In Rome, the real national sport isn't soccer. It's betting on the next pope

ROME (OSV News) -- If you thought Italians were only obsessed with soccer, think again. With the conclave to elect Pope Francis' successor still days away, a different game has taken over the Eternal City. Welcome to "toto-cardinale" -- a spirited, slightly irreverent, and utterly Italian ritual of guessing who will be the next pope, called by the betting market, prohibited in Italy, "toto-papa."

It's as if all of Rome, from altar boys to taxi drivers, has suddenly become conclave experts. The Vatican may keep the Sistine Chapel under tight security, but out in the streets, piazzas, and even trattorias, the speculation runs wild -- and everyone is certain they know who's in pole position.

Security volunteers as papal pundits

Outside the Vatican walls, where journalists from every corner of the globe have flocked -- many of whom wouldn't know the Filipino Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle from Cardinal Peter Turkson of Ghana -- another class of expert emerges: the civil protection volunteers from the region of Emilia Romagna, deployed to keep order among the pilgrims. With blue and yellow vests and walkie-talkies, they're supposed to be pointing mourning pilgrims to St. Peter's Basilica. Instead, they're huddling with reporters, trading inside tips on cardinal sightings.

"We've been playing 'toto-cardinale' all morning," admits one volunteer, between showing pilgrims the correct entrance for the security check under the Bernini Colonnade. "Jean-Marc Aveline, from Marseille in France, he's strong -- best of the Europeans. Maybe Anders Arborelius from Stockholm, Sweden, too. But Pierbattista Pizzaballa, the Italian Patriarch of Jerusalem? Too 'papabile.' Those who go in as pope, come out as cardinals, you know?" the volunteer told OSV News, pointing to another Italian word fancy these days meaning a cardinal who is a top contender for the papacy.

When pressed for his sources, he leans in, lowers his voice, and flashes a conspiratorial grin: "I went to school with one of the cardinals. We're lifelong friends, and he had me over for dinner on Monday (the day of Pope Francis' death, April 21)."

"You see, he's papabile … and I value my friendships over making the news. Especially if he does become the successor of Peter!"

The sacred napkin of Hostaria Da Roberto

Just around the corner is Hostaria Da Roberto. "Rigatoni alla norcina," or pasta served with a creamy white sauce featuring sausage, is holy here, and cardinals have been known to tuck in. Now, with the new possible pope being as hot of a topic as pasta taken out of the boiling water, waiters and journalists are locked in a different sort of conclave. One veteran waiter, known to serve up pasta and gossip in equal measure, quizzes the press corps about their favorites, then pulls out his secret weapon: a napkin, creased and folded, each section crammed with four names. He's got the lists, but he won't say who gave him the tips.

"Journalists, cardinals -- they all think they know. But here's the rule: you reveal the sin, not the sinner," he winks, before disappearing to get this under-slept reporter an espresso.

Taxi rides and soccer balls

Hail a cab in Rome these days and forget small talk about the weather or the awful state of the streets. Marco, a self-declared Vatican expert behind the wheel of a battered Fiat, is convinced it's "about time the papacy comes back to Italy" -- as if it's a soccer ball that's been on loan to Argentina, Germany and Poland for too long.

"Pizzaballa, he's got the right spirit. He's Italian, even if he's spent most of his priesthood in the Holy Land. Remember how he offered himself in exchange for children held hostage by Hamas in 2023? That's the kind of courage we need," Marco proclaims, weaving through Roman traffic as if late for a Papal Mass.

The only ones not playing? The cardinals themselves

Of course, there's a certain irony to all this: the cardinals, about to be locked away in prayer and reflection, are the only ones not indulging in the guessing game. "Sottovoce," or in a lowered voice, they might answer with a "yes, maybe, no" when asked for one cardinal or the other, but most refuse to give names.

"No one walks into a conclave certain of the outcome," a veteran Vatican observer shrugs. "The only sure thing is that the Holy Spirit still gets a vote."

But that won't stop Rome from playing its favorite game until the white smoke rises -- and even then, don't expect everyone to agree on whether their picks were robbed.

Because here, in the days between a papal funeral and a conclave, the real sport isn't "calcio," or soccer. It's the ancient, joyful, utterly Italian art of believing -- truly believing -- that you, your waiter, or your taxi driver just might know who the next pope will be.