assistant to the never-ending tasks, jobs, errands, and duties fate had assigned us.

One fateful morn, as we ate breakfast in ritualistic monastic silence, Dad glanced up from the sports section of The New Zealand Herald and said, “The English cricket team is in town. They’re playing New Zealand at Eden Park today. Wanna go?”

I was completely caught off guard. Dad was serious—but in a good way!

With a mouthful of food, I struggled to reply. I swallowed slowly on juicy pieces of lamb to prolong my reaction time.

Would I like to go? Would I like to go? Are you kidding me? A day away from the orchard so I can hang out with Glenn Turner, Geoff Howarth, Dayle Hadlee, Ewen Chatfield, and my dad! Together, I’m sure we could teach these pommes a thing or two about the game they had created. Let’s go!

“Sure, Dad. Thanks.”

I replied with a controlled amount of enthusiasm and sincerity. Dad was not one who indulged a sprog’s flashy displays of emotion, and I did not want to jinx the experience. Today was to be a day of relaxation, a day of cricket, a day of father and son.

Dad slid his empty plate toward me. “Wash up the dishes, and I’ll meet you at the car.”

So this is what it’s like to die and go to heaven. Eden. Stadium of Eden. Eden Park, here we come…

…Eden, Fenway, MCG, Angel, SoFi: each so fine a stadium, a cavernous cauldron of percolating memories, shared moments, and the sweet taste of fandom.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2026

Dear Reader,

Share some of your favourite sporting venues and memories created there.

Meet Shaboozey: The Hip-Hop Country Cowboy America Didn't Know It Needed

“Make America cowboy again.”

Recently, I saw this sticker on the back of a Toyota hatchback whilst ponying along Poinsettia Avenue in Vista, California. 

Pulls the reins there, Kiwi cowboy; tap those breaks!

The Toyota sped off before I could take a picture of the sticker, but its message had already opened the great plains of my imagination...Personally, I think a Mustang—metallic blue 1964½ Ford Mustang Coupe—would have been a more suitable vehicle to affix such messaging, but that’s just me.

A tip of the black Jacaru to the sentiment, but I say we raise the stakes: Let’s give America a singing cowboy again!

I know what you’re thinking (with your imaginary Duke impression): “Whoa, take 'er easy there, pilgrim! What’s wrong with Ken Maynard, Gene Autry, Tex Ritter, Herb Jeffries, and Roy Rogers?"

Nothing. High-five to those legends; love and listen to them all. But we need to add a new stable to the Pantheon of singing cowboys, and I have just the man to get “back in the saddle again.”

Shaboozey!

Who?

Collins Obinna Chibueze. Born in Woodbridge, Virginia to Nigerian parents.

Say that three times. Chibueze, Shabueze, Shaboozey (a stage name that stemmed from his high school football coach mispronouncing his Nigerian last name) whilst enjoying libations with your posse.

Our trails crossed for the very first time on Thursday, October 23, 2025. The first Week 8 game of the NFL Season on Thursday Night Football on Prime Video had the Los Angeles Chargers pitted against the Minnesota Vikings (the Chargers savaged the Vikings 37-10; tip of the Jacaru to Coach Harbaugh, Herbert, McConkey, Allen, and the lads). The post-game performer for the Amazon Music Live series was Shaboozey!

If anyone is ready for Prime Time, it’s this singing cowboy!

Dressed in a brown leather vest, chaps, fringe, boots, cowboy hat, with a concho belt, Shaboozey looked and sang the part. But this was no act: Shaboozey is an authentic artist who combines e pluribus unum-style country, Americana, and hip-hop music into a sound that is his own. Ironically, the opening number of the Amazon Music Live concert was “Last of My Kind.” Nah, sir, one of a kind!

Or as you gave voice/song to: “You won't never find another like me, I'm the last of my kind.”

As Shaboozey opened the concert, his unique voice captured the country music vibe that’s hard to epitomize in words. But to paraphrase Justice Potter Stewart’s famous opinion, “I know it when I hear it.” There’s a sincerity, a grit, an expression of the wistfulness of the heart.

But “Debbie Downer” is not in the setlist. Each song is its own musical ode that invites one’s inner Wayne's World characters Wayne or Garth (your choice) to groove and sway along with the song (please no beat-up Pacer; 1964 ½ Ford Mustang Coupe).

The effect of Shaboozey’s music on me was immediate. Up from the couch, this human spud transformed into a curly fry, springing up and down to the music. The studio audience at the live event was equally appreciative. Considering it took place after an NFL game, all that was missing was NFL quarterback Russell Wilson, dressed to the threes as his Denver Bronco incarnation, shout out, “Let’s ride.”

