That the movie based on my book lost its opening weekend at the box office to a flick with the word “meatball” in the title seems a slap from the backhand of fate.  After all, I’m of (mostly) Italian descent, and my fondness for sauced orbs of ground beef is well known to all with whom I’ve made acquaintance.

Homemade pasta, tomato gravy, and meatballs have been a staple of my diet for as long as I can remember.  It wasn’t until I was twelve, however, that I had my first meatball sub.  I was spending the summer with my grandparents in Providence, Rhode Island, and Grandpa Joe took me to his brother’s restaurant, the Vulterno Club.  We sat at the bar, where he ordered a meatball sandwich for me.  Meatballs in a sandwich?  I’d never heard of such a thing.  I mean, I liked sandwiches.  And I loved meatballs.  But combining the two into a single culinary delight?  What genius had this cook wrought?  Some old-timer sitting a few stools down chuckled as though I didn’t know what I was in for, warning that my impending lunch would have the size and heft of a Sunday paper—too much for a kid like me to handle.  I left not one crumb on the plate.  Ever since that day, if you’ve got a meatball sub, then I’ve got the time.

Now my beloved meatballs have undone me.  I should’ve seen it coming—I’ve watched enough mobster movies to know that when you get whacked, it’s your best friend who does the deed.  But if you’re going to come in second, better that it be to a children’s movie than an ’80s dance retread.

Besides, a world where the sky rains meatballs does sound pretty cool.