Saturday, October 22, Roma-Foggia 3-3 Atletico
safety and spirit of the times
A rectangular piece of paper of low lineage, and somewhat plebeian watermarked paper, colored white with sad tunes brown, like video by Peter Gabriel. The stamp on the seam of SIAE, the words "Whole – 1° posto, prevendita: 0698764”. Lo spettatore è tenuto a conservare il biglietto nel luogo della manifestazione e nelle immediate adiacenze. Peccato.
Peccato non poterlo portare in giro per mostre e vernissage. Perché questo tagliando è un’opera d’arte. Magari non un capolavoro, ma neppure il semplice pezzo di carta che vogliono farci credere (quelli che in vita non hanno apprezzato né Van Gogh né Ivan Graziani). È la prova tangibile – la metafora, direbbero i critici letterari – dell’inutilità. Incarna lo Spirito dei tempi. La carta igienica del sistema Maroni. Ne ho raccolti un paio da terra. Tra qualche anno avranno un valore inestimabile. Me li rivenderò su Ebay in even the darkest times, if you really do not appreciate Sotheby's. Rivers
words about safety, violence, the nightmare from beyond the Adriatic Hooligan. Thousands, tens of thousands of syllables uttered by Quaestors, prefects, inspectors, field agents, chairmen, steward. Thousands of Euros to upgrade facilities on the prison's most advanced model, groped for many to implement the ministerial decrees, to pose as German efficiency.
And then, one fine Saturday in October, all at the box office, forty minutes from the opening whistle, pushing each other, to push, to see the line grow out of control, disorganized properly, to risk of 'kill a grid, turn the corner joints. And among the screams of the Atletico fans and those of Foggia, in the division between substantive and essentially useless card (where your lanes, friends?) And not, and the roman zemaniani, in the melting pot of 14.30 relive the scenes of 1984, and come back for a moment to shake hands with father intent on arguing with those pieces of shit that never opened more than one door. To suffer almost smell and National Denim without filter on your hands. I do not remember who was the Minister of Interior in 1984, but it sure did not think the stadiums. He was meeting with a hood, perhaps, organized massacres of State, silt and bribes, probably ma allo stadio si andava liberamente, rudemente, senza ammortizzatori. Era un’esperienza adulta. E qui, ora, è lo stesso. E non possiamo rallegrarcene a dovere. Perché bisognerebbe fingere che in mezzo non ci sia stata la retorica scassa-cazzi pluriannuale sugli ultras e la Tessera. Fingere che non abbiano fatto degli stadi quel che ne hanno invece fatto. Il cassiere sarà felice, penso, ma con che faccia si va in giro a dire che è normale avere problemi dinanzi a 4mila spettatori quando di solito se ne fanno 500? Allora perché mai questa cavolo di squadra gioca al Flaminio, se non ha che 500 affezionati sostenitori? Perché non se ne torna nel quartiere, se mai ne ha avuto uno? Per tutto questo, quando quel poveraccio (o quella poor thing, I do not know why I never got to see the light at the end of the tabernacle) in the battle of the names of everyone in his grave-only door open, while in wild tail is counted with the money and documents such as landing at Ellis Island, in short, when the man-on has announced that it was over the paper to print the coupons and you had to fall back on some reservations on hold since Cindy Lauper sang a Deejay television, the collective laughter has seriously threatened to kill them. Except that people were too strung at that gut from sardines to laugh at the skit. That we had begun Monday. Ticket sales are available at authorized dealers, read Note. The usual slew of incompetent questions - "But you can go in guests?", "But you need the card?" - First rising then the alarm: "They stopped the sale of the areas for non-members. "But how - we wondered - what? The trip is free, has no territorial limitations. What is this, the new frontier of the fight against refractory? ". Here, if we had found our good coupons in the week of Foggia, if no one had exercised his ingenious pressure on demotivating Ofanto bloke avenue, at this time would not be here. Do not waste time and would not do mass. Ergo: I would not even be missed. You what I explain to my neighbors, the Romans, natives and Foggia. And someone shouts something at precise intervals Maroni or their mother. Real People, eh, not Ivan the mob in Belgrade. In 1984 no one thought to the mothers of the Ministers, as he was standing in line at the gate of Zaccheria. It was an adult world: there was a sort of pact of mutual indifference that, on balance, save the honor of all. He was wrong by professionals.
