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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.