Bethany James Instructions

The Happening

Sunday, September 19, Foggia-Barletta 1-2

Twenty years from now who knows. Who knows how this game will be remembered.
Today, today it makes sense to say: "Twenty years ago I was there." And in the account to increase the regret of football that was and is no more. That kick-kindergarten, rude and collective unrestrained, unregulated part. The derby, the game par excellence, the waiting, lived a hundred times before the ball in the center, teams that emerge from the underpass. Without bringing it for long. Twenty years ago it was Foggia-Barletta. Today was, again, Foggia-Barletta. And certainly, as these words are (just) think and lined up an aseptic file, the hundred of my fellow citizens will still be enrolled in the closed area of \u200b\u200bthe old hall, while swarms of BARLETTANI they will be trying to make a living, vital, current practice other times. What is the rite as the letterhead of the document to Word 1989. Return home, those hundred, and say that there have been. There were when the Foggia Zeman and Illustrious won 2-1. No one can blame him. Moreover, the truth is always revolutionary. But the price we paid, the penalty we are serving, these things take time. Must historicize. Twenty years from now, maybe, maybe not quite remember this afternoon, or remember him as the cornerstone of a new era. From the TV - where a terrified Baldassarre commented that not even the pool - we heard the choruses. Barletta in a cross, and Barletta piece of shit, and your hands whenever you like. The entire repertoire, in fact. There were certainly held, our members. How to Lancaster, after all, but this was not Lanciano. It was the game, the most important of all. And the voice was something different: it was less improvised, less casual, less pilgrim. Needless to pretend: I was at the station, this morning. I could not not stand the tension of having to stay at home while I felt like something important happened in five minutes from my room. I saw the faces, we also talked a bit '. Certainly not young students to the first trip out of town, it's recognized. Indeed. And that still hurts the most. Why do not expect a turnaround so blatant on the part of those who should cord with you. And that the reasons for someone standing, but the overall picture does not hold the same. At two o'clock in the afternoon Foggia was a city on the anxiety-only machines. At the wheel of the familiar faces, those you know, those dispossessed of steps, the group of choirs. Everything. It looked like a scene from candid. Looking for a television, a group which share an enthusiasm that fake mask, the eyes of those less accustomed to understand things human, the acute pain of not being there. To know that twenty friends of the curve, along with eighty neophytes, they took the train at 12:10, surrounded by policemen, traffic wardens and Digos. And they crushed - as was normal - all that remained standing of our hopes of stopping the mechanism. Out of the game, almost permanently. And as Claudio Villa, news of whose death came during the final of a Sanremo, we too have been annihilated in the day of the derby. The most important day of all. Power of symbols. It's easy, easy for someone twenty years can tell me, like this morning: "Twenty years ago I was there." I was present, the day when everything changed. When the groups that had sustained the shock of fifteen years of anonymity and C2 remained at home, to be supplanted by one that Occhetto would not hesitate to call again "thing." Castellammare will jump, then Gela, then Rome. I do not know what will happen to Pisa, when I make my debut in the league, in the field next to people who already have 3 or 4 trips over her shoulders. From a cardholder, of course, but this - in twenty years - would not bother anyone anymore. They say that the troops at Agincourt, Henry V of England humiliated the French cavalry because the noble and the vulgar plebeians allowed to attack the enemy knights, in fact breaking the code of honor that prevents you from doing some havoc. They won infamy for short, the British. But today, at any history book, no one would find words of condemnation for that behavior. At Agincourt the English won, it says. A Barletta Foggia won one hundred. Stop. What has changed? For posterity will judge. But I'm still a contemporary of these events, and I say that I had to throw down five glasses of rum dry to bear the sight of that stadium on a plastic chair. I sucked the chorus of those hundred, I hated the idea of \u200b\u200bnot having perspective that grips me for a year and more. But at the same time I felt genuine sorrow and disgust at the stadium half-empty, for the inconsistency of our opponents, who had guaranteed - and is not the first time they do - fire and brimstone and I hardly felt. Sure, it's TV. But god, I thought, this is a derby? This is the derby? The derby, as they are accustomed to it, is an ordeal that takes place in a bowl on fire, where the stands reversed the sense of things and become the real show, the center of the hubbub. And it is the God of hosts to determine who is worthy of victory. Today - impassively in a chair drinking Pampero - I'm pissed off just because our goalkeeper came out to the trocar with your hands and why do you constantly Zeman cut vertically. For things like that, who live even known. When will this nightmare I'll probably go back to going through the songs, but I sincerely hope that this will happen soon. Why not enjoy myself more. And the faces of my comrades, expressionless and fixed on the screen at the final whistle, when they had to dance naked and drunk on the tables, shows that I'm not alone.

