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!
0 comments:
Post a Comment