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Vasto, Sunday, August 29, Foggia-Lucchese 2-3

Even there, where are you now so you can imagine, with dreamy eyes and arms to the sky.

The machine is thirsty, hungry Enzo. The Autogrill is shaped like an oasis. The attendant greets us with attentive hospitality. Asks Uncle Zeman - as if we had written in his face - whether it can be seen around the favor, if you took casa in affitto, dove compra le sigarette e se ha il contratto ad equo canone. Giuseppe risponde come il coro di una tragedia greca. Poi, a quanto pare, dall’ingresso sfila una dea balneare. L’insolito silenzio stupefatto dell’intero impianto non mi distoglie dalle manopole dello stereo e, in soldoni, me la perdo. Enzo ritorna senza il suo tramezzino, ma egualmente soddisfatto. Il benzinaio riaggancia la pompa al distributore e ci saluta con un vivace vaticinio: “Ragazzi, forza il Foggia e forza il cianno!”. Nel secondo caso, lascia aperti dubbi su un’eventuale istigazione allo stupro che non farebbe onore alla sua stazza da omone gentile. Di nuovo in carreggiata, rinfrancati. La musica riprende possesso dell’abitacolo. Cristina D’Avena, Ciurma! Andiamo tutti all’arrembaggio, “Bella, alza”; Max Pezzali e i suoi cumuli di roba e di spade, “Finalmente!”; Loredana Bertè E la luna bussò, “Finalmente!”. I Matia Bazar. Niente. Ci avviciniamo. Partita a porte chiuse e in campo neutro. Il primo provvedimento è “colpa” di quei “facinorosi” che tentarono l’invasione di campo contro il Pescina, nel ritorno play-out. Quelli che spaventarono l’arbitro fino a fargli ingoiare il fischietto, che all’epoca – nel tardo evo medio degli otto soci e di Ugolotti – furono osannati dalla piazza come salvatori della patria e che oggi, nel Rinascimento Zemanian-casilliano, sono tornati al naturale status di vandali da isolare, raccomandati che hanno strappato ai bravi tifosi – quelli “veri” di cui parla Maroni – la gioia di gustarsi due belle partite casalinghe. Sic transit gloria mundi. E lasciamo perdere che tanto i buoni non le avrebbero viste comunque allo Zaccheria, le due partite, perché il manto erboso è stato arso dal mega-palco e dal pubblico del concerto di Ramazzotti. “Foggia capitale del calcio e della musica”, titolò qualcuno all’epoca dello scempio. Ab uno disce omnis.

Stavolta proviamo Vasto Nord. In fondo, le uscite autostradali sono come le caramelle alla frutta. Vanno assaggiate e comparate continuamente. Immancabilmente, si rivela un chiovo. There is elbow to fold along 14 km of road to get to a center that is at least uncertain. It also lacks the sea. Better Vasto Sud Then, suddenly, a forum Arabic suggests there to be there. Parking. Missing an hour away. We have plenty of time to find a bar stocked and inexpensive. Maybe before we allow a jump to the gates of the curve, where will those accredited. A turning point, and the heart fills us with joy: journalists, cameramen, technicians, support technicians, photographers, commentators and experts, there are a multitude tingling, throbbing with renewed enthusiasm. It is comforting to know that the Athletic Union can always count on this hard core of loyal cleaners of the sea. After all, are the mirror of our soul fascinating meritocratic system. Among them are sublime talent: there are people who can turn on a computer, typing, even enter addresses of websites. Mica stuff to laugh about. We watch them move towards the barriers and entry, and I think that deep down they are few. Few, to be the flower of the nation. We pull into a straight bar already experimented with tobacco Giulianova. Among the accredited there are those who look at us with some curious enough. Probably believe that we are here to un'imbucata groped, or begging for an entrance a free ride. Woe to tell the rat that the cheese can not be attractive! We aim to only 4 Peroni and climb the big hill. A patrol of the police car and before the coach announces the Lucchese. "Three get there", is mimicked the gesture with his fingers. The players, headphones in ears, mistake him for a greeting Orthodox nationalist. Basiscono. We, too, when the bar of the gate welcomes us double-locked. The odyssey begins. Circumnavigate the isolates as Japanese tourists in August. The cops are watching us. They would like to ask: "What the fuck you want?", But are shy and introverted, and end up keeping the doubt inside. And the doubt until they corrode, at 16 o'clock, the square does not ascend the other plant and machinery furgoni. “Ma quante ne dovete giocare qui a Vasto?”, esternano con malcelato disappunto. “E dovete venire per forza?”. Per forza: il Foggia è una specie di reliquia, ed oggi fa bella mostra di se in una chiesa chiusa al pubblico (ed aperta ai soli ministri del culto). Ma questo non deve distoglierci dal nostro impegno di fedeli pellegrini.

