PAOLO ROSSI AND MAIL FROM THE HEART (STAMP INCLUDED)
There was a time—not centuries ago, but far enough back to feel like another era—when sending a message took more than just a thumb and a screen.
You needed paper, a pen, a thought, and at least halfway decent handwriting. Most of all, you needed time. The kind of time that slips through our fingers today, but that back then was carefully set aside to write a postcard: a picture from a faraway place, a few tightly packed lines, often with the writing running vertically when space ran out. “All’s well here. The sea is beautiful. Thinking of you.” That was enough. It was a simple gesture, but a powerful one: it meant, “I thought of you even while I was far away.”
Paolo Rossi was one of those people who thought of others. Who wrote. Who sent news, not status updates. He did it even as a young man, when he wore the Bersaglieri uniform and ran more there than he ever did on the pitch. He was very young, far from home, and his postcards left with the same precision as his goals. Just a few lines to say “I’m fine”—a thoughtful, affectionate gesture, a far cry from a quick “all good” with emojis.
Then football arrived. The real thing. Away games, tours, interviews in languages he didn’t understand but picked up on the fly, goals. And the postcards kept coming. From Buenos Aires, Paris, Madrid. In every corner of the world he set foot in, Paolo remembered to write home. Not out of duty, but out of love. Because in that small rectangle of cardboard, you could tuck away affection, nostalgia, emotion. For him, communicating meant sharing, not just notifying.
Of course, every postcard needed a stamp. Yes, that tiny adhesive square that not only set the delivery in motion, but was sometimes more beautiful than the postcard itself. A miniature masterpiece: animals, monuments, even embossed butterflies. Stamps celebrated history, science, nature, and people. Some, the most special, ended up right there—immortalized forever, neatly perforated, in just a few square centimeters.
And among those illustrious faces, who do we find? None other than Paolo Rossi. Not just one, not two, but a flood of stamps in his honor. And not only in Italy, but—believe it or not—in:
Mali,
Paraguay,
Uganda, the Maldives, Dominica, North Korea, Togo, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambico, Congo, Mongolia,
the Central African Republic, Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Vincent and the Grenadine,
Gambia, Ciad,
Grenada, Spain, Algeria, Mexico, Guyana, Liberia.
It’s practically a United Nations of stamps. A list that looks like it came straight out of a school atlas, but is actually a map of the world’s tribute to a man who, with his plays and his kind face, made the whole world fall in love. It’s as if the entire world said: “This guy in the blue jersey scoring impossible goals—he’s a little bit ours, too.” An Italian hero adopted by dozens of nations, each with its own style, its own colors, and now… its own Paolo Rossi. A tremendous honor, a little peculiar, because a thoroughly Italian icon is being adopted as a hero by countries unimaginably far away.
And so you can picture a tourist traveling in Uganda, buying a postcard and choosing the Paolo Rossi stamp. Maybe they don’t even know who he is, but that smile, that blue jersey, that name, win them over. Or a collector in Nevis flipping through his album and finding “Pablito” next to Mandela or a tropical butterfly. In those images, there’s a global hero, but also the man who wrote home as a soldier, who never forgot to send news.
In short, Pablito became a legend—even by mail. And who knows, maybe even today, with all his kindness and that good-guy smile, he’d send us a postcard.
What would he write?
"All’s well here. The sky is clear. Thinking of you. Always."
Stamp included, of course.
CONFESSIONS OF A VAIN STAMP (WITH PAOLO ROSSI ON THE COVER)
Here I am: small, rectangular, perforated… and celebrated! Paolo Rossi’s face has been printed on me since the day I was born—and let’s be honest: it couldn’t have turned out better for me. Some end up with a duck, others with a tropical flower. Me? I’m a stamp with Pablito. Class, history, and a bit of a tendency to get framed.
Don’t be fooled by my size: I’m small, yes—but I carry weight! The weight of Italy ’82, goals against Brazil, tears of joy. And while your phones melt down with notifications and selfies, I, with my three by two centimeters, deliver emotion from Chad to Naples, from Dominica to Mantua. Without batting an eye. With dignity. And with glue.
I was born in incredible places: the Maldives, Paraguay, Mali, Congo… not just Rome. Paolo Rossi has been celebrated on me all over the world. And I, if I may say so, carry him around, stuck to postcards that say: “Thinking of you. Writing to you. Sending you Pablito.”
Oh, and in case you’re missing the importance of my role… know that October 9th is World Post Day. An official celebration since 1874, established by the Universal Postal Union. My day. My red carpet. And when I arrive, emails have to wait in line.
Can you believe it? Paolo Rossi—the man who made Zico cry and all of Italy sing—ends up on me. And I take him everywhere: among sand, palm trees, and black-and-white dreams.
I’m a stamp. But I’m also a miniature tribute to a giant.
And if you ever receive me… treat me well.
I’m rare, delicate.
And with Paolo on me, a little bit immortal, too.