As I was getting on my country two-step—quick, quick, slow, slow—my wife entered the living room.

"Ever seen this artist before?" I asked, keeping my groove going.

"No," she replied, "but he sure does break the stereotype."

Indeed. Great talent does that and its part of the DNA and genius of America. Each generation reinvents and revitalizes its version of the American dream—including the singing cowboy.

During the concert Shaboozey asked the audience, “Are y’all ready for the greatest show in America?”

My final answer: Again and again and again.

Copyright © 2025

Tag someone who needs to hear Shaboozey!

Get Thee to a Nunnery!

“Get thee to a nunnery!”

I’m serious.

Too harsh?

As we all know this command is from the Bard’s Hamlet. In Act 3, Scene 1, the title character, The Prince of Denmark, distraught and of tenuous mental state, delivers it with vitriol to Ophelia. And it has remained in our collective repertoire of famous theatrical one-liners for over four hundred years.

Let’s take it down a notch…hmm…how about “With sound mind and fair heart, I do declare: Get thee to The House of St. Bridget in Assisi, Italy.”

Recently, I did. ’Tis true, ’tis true, and I loved it!

What? How did you, a country lad from West Auckland, New Zealand, end up there?

To quote another of Hamlet’s lines: “That is the question.”

And I’ll address it, so don’t get a bee in your black veil. But first some context. The House gets its name from Saint Bridget (1303—1373). “The Mystic of the North” was a Catholic born in Sweden to a wealthy family related to Swedish royalty. As a child she had mystic visions, and after the passing of her husband in 1344 went on to found the Bridgettines (Order of the Most Holy Savior).

In 1349, she travelled to Rome and remained there (she did make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem) until her passing. In 1999, Pope John Paul II declared Saint Bridget one of the Patron Saints of Europe. She is also the Patron Saint of widows and Sweden. The Swedish apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, for Saint Bridget’s fourth child became Saint Catherine of Sweden.

Today, besides Europe, The Order of the Most Holy Savior of Saint Bridget has a presence in the Middle East, Asia, North America, Central America, and Cuba.

And in answer to “that question”: my daughter Dani recommended it to me. She betook herself there on a trip to Italy and is a lass who appreciates transcendent experiences. (The kiwifruit doesn’t fall far from the vine.) By email, I simply contacted Sister Marcellina in Assisi and made a booking for my wife and me.

I acknowledge as a tourist, you have many choices in accommodation from the usual chain conglomerate suspects, Airbnb, to even boutique hotels. I posit, considering the location, location, location of Assisi what could be more boutique and budget-friendly than The House of St. Bridget in Assisi?

The simplicity, silence, and solitude offered there permits one to step back from perennially taking selfies to a more introspective “Know thy Self[ie]” (tip of the Jacaru to the famous Delphic maxim inscribed on the Temple of Apollo). A chance to be still in body and mind; “be still and know that I am God” stillness.

Please don’t assume that you must be Catholic to stay there. I’m not. Whether you’re an atheist, agnostic, sinner, or saint, C & E in mass attendance or as Catholic as Pope Leo XIV—all are welcome.

As the website of The Order of the Most Holy Savior of St. Bridget states, “The enchanting countryside and the warm welcome of the Bridgettine sisters make this house an ideal place for a pleasant holiday.” Let’s take it up a notch: more pleasant, nay, most pleasant holiday!

The countryside, aka, The Green Heart of Italy, provided us the opportunity for truffle tasting and a museum tour near Perugia; wine tasting in Montefalco; olive tasting in Monte del Lago; a ferry ride to Isola Maggiore; and the highlight of the trip: paying prayerful homage and respect to Saint Clare and Saint Francis at their respective basilicas in Assisi.

Our last day concluded with a seven o’clock morning mass in Italiano, and a simple but scrumptious breakfast with our hostess, Sister Citadal, a nun who beamed a gracious smile with service, and humility. Afterward whilst packing my suitcase and woofing down fresh olives my wife, Teresa, had purchased from a street vendor, I did see from my window a rainbow, a divine assurance that all is well.

Indeed.

So: get thee; go thee; you’ll thank me!

Copyright © 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Blinded by the Light

“Blinded by the Light. Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night” (singing).

What?

“Blinded by the Light. Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night” (singing).

What?

Love that Manfred Mann’s Earth Band song. Always cranked it on Radio Hauraki when it was played. The Chopsticks variation melody, the pulsating of the cymbals in the opening—the chances for air guitar during the guitar riffs—“Blinded by the light. Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night” (singing plus air guitar).

Whoa, mate, hold those verbal horses. What did you sing in the second line?

Wrapped up like a douche, another runner in the night.