Una quarantina. Ci disponiamo sotto un muro. Lo striscione recita Ci siamo ma non ci tesseriamo. Cantiamo Ma che bello è stare insieme a te, tesserati mai, tesserati mai, sempre in mezzo ai guai. E dalla villa, dall’ingresso di curva, fanno capolino teste incuriosite. Diventiamo l’attrazione, lo spettacolo vero. Così è sempre stato, la strada non fa che amplificare la nostra meravigliosa anomalia. Passiamo il posto di blocco per rifornirci di birre. È stato segnalato un gelataio dalla preziosa scorta di 0,66 a 2 euro. Prezzo competitivo per la riviera. Ma prima di giungere al suo esercizio, i nostri occhi si riempiono di strazio e pena: con la faccia tipica dei profughi, le loro povere cose tra le braccia, i bambini tenuti per mano, una quindicina di buoni tifosi è appena stata rastrellata dalla Gestapo in una soffitta del palazzone prospiciente lo stadio. Avevano tentato la fortuna giocando con la sorte. Pensavano forse di raggiungere il terrazzo e godersi un pomeriggio di calcio giocato nonostante i divieti. Invece, forse una crudele soffiata degli ariani condomini, forse il fiuto delle guardie, ha shattered their dreams. "Where do you take now?", One wonders dismayed. "Who knows". Birkenau, Dachau or maybe. We pray for them, while other militants emerge from courtyards and other access to the tower block. Missing dogs. There is an ongoing raid. Not surprising, deportation is the backbone of the modern game. Let's try to forget (even if their eyes are still there in mind) and paid homage to the ice cream. A customer warns: "You have to be sporty, never confuse a game with the beatings." Right. Playing with matches. Barrel with barrel. Let us return to our hearts. Not rise from the flames penthouses, from the stairs, from construction sites. Probably the bloodlust of rakes has at last ceased with the simple deportation. Ale, ale, ale Foggia the wings.

rises murmurs from inside. Our licensed real professionals are even a few from "Forza Foggia", just to make it clear to colleagues Lucca who's boss. Lost some of the glaze that gives the credit, of course, but that was never too much. And not even enough. Start calls. Running rumors. We do the repertoire, we have fun. A child stares at us smiling and just laughs out loud when we know that the only respect the firemen. He looks up at dad returns. Some girls smiling, the kids who accompany them are forced to follow the chorus to show who knows. Obviously we are not monsters unapproachable. Some element is added to the group and sings, finally uninhibited despite the apparent nonsense of crying loudly against a wall. Forza Foggia, Win for us. The chorus explodes on the dry wall of the building. Controlled explosion, echoing back. Bello. Then a roar of disappointment, mobile phones trilling or running wakawaka and mazurkas, one that overlooks the parapet, announcing the host advantage. It does not matter. This practice match we do not give a shit. It arrives on time 2-0. Ok, here we are. Welcome back Zeman. Antonio called me. I feel between the bumps and screams: "The Lucchese deserved to make it even more ... offside in midfield ... I do not defend themselves. " Welcome back Zeman. Do not make plays, and will be missed. Between tiles and cracks, we have other problems. Some think that even a defeat could stop this beautiful new frenzy of affection, block access to the faithful at the last moment. But not because we want to be alone: \u200b\u200bwe are what we are, beyond the numbers. But singing in front of a wall is not the same thing, if you get used to. So: fewer subscribers, less weaving. Evil can not do. In the second half our script does not change. Forza Rossoneri old heart broke out in the air. It seems, from the participation of our experts, that is attacking weapon Foggia white. The police will stop moving up and down their bats, hangs in a corner, no longer fears head shots: this match, however ... you do smoke, sing and be merry. The marks Foggia, then scored again. The jubilation on the streets is a time to be framed. The return of the rumors: we're dominating, failing the impossible. "But do you know?", "I know, I know," and winks badly as if to underline his superpowers. Bah. The fact is that just the end of the Lucchese is necessary, and measurement on a penalty kick. And most of Foggia "sport" crashed on the hard ground, "But you want them to go with this team?". Easy: No pass, no matter where you seguirem, we will support you anywhere, without a card.

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THOSE WHO DESERVES NO DATA (reprise)

