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Two Cities - Part II


Subtitle: You are always a result of shit

A scooter alongside us. It must be because of the shirts. The boy leans from the traffic of Piazza Cavour: "What time does it start there?". A sure shot. "At seven, we respond automatically. What makes a nod, squirts of gas over the roundabout and left behind a long beep. It rained hail this afternoon. Now the air is sultry as Massawa (cited). But there is light. And a palpable excitement that more than poetically, is prosaically solid. The avenue station of the theater seems a long appendix Ariston. La notizia è volata di schermo in schermo, di bocca in bocca. Quella di Tania Zamparo, Sky Sport 24, l’ha detto meglio di tutti, di nuovo, nell’edizione della notte: “Oggi a Foggia è il giorno della presentazione di Zeman”. Ma i primi vecchi del viale stanno parlando di Casillo. Quello che scatta in piedi dalla panchina, l’affabulatore di turno, fa il nome del Conquistatore ad alta voce, senza timori reverenziali. Più avanti, un dubbio amletico percorre una comitiva di vegliardi come una scossa elettrica: “Se andiamo là – e il nonno indica la via che porta al teatro – perdiamo il posto qua”. E le dita puntano la panchina. Un’ambulanza. Il guidatore, fermo al traffic lights, watching us. Yet because of the shirt, I guess. Smiles and goes horn. Pe-pe-pepepe. The buzz is growing. "Do you hear?". We still have to turn the corner, but the idea is all in the voices of the crowd confused and agitated, the chaos, the sound barrier. A parking attendant looks at us and makes us: "It starts to dream, eh?". We find him suddenly. I do not have the readiness to respond - chess - we never stopped. But it would be interpreted as un'ebraica expectation of the Messiah, a long desert crossing in fifteen years, and not as a sign of loyalty. The angle, the theater, the crowd. The signs of a fight. "They brought them," is telling a kid. And as proof tested, indicating a hole in the glass. A crack. There will be 30 degrees outside. The time to review the faces. Boys, scarf and shirt official, who fomented shaman, electric. Men of a certain age, in seventh heaven. Olds for which the so-called oral Zemanlandia is a myth, like the Aeneid, only better designed. Girls in shorts, arm in arm with their fearless. And young fathers with children: boys and girls a few months, wrapped in suffocating seals Legea synthetic material. Unfamiliar faces, newcomers. Faces ever seen. The doors open, and the crowd cheering you on entry and press enter to blows. A few moments and you can see the outlines plan to withdraw above, the large windows overlooking the street. Travel, for fear of losing their jobs. A chorus ago from lump in throat. Can not wait to express themselves, these lovers of the last proclamation.

dream. No one here disputes the dream. The most pure, angelic, human. The flying without wings of each jump. My criticisms are invalid before those twenty-five who have never even seen the series B. It is obvious that the aspirations of a place to dry for too long may not end so simply and completely, in the dock. Here the opportunity is in dispute. Because there are different ways even to jump on the winning horse. It is a matter of style. Nothing to say, or nearly so, to those who quietly, modestly, shyly let themselves be carried away by passion wake of a new, or newly revived, or the curiosity of the mass in motion. Nothing to say to those who have fallen into the procession respectfully, knowing that they can not aspire to supplant, to hit a sponge, those who were there when the bread was stale. And bitter. Those who are hungry for football - even those who long for the show - and that just not make it to bear the kicks of anonymity, which were now back and recognize that he should riambientare not deserve the pillory. But what about the others? A white cloth