When Does Nature Inspire Me

. A

Sapete... è strano essere consapevoli del fatto che quattro anni della mia vita sono rinchiusi qui, davanti a me, in sei scatoloni, una valigia e un borsone da palestra. Quattro anni sembrano pochi se rapportati all'arco intero di una vita, eppure sono abbastanza da lasciarti un segno indelebile. Quattro anni in cui hai riso, hai pianto, hai conosciuto nuovi amici, e ne hai perso qualcuno. In quattro anni passi dai venti ai trenta. In quattro anni ti accorgi di non aver capito ancora chi sei. E ti rimetti to find your identity. Change home, life and habits change, I change. When you feel the overwhelming desire for change is now late for second thoughts. There is a motto that I made in my recent days: that the better the remorse no regrets. In all these years I have always done exactly what my instinct and my heart have suggested that I do. Thanks to this "recall" I was lucky enough to find work in the family of Radio Selene. Thanks to this "recall" I am now living the adventure of Radio Rama.

Well, yes. Back in Salento. And I do it with pleasure nonetheless.
am a pirate, and as such, I never know if the route is the right one, but I know for sure where I'm going.

I bow,
look subdued applause
is deaf,
but laugh anyway.
falling from a stage
and do crafty
are ready
salirne to another.

Someone has pointed the finger at me,

feel from behind

who say "you crazy?"

but who knows

what lies beneath the makeup

hugs me and smiles

and remains of stucco.

Inside is a fire

out there is nothing

but that voice

soft rocks me

says "Go for it

and then who knows?

who loves you so much

hours there and there will be. "

I follow my heart

follow a gleam,

new stage curtain,

new costume.

To the friends of yesterday. To old friends. Friends of tomorrow. And to those who will never be my friends will certainly not mine. A

Enzo.

Notes For Condolences

The moon black guys out

Vasto, September 12, Foggia Foligno-Manfredonia 4-4

After everything was left in midair. Lost in the vague. Of course we'd been out of dall'Aragona broad but as it was still wrapped in the thickest mystery. Friday night Nicole told us about the problems of his car and others still struggling with the exhausting work of the League at that stage of Bari, the party is inevitable Incoming messages to Angelo. "Yes, yes," he said. Car included. Could not imagine what that assertion, even double, would change his life. Life in September, of course. It is not always the case to make an absolute events.

yet. The Lancia Lybra is the same that appears first among the leading protagonists of the first "chapter" of the proto-Crew, the onslaught of promotion in that dream of Cremona. Nicola, who is spared the effort of the pilot sits behind and exclaims: "Oh, now traveling in luxury! At last! ". After all, is not a real trip. It is also a home game, for that matter. It's nothing. That is all. All inclusive, all wrapped up in an irrational act which we have already spoken too long: there are those who jump the roofs, those who jump from the balconies, and those who sing in front of the sports fields. The third would be us, and this is our extreme sport. That why we're leaving. "A luxury," says the Fool, a few hours earlier - on the night of the first candle of Aurelio (by the way, but has turned off?) - Names that did not have to do. Relying on the spirit of the Enlightenment that distinguishes it, that positivism strong superstition that if it becomes ostentatious, he challenged the gods, archaic names pronouncing, inflated with a curse. "Come on! Just to believe in these things. " So be it. At one o'clock we are at. The table with the tarp still offers confetti. The fridge, emptied of all its birds have the guts to be deprived of ominous omens, shows half Borghetti. In addition to muffins Ceska. But we are out of time to eat. To start from fresh, plus. 13.30 Appointment to the steering wheel, then exit and roadside restaurants to shrink the small caravan of vehicles. We are respectful and disciplined. We are told that "you descend and remain locked up, to speak evil of the absent. Because we are animal carcasses that attract lightning. 160 km / h as smooth as a premonition. We keep the group, we aim to dozers, slow down when needed. This time you exit Vasto Sud houses of Termoli on the right and left, then still asphalt. E 5 km from the junction, the light turns red on the dashboard unexpected. "No, damn it!" Shouts the pilot. It is an injection, tell me. I do not suppose anything. Draw near. We explore the complex mechanism that is hidden under the hood as tourists looking to biopark locusts. We share a reduced speed. The dozer has disappeared, the caravan wheel. A few meters and a strange, white smoke announcing a worrying problem behind the parties to the muffler. New lay-by. The sea is white smoke. A piece of plastic dangling painfully melted. There is a problem. We try to solve it manually, removing the foil. We arrive at your destination, sure to have prodded the gods.