We are the ones that leave. What
with the team in last place the grind of the state's highways and Italy, in the name of a passion. Those banners, those choirs that last twenty minutes, those bare-chested in the flood. Those warned not to have lit a torch, those who pay a dear justice unbalanced and illogical. We are the color, the heart, the soul of a sport that has lost himself.
Those crushed by the media, from newspapers mostrificati, tossed on the first page without proof is ruthless. Those at risk and fall without protective sheeting without shock absorbers. The first
frame of every derby, the true price of the ticket, the content of the stands.
Those who sing with the team under 4 goals, those who lose their lives to write biographies of mercenaries, who like the shirt or anything else that does not depend on the results.
Those who are there, those who were always there.
A cry of freedom that makes the community of intent.
Any Given Sunday.
We're public enemy No. 1, even if this is what they tell.
We are those who still give a sense of humanity to the spectacle of glitter and limelight, and prohibition of television. We are those groups, the dogs loose, free thought, that separate sleep in a van, which occupy compartments, they do not know fatigue.
We are the ones that do not remain seated. Neither the stands or on the sofas.
Minister Maroni - and it is not the only one - sees us as the only evil in a football made of many empty stadiums and a few pockets full of speculation and television rights, large screens and bankrupt companies.
accept us, accept us, if we agree to become consumers. Users, mere onlookers numbered, indexed, hyper-controlled, obedient. We would agree if we decide to pay our money on their prepaid credit cards, to make the fortune of some banks in oxygen debt. To release the data at our police stations, to make us identify, analyze, vivisection; to subject our products to the consideration of prefects, who willingly swallow some of our brother warned not to ever set foot in a stadium. In the name of a security that is just a front for idiots.
But we do not accept. Today
even there they ask us to come to terms: either the card or no subscription, we are told, or the passport or any travel, stress.
blackmail I've never liked them.
THERE ADJUST AND ALL THOSE WHO STILL BELIEVE THAT THE PASSION TO BE MORE 'STRONG AND REPRESSION OF MONEY, calls for efforts to DIGNITY': SURRENDER TO SUBSCRIBE, CONTRIBUTE TO A PROJECT freedom-FAIL ONLY IN EUROPE. A measure so delusional who has prompted even one as Platini described as "a catalog of mass."
And if there is still no clear concept, imagine silent stages as a television studio, with 20 cameras, pre-filtering, turnstiles, 150 stewards, and zero socialization, passion zero, zero color. Because this is what you accept, that you would lose. Is it worth it?

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Wednesday, August 25, Fano-Foggia 1-2

Let's do this. This will be a bit corny, perhaps sad, melancholic as some Impressionist paintings with the sunset, the flowers white and ponds. But in a time like this, I just can not do better. Be satisfied.



--- The other night, Francis, who does not follow, does not know and do not usually want to know anything about these ghostly "parallel worlds" I asked, in essence, to really push - in a football made of poisons , television, repression, interest and collusion - to make the group and go where your heart takes you. Without possibility of refutation, I said that the group itself. Sure, Foggia, Unione Sportiva 1920. No doubt I was a fan of the Rossoneri before anything else. But there is a strange alchemy, a kind of adrenaline da banda, che si autoalimenta a chilometri e compagnia. È lo scarto, il volano, la differenza sostanziale. E qui non c’entrano i discorsi su quanto di puro sia rimasto in un mondo corrotto o baggianate simili. È la verità, comunque la si voglia intendere.

Umberto è del 1994. Io non ci voglio neppure pensare a cosa facevo nel ‘94. Mi stavo per diplomare, sentivo le posse, occupavo scuola. La compilation da trasferta corre sull’asfalto. Walter il mago è del 1993, Sogni di rock and roll del ‘91. Tango forse dell’85. Non ci voglio pensare. È la sua prima trasferta in gruppo. Il sole brucia la A14, direzione Nord. Qualche accenno di incolonnamento da rientro, ma tutto sommato si marcia spediti. Fano could be the last, someone says. And the thought is driven back down, basically. In the hold of the soul. Can not live if we focus on death, and nature takes its course. Millennia of human experience shows that pyramids and Gothic cathedrals rise despite the end is guaranteed for all. That's fine. They forbid us to Lanciano unexplained questions of public policy, then armored Barletta and Castellammare. A glance at the calendar, if all goes well, will return Oct. 10 to travel in the direction of Gela, Sicily. Unless you go through in the Cup. Calculations, combinations, joints. Living your passion is becoming a large-scale Risiko. But we must not think about it, we detto: Umberto, alla sua prima trasferta, non merita de profundis. E allora la storia è la solita: strada, Borghetti, sigarette, musica. L’ingresso nel paese, l’arrivo allo stadio, le sciarpe enormi ed invernali.

Una camionetta di carabinieri e svariate macchine. Tipi appiedati con sguardo eccessivamente serio, visto il contesto ancora pienamente vacanziero. “Qui non si parcheggia”, ci intima un tale in borghese (ma che sia sbirro ce l’ha scritto in faccia). Un dito ci indica un altrove ultraterreno, che nelle nostre manovre si trasforma nel cortile di un condominio. Motivi di sicurezza a noi ignoti, evidentemente, ritengono quel posto di gran lunga più affidabile. Un sorriso al pensiero di Guests parked cars in Campo Real. But you know, logic has abandoned these lands. And then, we have not done mica preventive visits. Maybe that is a residence of Foggia emigrants. At the gates are inflexible. Who is without a ticket must be the queue at the box office. The police sealed the area and that divide the two sides, opening to pass without a coupon. There is a significant line to be the end of August. At least eighty are Foggia. The others are Fano. A row promiscuous, leading fatal thoughts: Why separate upstream that then, by force, you reconnect to the valley? Because, as the ad says, what comes to crush soft? It is not known, but we have set ourselves not to think. That's it, take it or leave it. "Oh, are in a row ... also on behalf of others, you might have to suspend the game because it takes time here?". The

Foggia goes under, draws and wins 2-1. Little else to add, almost nothing to report: the Europol of Insignia, which reminded me to Baggio at the Delle Alpi against us, the good thirty ultras Fano, who infiltrates the police do a great job in coverage (! ), the battles of water (a few sketches hit the linesman, who deems them spit repeated and volunteers, and its report will condemn the Foggia to pay 5 thousand euro, an absurdity that cries out for revenge and opens a thousand other threads currently in progress).