Nah, mate. “Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”

Not even, ow. I’ve been stuffing that up forever. Cut me some slack, bro; I’m as old as vinyl.  As Mr. Morgan, my English teacher, would say: “Lad, you’ve just committed a monk’s degree.”

Mondegreen…oh, you’re taking the piss out of me.

Any chance I can. Seriously, I didn’t know the correct lyrics. In fact, one of the reasons I loved “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band” was that the lyrics were printed on the back cover of the album. And lemme guess: “deuce” is not a tennis reference?

A "deuce” coupe is a classic 1932 Ford two-door car.

My poppa worked for Bignell & Holmes, a Ford dealership in Gisborne, New Zealand. I wonder if he ever serviced one of those bad boys!

While we have the engine revving, there’s more: Manfred Mann’s Earth Band “Blinded by the Light” is a cover. It was written by Bruce Springsteen.

I’m gobsmacked. New Jersey’s favourite son—The Boss.

Yeah, bro. It appeared on his ’73 debut album, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J.

Well, aren’t you the DJ du jour. If we’re going old school, then I’m going old school of yore! No rock songs, no rock stars, no rock concerts—just rocks on the Road to Damascus.

Road to Damascus?

Yes, wasn’t there a bloke also blinded by the light?

Saint Paul. It can happen when you look at The Son of He who proclaimed, “Let there be light.”

Is it blasphemous for me to say, “Let us be lighthearted”?

No. God has a sense of humour. For me, it’s a fascinating subject. You know physical light acts as both a particle and a wave.

Well, aren’t you the physicist du jour; a regular Albert Einstein. Enlighten me.

His famous equation—E=mc²—does include light. Have you ever thought about what it means?

It’s on my mental to-do list. Right up there after memorizing pi. For now, I’m still trying to figure out how we got from Springsteen to Einstein.

Spinning a yarn. Basically, Einstein shows that the energy of any object is equal to its mass multiplied by the square of the velocity of light.

186,000 miles per second.

You did stay awake in physics at KBHS. From the equation we can determine that the speed of light is a mathematical constant. That the mass of an object increases with its velocity, and that it can never achieve the speed of light.

Not even hooning around on the back roads of West Auckland?

No, bro.

(Singing): “But, Mama, that’s where the fun is!”

Between bros, only an object with infinite mass could equal the speed of light.

Sounds metaphysical.

I’ll let you know when I get there.

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Yes, Mate—I'm Now On Substack

 https://substack.com/@kiwieagle64

boon eat + drink

Boon.

Cool word, eh!

Regular readers to my blog know I am unashamedly a word nerd, and "boon" was a recent word-of-the-day discovery during my diurnal dive into Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda.

First some housekeeping: Our mates at Merriam-Webster define the noun “boon” as:

1. a timely benefit : blessing.

2. benefit, favor, especially one that is given in answer to a request.

Of course, as a lad growing up in New Zealand, I knew the word “Boone,” Daniel (RIP, Fess Parker) that is, from the telly. And for those old enough to remember the American action/adventure TV show, sing it with me:

Daniel Boone was a man,

Yes, a big man!

With an eye like an eagle

And as tall as a mountain was he!

On the sylvan playground of a West Auckland kiwifruit orchard, this boy often pretended to be this “man.” My Red Band gumboots were my “rawhide shoes” and yes, I did once throw a small axe at a tree hoping to split it in two. Ah, “what a dream-come-a-truer was ‘me!’”

Fast-forward to May, 2025 and the verdant playground of yesteryear was now sunny Sonoma County, California, on a getaway weekend with my wife, Teresa. The “coonskin cap on the top of ol’ Stevie" was my signature black Jacaru, and our trails concerned the majesty of Wine Country.

To my delight, my word-nerd eagle eye spotted “boon eat + drink” in the search results during an online query of places to eat. What a boon! A farm-to-table bistro by chef/owner Crista Luedtke in Guerneville offered a chance to eat + drink + reinforce a newly acquired word to my vocabulary.

I had to eat at this restaurant. I had to drink at this bistro. I had to know why the word “boon” was in the name. Menu, ratings, and reviews have their place—but for this patron diction was the overriding reason to visit. My wife and I headed off posthaste to 16248 Main Street, Guerneville, California snuggled in the Russian River Valley.

After we were seated, the cozy and hip ambiance of the place washed over us. Festive, too (three ladies at an adjacent table were wearing birthday party hats). If additional singers were needed to meet the socially acceptable “happy birthday” quorum, my wife and I were ready.

Marisa, our waitress, a cheerful lady of unfeigned mien, provided us with menus and an opportunity to voice a question yearning emancipation from the tip of my tongue.

