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.
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