We go out. There is to be recovered Manu mother, walking with his buggy and Aurelio in Fano emergency ultras, and decide: Marotta or Mondolfo. Eternal dilemma. The first is the sea. A beer, we assume, will cost a pandemonium. The second is just over the hills. But in more than 2 km scared to death, so he opts for the blunder. The kiosk is a stone's throw from the beach, the sky is gray, the sea as well. Luna low and barely audible, heavy metal music. 4 a € 0.66. We knew it. But like Aurelio and enjoyed the view to follow the waves. He decides for all. "We can sit down?" Ask politely. "Yes, but I do not discount anyone, "replied the girl, a jar hydro sympathy. Came the first glasses. And the perfect time is actualized. Again. For the last time? Do not think about it, forget about it. We try, but the card occupies our thoughts, our words soak. It could not be otherwise. It is a sword of Damocles over the heads of us all. A fucking sword of Damocles. There are civil rights, of course, there is the business of banking, safe, and there is football sick and devastated by the TV and interests, of course. But there we are, above all. The Plot to avoid new nights like this. Unbearable. The speech turns. We have no use denying it, major problems of communication. We talk no discounts in Foggia, but also in Pisa or Lucca, we arrived early in the face to face against ultras fans, against individual groups. A polarization, a taste of the battle, which is perplexing. Nor do we know when it started - perhaps with the challenge of "new Foggia" Ariston, perhaps in Vasto Cup, perhaps long before - but to the point where we are is difficult to stop the inertia of the avalanche. Of course, new fans who bartered for Foggia dignity are annoying as mosquitoes killer. But there is no critical self-criticism, and even in our own house we must rid ourselves of certain misconceptions. From the desire of the ghetto that we like so much from religious quell'esclusività leads to prefer loyalty to the explanation. Undoubtedly, it would be difficult to get in line at the box office to evangelize the candidates subscribers - keen to revive the dream of what remains for them Zemanlandia - not to fall into the trap. But a greater effort of communication would not be out of place. Many people, stray dogs according to the Vulgate, are not our enemies. We define violence, do not break the soul looted or devastated as highway, do not give us the ills of the country. Are not our enemies. We should first understand their confusion? They feel "non-guaranteed"? Probably yes. And now it's pretty darn late. We were split with a hatchet blow. It meanders between us disorientation, mixed with an alarming desire to normality: what will happen to our hearts, our colors, our miles of Easter Monday evenings like this? Doubt is atrocious, strategies absent. There remains a deep melancholy. That not even the second and third round of beers subsides.

still do not know - while the girl liking us courtesy of a couple of plates of flat bread - that the trip to Lancaster will be considered "high risk" and that Casillo said that the fine will be passed on without the fans, with the increase in ticket prices. We do not know, but in the evening hides the sea, and at home We expect tens of neo-fans virtually angry, so tired of "paying for the ultras" (!) which - backed the Casillo-thought - could easily do without us. Unless one of us? How? Turning points in the stages of boredom and the void, turning passive users definitively tied to the chariot of the "show" Sports of the third series? It is a hypothesis so absurd that, for the first time, it seems plausible. Even feasible. Premonitory fourth round, we are perhaps on the edge of the inevitable defeat and try to postpone the inevitable fall? Better change the subject. Better ritualized initiation of Humbert, the class Ninety-four on his first trip with the group. It sounds obvious irony: while we nominate riders lose the estate. Irresponsible, reckless, idealistic. The new flash. Angel is about a Pizza Zeman that good at that prepares Giacinto di Fermo, or Porto San Giorgio, he has not understood. "They are less than 80 km from here." Behind us the moon is high, tomorrow is a normal business Thursday, the pizza does not arrive before 2 am, but who cares. Irresponsible, reckless, idealistic.

All we know at the moment is that we do not know much, but as defenders reject our funeral and grave. We defend passively. The radio broadcasts news of the assault on atalantini Maroni. It had to happen, we are happy, even if we have enough experience to imagine how high it further raising - at this time - the voices of the trumpets: "The ultras have a favor to Maroni." Yeah, sure. It's national sport: challenging those who dispute, natural sequel to inaction. But so be it. The pizzeria is closed, but Still there is still a bar. "Incredible to think about how the Fano not able to sweep in 11 against 10," Angel is saying, for the twentieth time. And when the first grabs a chair from the pile and places it on the street, we all understand that the moment is perfect again. It will not end for a couple of hours. Today should be so, and the fatigue that also emerges is not a valid deterrent. Well, at least that's for sure: do not ever take us to exhaustion.