A barrage here, at the entrance of the road, just beyond the fences that close access to traffic a barrier there, at the door of the tower block, notorious for the raid a fortnight ago, a patrol agents and six more on, under the wall, the sun. A couple of men on the walkway, with the camera pointing straight to the group. We'll be fifty, I think. After the funny experience of the other Sunday was the case to mobilize more than twenty policemen, police and plainclothes men to lock down a road? But the card did not have to be transformed into a generous savings on security? Mysteries. "The Foggia wins a zero," he says Angelo, before being surrounded by people who asked what happened to the machine; One by one, does the guy on the wall. It seems that the Foligno has also missed a penalty. We are here / Always with you . The hands are high, the voices become more compact, the situation is as beautiful as usual. But inside is being yet another "show" circus. It's strange and fascinating, this year, talk of a team that know the true only in the Cup. It's like a futuristic film about football. Unilaterally decree that ended the first half and we scatter through the plains in search of a bar. At second left, intercepts a police car there. It is difficult. We ask them: "A bar?". Indicate, without speech. Right. Not only is this bar, is tobacco. And it is open. And which has the tables. Bingo. Cyrano Amstel, Heineken and Moretti large. Luckily there Sansonna. The speeches are messages sailors tossed by the wind and always point to the same North Star: the card, the prohibitions, the future. Heavy thoughts that take away a few more minutes. We find the road, we take a climb. "If you do not è questa la traversa, fermiamoci a cantare sotto il palazzo. Tanto, che differenza fa…”. Fantacalcio, fantatifo. Invece la strettoia ci sbuca sulla scalinata della curva. “Stiamo vincendo?”, ci chiedono; “Chi siamo noi?”, rispondiamo. Gli altri già cantano. Uno sguardo al cellulare: siamo al decimo della ripresa. Mi fanno segno con due mani: indice e medio alzato a destra, indice medio e pollice a sinistra. No, mi dico, non può essere. Non può diventare così circense. Uno accetta quel che ricorda, e io ricordo una squadra che sembrava un pallottoliere e che niente aveva a che vedere col calcio così come lo concepisco. Ma questo è troppo anche per la mia memoria preventivamente filtrata! 3-2 al 10’ del secondo tempo. Dico il vero: diventa futile persino sapere per chi. “4-2 per il Foligno”, dice la vedetta lombarda. E si ride. Ma non il riso allegro di chi intende questo sport come puro svago domenicale, alternativa al cinema o all’avanspettacolo televisivo. E ama, chissà perché, vedere tanti gol, e non i gol giusti. Ma il riso di chi, alla quarta, è già sull’orlo della crisi di nervi. 4 gol dal Foligno, con tutto il rispetto, no. Ma non perché così non si sale, ma perché siamo il Foggia. E la parola dice – dovrebbe dire – tutto. Due frame: il coro per Caramanno, indimenticato maestro, e la parola “contestazione”. Non ci placa neppure il pallone that two local children blow us under their feet, not even the goddess of the day, parading in front of the ice cream in hand platoon. Then, you break even. And the fifth graze us, and touch them. It does. At this point may end up even 10 to 10. The smile has long since left my face.

The parade is credited, as usual, vergognosissima. Here and there among the shameless present, whether some rag Rossoneri. A faith-class, which we hope fervently lead again on Sunday at that Barletta, a derby that should apply their own fucking card. The police followed us and does not want to say goodbye. Ran out of time, we should - as Grendizer as Mr.Hyde - change from a dangerous ultras shouting to ordinary citizens to walk to the viewpoint of a village in the Adriatic. But no. "We're leaving?" I ask. Clear the field by misunderstandings. And the misunderstandings we are. Ok. But the car, the Lybra above, left sleeping on the blue lines of free parking, back to flash. And smoking. But the smoke, this time is more dense, and usually ends up in the adjacent ice cream parlor. A pickle. Better to leave the center, then we'll see. A darting into the road, but things do not improve. Indeed, the dense smoke and lightning has been done to the cars in the queue that seems to be the South in the eighties. Better pull over, now do not even know what the most prominent. And here is the irreparable. The machine is turned off, it becomes a boiler. Matthew has lost the use of language, opened the hood tells jumps into the unknown. She sobs, the car, then goes to a boil. Smoking appears that the collapse of a building, goes crazy as the engine muffler. We think he's going to explode. I also think the doorman of a hotel, which slips inside to call the fire department. Advance. But suddenly, thankfully, is not there. There is a curtain of white steam, the discomfort of a state of Vasto Marina, do without a penny in my pocket and disconnected from the rest of the troops. A mechanic on Sunday is unthinkable alchemy. We just have to push the car, now calm after the outburst, to a dormitory parking lot. And start to the station that ensures Nicola, is near. Refugees of faith, with a string of dominant thoughts: The cost of this stunt, jump on the moving train to thirty years old, the appointment of 20.30 in Foggia. In track 2, some say to follow him, that he has scientifically studied the Intercity and knows a surefire way to travel without spending a single euro. A brisk, behind the opinion leaders, to the coaches betting. A brisk, the jaws of the controller. That opens the dance to the controversy. Rejected once, wait for the region, which is really the room to train a new controller. It would be more difficult to escape if a bus. Ok, think of Angelo, we do not have the figures for the age of shit. Better to buy a ticket and wait for the other Intercity. That comes in time. Timely, as the misfortune that we have attracted him.