There were many variations on the theme.
Iguanas, Spiders, Hamsters, Goldfish. From the canine community, the Jack Russell seemed to trump all others.
Many of those beloved pets and animals have presumably shuffled off this earthly coil - given that they were named amid the post-Italia 90 fervour that swept the island then and that today, still prompts misty-eyed remembrances of that iconic and most magical, long, hot summer.
And so, the news we received on Wednesday morning, alerting us all to the fact that the great man who spawned all those incarnations has now also sadly passed away, caused us to unite once again in a collective mood - of, this time, sadness and sweet nostalgia.
Salvatore Schillaci RIP.
The golden boy of that iconic tournament had died at the age of 59. He was admitted to hospital earlier in the month, having been diagnosed with colon cancer two years ago.
'Toto' as he was affectionately known had blazed a trail during the heady nights of Italia 90. The home nation with the likes of Baggio, Donadoni and Maldini in their ranks had swelled expectations in the football crazed nation.
The man who energised the Italian's efforts in the Stadio Olimpico in Rome was a Sicilian….he came, he saw, he conquered.
Six goals in the World Cup and the man who had risen from relative obscurity was now a national hero in Italy.
Ultimately, Italy bowed out of the competition, in Naples, to an Argentinian side that included one notable player, whose hand had been seized by divine intervention some four years previous.
That subplot is deserving of its own piece - but let’s not go off-side into the granular detail of north-south Italian socio-economic permeations.
Born in a mafia-dominated Palermo slum, Schillaci’s ascent to the zenith of his footballing prowess is worthy of any Verdi opera.
From relative obscurity, Toto just about managed to make the World Cup squad. Surprisingly sprung from the bench during Italy’s game against Austria, the son of a rubbish collector scored within 4 minutes.
Queue the first of those enduring images of his wide-eyed evocative celebrations.
Italian manager Azeglio Vicini had unearthed a gem.
As the story goes, the veteran manager had almost petulantly thrown Schillaci into the game when Andrea Carnevale had stubbornly ignored his instructions, rudely suggesting that he stick his tactics where the Umbrian sun don’t shine. It may be myth, or it may be legend.
Regardless, opportunity knocked - Vicini turned to Schillaci, they locked eyes - and the rest is history.
While Roger Milla danced with the corner flags and England began to dream of evoking memories of 1966, Toto was scoring and scoring for fun.
Czechoslovakia, Uruguay, Argentina and England all fell foul to the Sicilan’s scoring antics.
We, too, fell victim to Toto’s red-hot streak.
In real-time, it had happened almost in slow motion.
Watching as a 14-year-old perched on a pool table in Gavin's pub in Ballycumber, Co Offaly with Cidona and Tayto in abundant supply (before the taste for Montepulciano kicked in), it still resonates.
The euphoria of Packie Bonner’s save. The excruciating realisation of who the ball was falling to …. cue, again, those wide eye celebrations.
Our lofty dreams receding, we knew it couldn’t go on, but still, ah, still.
Yet there eventually emerged a perverse pride in who had inflicted the fatal blow.
If anyone was to wake us from the noble, heady dreams which our nation had reveled in our first World Cup final appearance, it might as well be someone straight out of central casting.
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And then something very Irish happened - we took to Toto.
He popped up as a celebrity on TV chat shows, made pizza at the Ploughing Championships and drank a pint with fellas having the craic. There were some dissenting voices, incapsulated in Colm Meaney wearing of a 'F*** Schillaci’ t-shirt in the movie adaptation of Roddy Doyle’s ‘The Van’.
In his later years, the fact Schillaci - now basking in the ‘gra’ of the Irish - looked miraculously younger than he did during the summer of 1990, endeared us to him even more.
A follicle-infused comeback that ranks up there with the best of them ... the moustache now too - sure, why not?
And so, news that Salvatore had died triggered something deep within those of us who so fondly remember that innocent summer.
Another from the pantheon of the greats has departed, following Jack Charlton and Maradona.
We didn’t know Schillaci - and yet, somehow, we did. We fell for his passion and maybe even saw something of ourselves in him.
The history books written, Salvatore Schillaci is forever linked to that fresh-faced summer when, on the world stage at long last, we were out there, loud, proud and buzzing with possibilities. The battle-scarred underdog for whom everything was now suddenly within reach.
Like him, we had come from apparently nowhere to blaze a glorious trail. In the end, Italy did not win the World Cup that year either. But it mattered little - the fabled tales of Ireland’s heroics in Italia 90 still glitter brighter than the prize that was handed to Germany.
Schillaci’s story was ours and our story was his; intertwined forever more.
Ciao, Toto.
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