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Sunday, August 22, Cavese-Foggia 0-3

We saw the game at Lido del Sole, in a break from work. A

think of it, this morning I did not see anything but kind to the beach. Rhodes Garganico the marina, boats moored and styles of Bellavista cloned. "Ahead is the local Lele Mora, say many, not without a bit of undue pride. Squared with us at the bar enough, the tobacco shop I intercept a waitress, suspiciously caring that I could be wrong door and slip in the adjacent restaurant from 50 € per meal. Today begins the championship. I am appalled at the thought of passing here - including trunks "Thumper" and the concert flycase Luca Carboni - among locals and tourists head elsewhere, still firmly anchored to the summer season and the squandering of profits. At 16 plays Foggia. At Cava dei Tirreni. This concept soon shattered against the rocks as bathing and worst of the rough sea. At other times, the game would Cava catalyzed spasmodic attention, breath-taking. But for three years, no sets foot in Foggia Cava, Cava and no to Zaccheria. They have won or at least have the advantage. Friday morning there was also a half-opening, or a distraction. We thought we could pass through the gates of Lamberti. Then, around noon the cancellation: only enter the card holders and residents. The U.S. Foggia announces prophetically (and do not know by what strange premonition) that will be so for the whole season, not just Cava, Barletta, Castellammare, travel hot, even for those considered "free" - Viareggio, Lancaster Gela - the prefectures will limit access to residents only, as well as to members. A vague sense of mutilation, a bad feeling. Negative vibrations. Just worth mentioning, in this age of irrationality overflowing, that the unfair provvedimento della Tessera del tifoso entrerà in vigore domenica 29 agosto, all’apertura del campionato di A. Poco vale. Ormai la legge è un’arma nelle mani delle banche, e si è pronti anche a rispettare una legge che ancora non è tale. E qui il sole scotta, e le prime miss passeggiano sul molo. Teleblu, la tv foggiana che ha vinto la gara per l’assegnazione dei diritti, ha commesso un’infrazione imperdonabile: detiene l’esclusiva ma non ha un canale satellitare. E non può appoggiarsi a nessun altro. I foggiani che abitano fuori dal capoluogo dovranno rassegnarsi, in attesa di contrordini. Angelo chiama da Peschici: neppure quella in chiaro si vede. La gente domanda marzianamente: “Che partita c’è?”. Daniele è al Lido. Giuseppe e Piotrek battono Rodi, bar per bar, casa per casa. Segnale assente. Tranne che per un locale del centro, che però non ci vuole tra i piedi nella fascia oraria dello struscio postprandiale. Inutile insistere. La situazione si sblocca alle 15,15. C’è un posto a Lido del Sole che trasmette il match. Ormai il palco si tiene in piedi da solo. Possiamo andare. E la strana impressione si ripete. In campo, sullo schermo piatto tagliato dal sole, ci sono le gloriose maglie bianche da trasferta. Attorno, la gente è in costume. Sembra Mtv. Ma più profondo di quest’impatto resta il dato: la piazza sta ribollendo. Le inquadrature su Zeman fanno immancabilmente scattare un accenno di coro. Lo capirebbe anche un bambino: the worship of the Bohemian - icon and symbol in these parts long before his "crusade" against the Palace and pharmacies - is palpable. In the immediate risk of seriously depleted stocks of subscriptions, resulting surge of the card and voluntary exclusion from the ramparts of the groups. Much depends on these first few games. We did not have hidden among us, especially after the mass pilgrimage to Vasto, a couple of defeats suffered would not hurt. Cool a bit 'the environment, would make it more realistic and less religiously impassioned. Maybe if the first cue Zeman there will be some more chance to access tickets on Sunday. Of course, We ultras and the game do not care. Of course, gossip. We are the exponential evolution of cheering from the stadium, we need the steps. Would Demonstrators outside, teddy boys, skinheads, Papaboys. We would be less beautiful, but the ultras is a phenomenon that stage. Tied hand in glove with the rituals of the stadium. Without the church, the cult disappears. O moves in the catacombs. So, logically, we should cheer against. Cavese cheer. But the thought darkens. Like death. Maybe let's keep away, deal with this board in the second row, we order a big beer 3 € (Ah, the Gargano ...), and dissertations of this and that, while the game takes its course. We try not to get involved. It is only a plasma screen, after all, that replicates reality. It is not the reality. If we were to mark the Cavese or Foggia, well, deal with it at the moment. The reflection of the sun darkens the field, the ball often disappears. The first table is folded forward, as if to grab the screen with his eyes. We say that it is not bad Lido del Sole, we expected a smaller, less collection. And then the wild stretch of beach until Rhodes is really nice, though a little 'dirty. "But what they think of those fish to shore?", "Dunno." "What happened this morning?" "Well, well, the stage is small enough, only two transport trucks, I think tonight we should have finished the first of three "," Good. " But the looks flee as fugitives in the plain. Every so often someone tries to provoke, "Cava Force", but before we know, laugh and do not fall for it. The Foggia plays. They see it all. Us too. Shit, I think. Kids who are not afraid of Cava, which attack and lower jaw. We are emerging from years of senators, people with experience in fields of the third series, that if he went to Cava to sweep back and took the insults and provocations ovation and snatched a 0-0 draw. It will be the ingenuity, it is the unconscious that favors the bold, the unconscious. What do you know of a quarry as Kone, born in 1990, fighting for every ball e taglia il campo con la forza di un trattore? Che ne sa Laribi, classe 1991? Dovremmo dirglielo? Dirgli degli scontri epici degli anni Ottanta, quando tutto era ancora possibile? E perché mai? È un altro sport, questo. E il Foggia macina azioni, cade spesso in fuorigioco ma fa capire di poter colpire. E colpisce. Goooooool, siiiiiiiii! Prima. Poi ci guardiamo. Il sorriso nasconde l’angoscia: Cristo, siamo tifosi del Foggia con le ali spezzate, che non possono dare vita a quella passione che hanno esternato per anni. Se questi vincono – e questi possono vincere, s’è capito, laddove non s’è mai vinto – domattina ci troveremo le strade imbandierate. E la coda giù ai botteghini. A giugno stavamo morendo ed eravamo 200 in strada, a gridare la nostra rabbia. Adesso siamo più vivi che mai. E negli abbracci di circostanza al carro del vincitore, siamo stati tagliati fuori. Per indole, certo, per nostra rivendicata scelta: ma non possiamo tifare contro la nostra squadra. Meglio affondare – e affonderemo – continuando ad amarla d’un amore diverso, che tradirla. A fine primo tempo, il raddoppio toglie i dubbi residui. Sono felice e sono triste, mi sento scippato, per la seconda volta in vita mia. E non è tanto per la gioia da pochi intimi che si prova a cantare come pazzi mentre si perde 4-0 a Cosenza. Il calcio è sport popolare per antonomasia, figurarsi se mi metto a sponsorizzare i club privè. Ma così, così è ingiusto. It is as if a procession of carnival parades under the windows of a deceased person, like watching water gushing from the well on the day of departure of those who, in the well, has spent most of his life. The festive crowd in the rear is in serious danger of sweeping away the old army. And we do not need to pretend that we do not care. It is tearing. Thinking that the Foggia win 3-0 in Cava dei Tirreni, facilitating our suffocation, is one of those joys which you can cry. Nostalgia.