The circus Zeman
At the end of the ride, emerges from the crowd. Bruised, but alive. There are those who maintain the line. A couple of Buston of Peroni Nastro Azzurro and by 0.66, and we camp. It draws breath, I light up a cigarette. And for the first time since We parked the van, I try to line up the feelings. I see. Flaminio from outside the system and a gentleman. Observes: "Christ's sake." Serve the ability of a writer specializing in pilgrimages, sacred rites collective Pauline stuff like that, to explain what the square bustles. The best, worst, trivial. Hundreds of heads walking around, ants undecided, for a walk: move, orient, sink, re-emerge. Capturing emotions. It is a great folk event. It is the St. Catherine's Fair, but not now, nor that of the via Galliani. It is of course the Fair Giannone, ol'Embell Riva. A circus in which everything is mixed, and the event is to be pure backdrop. As water vendors and peanuts in Vermicino. Sixteen of the harnessed scarves bought at the kiosk; accents of the province of Foggia room in Rome, inhabitants of the capital in search of thrills others, or low-cost memories. I do not. It's all so surreal that I can imagine winged dragons and dwarves. Every so often seems to look a few ultras ask for help and comfort: they move out of place, these bandits from thousands of miles each season. They can not explain what is happening. I turn and see Balbo. Abel Balbo. is with two friends, waiting for tickets, as all of us. Uncorked a great beer with the lighter, light up a Lucky Strike's Angel. It seems there is Previti, and also Bobo Craxi. VIPs: a hypothesis I had not contemplated, but I think it's bad bad things all the time. I say, and a retinue of workers cuts across the road. From right to left. Enthusiasm must be at least a Casillo. Instead it Venditti. Antonello Venditti. From the row at the bottom of my vision, one yells "Romania of shit." But the ride, happy to still be recognized, still living in Strapaese of toys. Photos with the singer, band, several "Forza Foggia!" And even a few mother-in-law on the phone. Other dragons spread their wings on the Roman fortress, while impromptu event organizers try to sidetrack to ease the chaos: "The Foggia non-members can go for the ticket in South Bend Pagano directly to the doors. " As the oratory. Another thought after hearing the Minister and his mom. And we see Gigi Di Biagio. It seems the Oscars. Lacks the red carpet. Vaga, Gigi, staring at the phone. "Oi, Gigi, but if you're a day?" He smiles. Enzo watches the concrete: "Gigi, why not offer us a beer?". What looks at the envelope still full, "Of course, - tells thoughtful - might not be enough. We go to the kiosk. " Except that the kiosk has a row of two people and Gigi get bored waiting, so your wallet, grab 2 notes 10 and says: "See the offer, but I'm leaving." I do not know why, We can do without his company, and laugh like idiots. Now fully in line with the carnival. Pagliacci. We think: "And if we went in search of great ex?". We propose a tariff: Lords claim by at least one fifty, and Codispoti List are exempt. Pagaci, pagaci, pagaci drink, [player name], pagaci to drink!