announces a giant screen. The people who failed to enter the ranks. We also take place among the excluded - volunteers, in our case - to the great ball of consent. There are vehicles Telenorba, Teleradioerre, Telefoggia, Teleblu. There is a RAI journalist who wanders among the small crowds, to ask if anyone, after all, has ever seen play Foggia'm famous miracles of the Nineties. Apart from the direct. But it's day, as there is light at Massawa (cited). But for the idolaters is not a problem. They see the heroes featured in a white cloth. Moreover, we are the city that begs a lady never seen, hidden behind seven veils as blacks. A roar. Something must have happened, though it seems. Our banner reads: No fan of the card. The flags are in the wind. Explodes from within the choir held: Zeman, Zeman, ole, ole, ole, ole, Zeman, Zeman. And the reference is a must: You are always a result of shit. For a moment it seems to stop the air to circulate. It is a rift, this. The grating of the theater facing many, watching, watching. Did not expect. In the small town atmosphere of solidarity, sharing our hearts, screeching, almost offended. "Is it possible that we are always on the side of the minority?", I ask. That's it. But it is inevitable. You can not wash the recent past with a shot of cloth. Our memory is a bar counter. How many of those who now hail the Prophet and allow to raise choirs for coaches and officials, were waiting at the junction of each trip not to miss the joke, the motto of sarcasm? "Just below the Foggia? But who makes you do? ". And down laughter, the laughs of those who could never, even for a moment, dell'impopolarità bear the weight of the minority. And until the day before yesterday, it was both wise and popular muddy colors and mock those who still s'ostinava to support them. Today, the wind has changed, he even sings to Casillo. The man who returned to take his revenge, in which shots deferred had the look of the captain are among the honors in the square that had driven from outcast. The man who conquered Foggia, Foggia and found himself at his feet. How

judge? How to judge those of Pasquale Casillo e-h, o-oh ? I was behind a banner with my extended family. I ran the entire repertoire, like a script for an hour and passes. Surrounded by cameras, the cameras, from mobile safari zoo. From The Foggia us to We are not Neapolitan . Since you do not follow you in C more. And, truth to truth, to every chorus that starts from within, I felt challenged. On the one foreign fans to me, unfriendly, almost rival. The other cities, too busy to have the right not to feel a duty two weeks ago to take a walk with us, when it was time to seek clarity on the future of the U.S. Foggia. The city now has run this area as a bride to the feudal lord. The city, for lack of respect for guapperia and boldness, even more than for contempt of consistency, it is worth every single word that yesterday, as a stone-throwing, he was thrown on him. The ultras are not against the city are against the other city. And it is a different concept. Who wants it, let him. "This is not a party, this is evil, "said a gentleman to his neighbor. And where it was written, uncle, that party should be?

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Virgin Radio we include the four day's news. Whisk us home in Republic. Foggia, Casillo back now draws Zemanlandia . And down anecdotes: the time that Don Pasquale opened the door to the Portuguese, and no one dared to enter for free (!), That time when the Prophet sat on the bench paralyzing an entire stadium to their seats, the guy that once offered the package of candy to the coach. Meanwhile, to understand who know every bend of the matter, place us in an imaginary geographical Salento. Sky Sports on the word "Foggia" on the lips of a spectacular result Tania Zamparo hypnotic states. But then part of the service and still keep the entr'actes bench. Zeman and vintage chairs Casillo on a documentary, fragments of Alpine retreat, the patron who wanders into the gallery. On local TV is more or less the same, with budget constraints. Stock show. Antenna south Shalimov that captures the Purple Pit. Telefoggia sinks Piacenza. Teleblu quickly assemble a movie where the heroes of the time fail to make three passes in a row. In

city turned the voice for days. And the announcement was followed by the blaze.
Foggia rediscovers fans, love a love sick. Perverse. Fetishist. Not the mesh, that glorious symbol, go as he goes, is everything / anything that we possess. From lovers. Amano Zeman, Casillo love these. Lovers of the past, these. Or, rather, an epic projection of the same. Serie A lot of those who have not experienced that but - and I remind everyone - Foggia wore to take a slap anyone, from north to south Or, as said by that person in that yard reception room, to beat, even to the humiliate Juventus, AC Milan, Inter, Roma. That is not true - false from the historical point of view, since the primary, but certainly not fake that sort of discipline that is parallel to the Historiography of perception or emotional - has little effect. Indeed. That mythical past, all enclosed in a myriad of micro, turned the love Pure, total, selfless, passionate, whatever (love, in essence) in a sort of condition, the subject of appeal. As a woman love a dress, or love her only in terms of that. Or a pair of shoes or a handbag. As my bus love the pilot, copilot, the owner of the company. Zeman, as a coach, is not a fungible. Dell'Uesse shoe or bag. Casillo worse, I miss that. Frills, like players, in order of the supreme optional useless, unable to feed or depress. The esplanade, which among its members should gather the essence, il fulcro e il senso ultimo del tifo, questa piazza fredda e scostante, pronta a festeggiare le Champions altrui o a sbeffeggiare – in tempi di vacche magre – chi ancora seguita a seguire i colori rossoneri, adesso è in estasi. Perché il Foggia ha cambiato il vestito. O, meglio, ha recuperato dal guardaroba quello vecchio. Quello di quando tutti l’amavano perché si vinceva. E anche la vita sembrava più lieve.