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Mr. S. Alors on

I saw Mr. S. go straight to the Hurdles. Was in a hurry. He was right in line broken to enter all'Aragona of Vasto, there were at least two hundred people. A few minutes to 17, whistle Start the Foggia-Giulianova. Italy Lega Pro Cup had been years since I saw it. Indeed, now that I think I do not think of ever seeing him. At the time of the room, I seem to remember, tifava Milan. O Juventus. Certainly there was the curtain of fun teasing, but if I do not remember Gianni, who was AC Milan, or Mauritius and Angelo, who were Juventus. I followed his hasty step. Did not see me. Better that way. It would have been embarrassing. I mean: we would warmly greeted by the hand, and the total lack of guilt in his eyes open would have filled me with embarrassment. Taliban Lutheran. On reflection, maybe he's right. Of course, I happen to think often, in many areas of my life. You only a football game, I would understand his greeting, and now I really want to see play football. Like when we went with Uncle Joe, on Sunday morning, to see Juve San Michele or the epic challenges in the field of San Ciro. The minor football, the only one who liked to Uncle Joseph. But even this is not the point: the point is that the sports field, as it was called once, should be the place of freedom. At Foggia, Milan, Liverpool. Everywhere. A football fan might suddenly have the urge to go and see kicking a ball. It should, wherever, we can go. So, for pure pleasure. As to the cinema, theater, concert. Queuing at the box office even ten minutes before the event, and enter. And enjoy his passion. If your passion is to assist. He's right. The others are wrong. Those who have shielded, fenced, militarized stages. Those who have made the pursuit of passion more difficult than a three thousand hedges at the time of Antibes. It should be a pleasure to see Mr. S. lengthen the pace to earn his passage. Instead, these days, do everything to avoid her look cheerful. Why is this dirty game has made me the massacre antagonist, almost enemies. Like those Romanians who, driven by the need to scrape together €, accepted a pay cut me off from hunger and from the labor market. Should I blame the high ball, sure, but I can not to get rid of the idea of \u200b\u200bcomplicity that overwhelms me. Accomplices. Collaborators. The Romanians and Mr. S. The same stuff. Everyone thinks of his cock and the devil take the hindmost. Should be entered myself in the head after thirty-four springs. Instead. Instead I keep thinking that life is made up of choices. Strive for dignity, that little bit of consistency that we are always ready to blame as absent in the other intangible, but we rarely dream of applying to our everyday life. A football match is nothing. But it is a symbol. I think when I see the scroll row tug. People with two, five, ten years set foot in the stadium, with the voice ready to cheer the new heroes. Always happens like that. People that he has not ever seen - I could name names and surnames, but I do not - photo ID in hand to sign the card data of the fans. At work, feigning innocence, with the system that is ratifying the end of me. The end of football as we know it. Innocenti, taking responsibility away. It is not their fault, they say, if there is something wrong with the system, be angry with the system. Yeah, as if it were easy to find the home address of the system, this all / nothing that destroys the subjective will, which prevents the opposition and the practice of dignity. As the empire of Toni Negri. Without waterfalls pyramid. That's it. Or maybe I'm wrong. The fact is that at some point Aragon AC Milan has exploded with joy. The Foggia had scored. We were outside, waiting for the rest of the company. And it was like being thrown into a near future, with the exception of the loop, the game, from the stage that we thought c'appartenesse. Stabbed in the back by a bunch of anonymous killers, all with private good reasons, and with no clear motives. Assassins without guilt, without rancor, without hatred. With home addresses known yet untouchable. Children as clear as fans of a windmill.

