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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