Ma adesso si pone la vera questione, che non è il sogno bello di questa buona gente domenicale (o occasionale, fate voi). Non è la serenata perpetua all’idolo che fu – Pagani laddove noi si è Luterani – né i fuochi d’artificio sparati ieri sera in diversi minor outbreak of Baghdad. The real question, serious and heavy as all issues, called Campaign subscriptions. Francavilla, sports director until a few days ago, announced that it would not have been possible without the subscription card fans, this monster Civil result of skillful mix of regurgitation on security and financial interests. Foggia area with a play-out, in the hands of those famous eight members (post-beggars after shelled out a lot of money to give to the Foggia Casillo, when you say "know how communication ...), with points almost certain penalty, the team quickly set up two match ban to serve the field and the stadium again because of unusable question-turnstiles, would not have gone beyond the 700-800 cards total. Those three hundred dissidents, those who pass the Fan will not matter, in a budget is not fed by revenues from sponsors and television rights, would be weighed. And how. Instead, twenty-four hours Foggia who once called himself a "balloon" is in turmoil. Thousands are ready to line up for a subscription. And if the card is to be done, well, you will make. So that "we have nothing to hide," says the square foolish who believe the legend of violence and does not include the testing of repression, nor the operation of banks. Civil rights in exchange for Zeman, Casillo and the dream of returning sick twenty years indietro. A godersi la città del 1991.

E noi? Quelli di Cosenza, di Trieste, di Portogruaro? E quelli di Sant’Anastasia, di Castrovillari, di Cuneo? Quelli per cui la stagione non finisce mai, che da ritiro a ritiro mettono le loro vite, il loro tempo libero e non solo, al servizio di una passione onnivora? Beh, quelli, noi, fuori. Il paradosso. Perché non ci va di essere schedati, autorizzati, pedinati. Non ci va di trasformarci in utenti del Circo-calcio. Non ci va di sottomettere le nostre domeniche sui gradoni al benestare di una Questura. Non ci va di immettere nuovo denaro pulito nelle speculazioni finanziarie dei broker. Settimana dopo settimana, forse, cercheremo il tagliando per varcare i cancelli. Ma se questa piazza volubile dovesse davvero sottoscrivere le 7.500 tessere (qualcuna in meno, considerando il settore ospiti); se questa gente immemore dovesse, e parlo del nostro caso specifico, anche solo consumare in qualche giorno l’intera fornitura di abbonamenti della Curva, allora lo spettro delle domeniche fuori, a bere al chiosco mentre le rossonere corrono sul prato verde circondate da migliaia di feticisti d’occasione, diventerà più che reale. Saremo fantasmi fatti della stessa sostanza di cui è fatta la malacoscienza di questa città incapace di lottare, ma al contempo irrispettosa e superficiale, pronta a donarsi anima e corpo (e non solo) ad ogni nuovo padrone che promette la luna. Senza pudore o vergogna per le passate diserzioni. Vivremo da spettri e da spettri ascolteremo gli spalti unirsi nello “Zeman Zeman” che ci ripiomberà negli anni dell’assenza di stile. Senza cori continui a spingere, senza colori, bandiere, torce a far vibrare l’aria, vivrete, tesserati, il calcio che vi hanno disegnato addosso. Il calcio che meritate.