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Saturday, August 14, L'Aquila-Foggia 1-2

Eve, you know.
Sometimes it is the eve of the event. Better event. This time is hard. It tastes like mineral Zubrobka - Polish vodka came directly from our stomachs Italic Italianized Wroclaw - the smell of hospital walls. Night at the ER, without collapse of any sort, but with different headers and dogs that bite Strazza. The silence is broken out is still summer, but the couple thrown off the truce is not desired. Can I smoke quietly, enjoying the environment. Ambulances, security guards. "But the cathedral of Foggia is still closed?", "Yes, for restoration," "Ah." In the morning's low odds bookmakers absences. The day before roasting will leave the signs, experts say. Instead. Valerio, at 11, is ready adventure. Angel will reach him shortly thereafter. We, woolen scarves of Ireland under 35 degrees, we start missing a quarter to noon. Does not take place before one, and we can enjoy the optimism. Optimism and a little turncoat 'Paraculo of this city. Only a few months ago - before the advent of the Triad - enough that passers be able to see those colors, coupled with the glorious red and black t-shirt, why shoot - bland and indifferent - a cataract of the comments of defeat. "Angor appriss or Foggije?". This morning, however, knights of honor as we walk between the wings of people cheering. Vanguards of another system sun, the poet would say. "Congratulations guys," encourage us. It makes you want to slap these fickle fellow citizens. But the enthusiasm over the ill-feeling. We're going to start over, to share, and the very idea of \u200b\u200bkilometers to do pump happiness, tones the muscles, refreshes the air. We all. Two machines are ready, a third partially occupied we will reach the beaches, and a few hours further north. L'Aquila, Italy League Cup Pro Just the word. Just the excuse.

...

nueva Vamos a bailar east greedy. The motorway service of Bucchianico, vans, which fills the labyrinth. "Who are you?" “Studenti in gita”. Del resto non c’è un’età per la maturità. E spero di non conoscere mai chi racconta il contrario. Perché mi piace. Sgranchirmi le gambe, salutare tutti – “buongiorno!” – guardare i Marshmellows sugli scaffali, pisciare ai wc al muro, lavarmi la testa, dire che si, lo voglio il caffè, perché no, e poi passare alle birre. Riti che annullano la pigra stagione del nulla. E di nuovo sulla strada. Il convoglio, “una delle meraviglie della natura”, per dirla alla Homer Simpson. L’Abruzzo aspro e montuoso, le strade interne che tagliano i massicci. Esordisce il nuovo Foggia con Zeman in panca, e i più spudorati – dopo quindici anni – rispolverano il termine di Zemanlandia. Termine su tutti offensivo della nostra storia. Ma non è solo quello. È l’impressione motivata, la sensazione pluri-dimostrata in queste settimane di calore improvviso, che la gente abbia deciso – nel nome dei tempi andati – di fare quadrato attorno alla squadra. Di ossequiare i nuovi-vecchi padroni con un bagno di rinnovato calore. Un’effervescenza che ha portato semisconosciuti e juventini riconosciuti e conclamati a mettersi in fila per l’abbonamento e, quel che è peggio, a sottoscrivere la Tessera come atto di fede zemaniano. La società non ne comunica il numero, a Casillo non piace seminare disfattismi, ma di certo si supereranno abbondantemente i 1.800 dell’anno scorso. Con quel che ne conseguirà.

