But as I trundled back into Maranello, I longed for the old firm’s mystique, its well-oiled lies. No one wants to see their mortadella being made. It was more fun to think of Ferrari gallantly losing money on Formula One racing instead of making it hand-over-fist on licensed sportswear. It was a pleasant fiction to believe that, by virtue of its dignity, damn-the-torpedoes history or status as Italy’s de facto F1 team, the newly public Ferrari would leave some brand value un-maximized.

In April, the Ferrari Land attraction opened in Spain, a red cuff link to the Ferrari World amusement complex in Abu Dhabi. So I guess not.

For the past quarter-century, my affection for the brand has been rooted in the company’s record of self-imposed exceptionalism, its antibusiness practices. Enzo Ferrari nearly bankrupted the company going racing. He raced anyway. He could have walked away a rich man in 1963 but instead he told Henry Ford II to stuff it. Il Commendatore refused stupid requests from classless, money-fisted clients.