We were 16 hungry Albanians in Italy: Enrik Lipe reveals, after 35 years, the unheard backstage stories of Partizani

The last Partizani team of the ’80s, still dominated by Gaz Caci and Pjerin Bushati – two legends of an even more glorious Partizani. In the center, wearing a red jersey, is Pirro Leka (today a coach in Serie A in Italy). Behind him: Arjan Bacova, Sopoti, Pjerini, Tan Kuqo, Arjan Skënderi (Labi), Enrik Lipe (Riku). In front of Pirro is Auron Tare, and in front of me – Gaz Caci. Piro Papa seems to be running up. Coach: the unforgettable Astrit Greva.

This team marks the end of an era for Albanian basketball – a glorious ending. At that time, Albania was a recognized name in European basketball, with notable victories and matches against big names like Banco di Roma, Aris Thessaloniki, Ortez (France), and others.

For me, it was my first trip to the West. Staying in Pesaro for two or three days felt like a kind of blurry dream. I remember some peculiar details – a few former Partizani members from World War II looking for red stars, a strange curiosity we couldn’t quite understand. When we stepped onto the court, the spectators pointed at our Chinese sneakers – it seemed they had never seen anything like them before.

Going out in groups was not allowed – we were always together. We collected 2 dollars per person for the Head of Security, who had come empty-handed and couldn’t return without something.

But what has always stayed in my memory, and has later been retold in sports circles, including at Dinamo where the best storyteller of that team, Rama, always recounted it with great pleasure is the story of the pasta.

After arriving in Pesaro, following a tiring but unforgettable journey for us, we stayed at the Scavolini hotel. The owner, a short man with a mustache, greeted us warmly and curiously. We sat down to eat at a shared table. Our curiosity: to try Italian pasta.

We must say we only knew pasta from Italian ads that we secretly watched during the summer on southern TV stations. The pasta we had seen before was the army kind black, with burnt butter. So, we eagerly awaited to see what these “original” pastas looked like.

Pirro Leka, who spoke a little Italian, explained to the waiters that we wanted only pasta, nothing else. And they began to arrive large plates of pasta of every kind, accompanied by their names: Bolognese, Neapolitan, Calabrese...

There were 16 of us hungry boys, with no idea about Italian cuisine, and within minutes we were emptying every plate that arrived at a frightening speed. The chef, astonished, came out to see what was happening. After each plate came another with a new name.

After a long while, we all gave up. We signaled that we didn’t want any more we were full.

The hotel owner came again, smiling and very politely asked: “Would you like a digestivo?”

We, thinking it was another kind of pasta, shook our heads in refusal there was no room left in our stomachs.

At that moment, one of us, with a kind of guilt and hesitation, raised his hand and said:

“Can you change it… make it Bolognese for us? If yes, bring that too!”

“KORÇA BOOM”