Un bar di cui è sopravvissuta la sola insegna; una casa al passaggio a livello piegata su se stessa, come implosa; le travi a sostenere le facciate di tre palazzi d’epoca. I segni del terremoto sono più che visibili. La disorganizzazione regna sovrana. Ci sono cose più importanti di una partita di calcio a cui pensare, certo. Ma a questo punto, evitiamo di farle disputare, queste partite inutili. Altrimenti: servirebbe qualcosa di più di una semplice coppia di vigili urbani a farci segno con la mano di svoltare a sinistra, di inerpicarci su una salita alla cui sommità non c’è che la strada del ritorno. Il convoglio gira in tondo, circumnaviga i fari dello stadio – di cui si ha sentore ma che non si vede – taglia schiere di villini, compie manovre ardite, inversioni di marcia collettive, intasa il traffico per tenersi contiguo. A vuoto, per almeno venti minuti. Nessun presidio delle forze dell’ordine, nessun cartello. Diversi ragazzini aquilani – con tanto di magliette ultras – a sgranare gli occhi al passaggio, increduli di tanta libertà concessa alla numerosa pattuglia ospite. Un carabiniere ci sbarra la strada. L’ennesima manovra di ripiegamento. Aggiriamo diversi isolati, sbuchiamo al “parcheggio” dopo altri cinque minuti di approssimazione. Quando finalmente scendiamo dalle macchine, il carabiniere di prima – col suo posto di blocco – ce lo ritroviamo di shoulders. "But how? You made us go around and we there yet? ". A small outbreak of tension. Inside. "You do not need the document." Of course, the first ticket of the period of membership of the fans is not even rated. Better that way.

The sector is in steps. Unbridgeable divides it into an invisible horizontal line. Above, standing or even sitting down, and digital cameras in hand, there are those who usually are not there. Good people, for heaven's sake, but the impression is the one above: Zeman has turned these people, has fueled the curiosity, has stimulated the instincts, he conquered them with the power of the dream. Or the repetition of the same. Below, bare-chested and in line with the patches, there are others. Those of Cosenza and Trieste. Not to mention those of Palma Campania, Battipaglia, of Ragusa. For heaven's sake, we are against value judgments, each in his life - and also his passion - to do what he wants, and here you do not earn degrees, and money. That is pure statistic that emphasizes what you see: between high and low, between the Mountain and Plains, the Gironde and the rest, there is a fault. The areas are two guests. And perhaps, the first trip with the obligation of the card, this fact will become even more physically visible. Since you're not following you more C, is the first chorus rises from the slums. It is no accident. It takes confidence. The vocal cords under tension, a cough. A short chorus, a long, dry one. And little by little with each passing minute, recarburising. Around us, the stadium, velodrome Aquila. Fifty ultras in the corner to our left, so many people in the stands, alternating sun and clouds. Some teasing, the right for the size of rivals and end up on the Corriere della Sera as shocked fans at first insulting the hosts from last year's tragic earthquake. But there is a rivalry to be honored, no false gooders and without profiteering. There is the past to witness what the Courier does not know. And chi sa, sa. Stop. Passiamo in vantaggio. Botta da fuori, dicono. Io non l’ho visto, e come me diversi dei nostri, impegnati in una fondamentale discussione sull’opportunità di una sciarpata. Un ragazzino viene sotto il settore. Esulta come Giovinco, ma soprattutto esulta. Come se fosse un gol decisivo. Ragazzi dagli entusiasmi facili. Eppure: il centrocampo è tosto, o così sembra: regge, lotta, non demorde. Le sovrapposizioni, quelle, sono le solite di sempre, magari con qualche tossina da smaltire nelle gambe. Col risultato, solito anch’esso, che ci si difende in tre, quando non in due, e con la linea molto alta (anche se non ancora a centrocampo, ma diamo tempo al mister). L’uscita del nostro portiere head of the trocar causes me a chill in the back. One sector draws the attention of their goalkeeper, "Porter, shame on you ... which he has 16 years." We sing, which is better. They tie-kick, take courage. We do our repertoire. We are already in shape.

interval Enzo surprise us in the bathroom talking and gets picked up by a fit of jealousy. Topics such as Finian with Berlusconi, the current interior from turning into open defiance. He fears, probably to be incriminating documents out on the concept of the circus and its variations. Is calm. "We were just talking about the return." Is skeptical that do not. But he reassured. Outside, all talking with everyone. Will the police who jumped in mind to park a fair number of machines in a makeshift parking lot a mile from the stadium. The answer is pretty much the usual: "We have more serious things to think about, L'Aquila." Yes, ok, but for how long this story will go? We take our positions, and the second time already seems a Foggia-oiled team. The wisest dampen the enthusiasm easy: "The eagle is a team of D fished in C2. Sure, but here all expect too much. And, at the turn of 2-1 for us, the industry deliver its best. Involves the slum city high in a couple of ditties serious. Then will be the way to the cabaret. And there, in those ten minutes passed between Celentano and group dances, there's the whole spirit of this summer trek. The childish pleasure, laughter. The Aquila is felt with a choir. We want so . Then go to the field with his eyes: Stop the game! Dura understatement. Then he ends up - "And next year we come with the good team - the eleven already in the industry and many curious glances. Those guys got a taste of our support. We can only hope that they deserve. love with this shirt, honored in this city.

Alors on dance!