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There I was to join the Ferrari team at the Italian Grand Prix, one of 19 grand prix races Ferrari will contest around the world this year. Visiting Ferrari stirred memories of my earliest enthusiasm for Italy and its accomplishments in grand prix racing.
But it took the sheer joy of another boy in short pants for me to grasp fully what the year-old Ferrari chief had meant about dreams. I did not tell the boy, or his father, that the car was not mine. Who was I to spoil his dream, pretender though I was?
It was an experience that was to play out time and again as I drove to Monza, and from there to Bellagio, a postcard-perfect resort town on Lake Como, about 40 miles north of Monza, where I had taken a hotel room for the days of the Italian Grand Prix.
Young and old, well-heeled and not, mild-mannered townspeople and the tifosi, the enraptured Ferrari supporters who wrap themselves in Prancing Horse flags and mob the Ferrari team at Monza — all gathered around the car. After 40 years as a foreign correspondent, traveling to every corner of the globe, this was new territory for me, and for my son Jamie, a roaming photographer, who joined me for the weekend. There was something Old World, and not a little embarrassing, about the vaulting respect the FF earned us, to the point of older men doffing their hats as though the passing of our car signaled, of itself, that we must be men of a higher order.