“Marisa, I’m curious as to why the word 'boon' is in the name of the bistro. I know it means a timely benefit or blessing, but what’s the backstory on its use?"

“Boon was the name of the owner’s black-and-white rescue dog. He’s since passed on, a few years ago.”

The naming itch had been scratched; it was time to eat + drink.

“Anything you recommend?” asked Teresa.

“Everything is good. The shishito peppers are very popular.”

Good, nay, great they were: forget diction, benediction, all-hail-to-the-kitchen good! We followed that with seared duck breast served over fennel puree and spring veggies (moi), and pan-seared salmon with black lentils, kale, brown butter, smoked yogurt and blistered tomatoes (Teresa).

As I savoured every mouthful, pairing with a Golden State Cider, I was reminded of my parents’ dining rule of “always eat everything on your plate.” I honoured them both—and then some!

Tip of the Jacaru to Boon the dog; dear reader, go visit this delightful bistro and eat + drink.

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books:

Grazie, Sal Da Vinci & Arisa, Grazie, Grazie!

Grazie.

It's Italian for...never mind, enough said.

Scusa. There's more.

Grazie.

I heard that word a lot at the Sound Waves Theater at the Hard Rock Casino and Hotel in Atlantic City, New Jersey. My beloved wife had won a weekend stay in Boardwalk City, which also included dinner reservations and tickets to a show.

Grazie.

At 8 P.M. sharp on Saturday, March 29, 2025, we were in the Sound Waves lobby awaiting entry to the show. As I people watched, stayed out of the way of the CIAO USA TV crew, and eavesdropped on conversations, one salient, Lake Garda-like realization dawned on me: everyone was speaking Italian. Everyone—young and old. And tonight's concert would also be all in italiano.

Geographically this made sense. From the late 19th to the early 20th centuries, lots of Italian immigrants settled in New Jersey, contributing significantly to the social fabric. Why wouldn't there be enough Italian-speaking Americans to support a concert in italiano?

However—mea culpa—beside the word for "thank you," my Italian is limited: pizza, Lamborghini, Papa, pecorino, Sagrantino di Montefalco. Certainly not enough to explain the Pythagorean theorem (I prefer Greek for that), and not enough to understand every word of what was to be sung. But I know good music when I hear it (whatever the language) and I was ready to be entertained.

Furthermore, I currently live in Los Angeles, so am used to navigating a multilingual world. My beloved wife is the daughter of Mexican immigrants, so I hear (and speak) Spanish every day. And growing up in New Zealand, especially in Auckland, I would often hear Te Reo Māori, Tongan, Samoan, Niuean and others.

An air of anticipation filled the theater as we were guided to our seats (A 11-12). And then... Arisa came out on stage, nay, glided out on stage. With shoulder length hair, and a full-length black gown, she was a personification of grace, beauty, and class. Her high cheek bones accentuated a dignified countenance; I could not wait to hear this woman sing.

And sing she did—passionate, heartfelt songs (if I may borrow from another Romance language: joie de vivre!) that resonated with the audience. Between songs, Arisa would converse with the audience...one time I believe she was thanking and declaring her love for her mother. We all were.

At the end of her performance, Arisa taped a selfie of herself and her bandmates. In the background, the audience is waving and cheering with gratitude and enthusiasm, myself included.

Later research revealed that Arisa is actually the stage name for Rosalba Pippa, born in Genoa, Italy. "Arisa" is an acronym arranged from the first letters of her family members' names: A (dad Antonio), R (herself Rosalba), I (sister Isabella), S (sister Sabrina), and A (mum Assunta). My acronym would be: A Really Iconic Soulful Artist.

The next and final performer was Sal Da Vinci. The man exuded charm, charisma, and knew how to work an audience. And work it he did—belting out song after song to a widely appreciative audience (the folks who self-identified from Naples had their own banner).

The last time I had seen such stage presence and magnetism was when I saw Michael Damian as Joseph in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in Los Angeles at the Pantages Theatre on Thursday, April 15, 1993 (Dear Diary, grazie).

The other dynamic in Sal Da Vinci's performance was the crown interaction—from a baby in a carrier to elderly patrons with walkers—and everyone age group in between, all were so into this artist. Teenage girls, their mums, and grandparents too would regularly stand up and sing along with Mr. Da Vinci. By the end of the night my wife and I were standing up and "singing" along! We were fans; we were with la famiglia.

In September, 2025, my wife and I will be holidaying in Italy. But on this March evening, in the Sound Waves Theater, Italy came to America. 

Grazie, Sal Da Vinci & Arisa, grazie, grazie!

🥝🥝🥝🥝

© 2025

Stephen J. Groak Books: