You could pick an English team. There are lots of good ones. But you would miss Serie A’s compellingly hilarious peacock-vitelloni aesthetic of tough, competitive, and frequently violent men carefully tying back their lustrous ponytails before slipping into their hot-pink away gear to take the pitch, then celebrating big wins by crying and stripping down to their jockey shorts. For Americans used to laconic sports heroes in badly fitting suits, the sheer fabulousness of Serie A is either uncomfortably gay (if you are a bro who is bro’d out by that sort of thing) or an entertaining injection of pro-wrestling-style ego-theater into an otherwise serious sport.