Families stadium
move into our hatch. At the end of fatigue, there was a miscalculation. These are the 15 steps. And I have a ticket. But another concern is: "Not there are members here?", We ask the official jacket. "No, - that is impatient – non ce ne sono”. Bene, entriamo. Mentre da dietro qualcuno sta chiedendo: “Mica entrano anche i tesserati?”, e quello risponde che no, non entrano, ma neppure è bello che li trattiamo come appestati. Peggio, direi, visto che la peste nessuno se la va a cercare con le sue mani. Tecnica sperimentata: Ceska, più bassa, passa i controlli arancioni indicando me che mostro quella cartacea cosa qualsiasi che garantiscono essere il ticket, e nel gioco di rimandi schizza dentro prima che quello possa rendersi conto. Ma l’amico è in gamba e mi blocca. “Guarda che con un biglietto entra una sola persona”, “Certo”, “E allora la ragazza?”, “Quale ragazza?”, "The brunette with long hair?", "What girl, no girl," "Why not?", "No". Zemana In the realm of illusion, the boy is not convinced of having had a hallucination, and I reassured him that I look like a psychiatrist. "Quiet, no girl." But an official in a suit, a different feel and smell of cheating is not prepared to be cheating. Comes in a gallop, with the air of those who will not do it to him. Listen to a legend that speaks of an orange long-haired brunette, nodding seriously, grab a random guy and tells him: "Show me the ticket." As if he had a clear strategy of investigation. What, surprised, surrender it to him. And the astute can finally exclaim, "This ticket is fake, the stamp is missing." A laugh will bury you. And there was great need of imagination to imagine that those things would have been a ticket! I wish that even if I do not think those things themselves! Yes, it's Saturday and you can make photocopies, but there was insufficient time material. And then ... it is difficult to draw a work of art of this kind. The debate moves on the ticket, a couple of cops I contend the raid, while an orange steward it confusing to reconstruct his last minutes. Pass the first control, the others are already in the second. Appearance Joseph, who has lingered, and I make the amazing shit to light a cigarette. An agent turns shooting. I riperquisisce. He wants to investigate. The stages must go places for families to be nonsmokers. And no vices, as in Manu sequester water bottle for Aurelio, 13 months and first trip in a van. "The child, if he thirst, you can go to the bar." At the bar of his childhood imagination, the one with the marmots that serve drinks with umbrellas, as this stage of the Six Nations in it, is a ruin. While you could advise was to Aurelius to drink directly from the condensate leak in plumbing. The second control triggers debate. A boy never seen indicates the agents and says, "That's why I do not go over the stadium." His father nods. It still hurts to hear these things. I will be able to tell the waiter in the restaurant in Frascati, which makes us more or less the same confession. At 22 he broke the fucking cops and controls. Third search, then the group is accompanied holidays falling in the shady underground of our jewel of rugby. When we come to revise the sky, Foggia is losing 1-0.
Mediocrity and its
But how nice it is to be with you. The area where we are, I am told, is normally closed. But it is not normal even sell 4 thousand biglietti. Noi siamo in alto, ultima fila a cantare. Dietro, ma anche sotto, molte facce sconosciute e tanti commenti in romanesco. Studenti e tante ragazze, che non sempre sanno cosa mettersi per simili occasioni. Di lato, in curva, i tesserati. Li vedo intenti a battere le mani. Saranno quattrocento, forse qualcuno in più. Sfilacciati. Angioletto dice di non ripetere l’errore di giudicarli da un solo punto di vista. Esistono gli ultras a questo mondo ed esistono i tifosi, sostiene. È il tifoso a segnare lo scarto che permette di vedere l’ultras, un po’ come nella scala evolutiva della specie. Sarà, ma anche tra di noi i tifosi sono tanti. Con tanti cellulari puntati, alla giapponese. Ogni tanto seguono un battimani, ogni tanto canticchiano qualcosa. Ma nella sostanza, sono sempre gli stessi quelli che si sbracciano e urlano forte. Un signore si aggrega al nostro gruppo. Si sgola, tanto che alla fine gli regaleremmo la maglietta, se ne avessimo. Il Foggia pareggia su mischia da angolo. Noi urliamo che è gol dal cross in mezzo. Alla fine l’arbitro ci asseconda. I cori si fanno anni Novanta e coinvolgono i nostalgici. Il Foggia segna altre due volte. La tribuna esplode, come la gradinata e la curva. Ma quanti ne siamo? Difficile stabilirlo. Mi diverto solo se. Siamo un po’ staccati dal resto dei nostri, e per quanti sforzi si facciano, sembrano vani. Amici, fuori dallo stadio, dicono che non è così, che anzi si è sentito tutto. Ma noi, prima ancora del rigore in favor of the athlete who changes the fate of the match, we have already christened as "mediocre" the evidence in the stands. "Cori dry vocals are dry," we urge the bathroom range. We have suffered the second goal on a penalty kick net, they all say, but the expulsion of our defense is exaggerated. The recovery is tense, exciting. We wave the flag and there's also the coveted backing vocals dry. We want this victory. The echo comforts us, but now we have an opinion and is always boring call everything into question. Our defending themselves, we do our part, but too many casual spots remain mute to observe the field. Wrong. Or at least, does not go to us who have the eye trained. At the end of the draw with Atletico Baronius, a man who - as Lello - play situation. But now we have identified the man responsible for this back in arbitration. The scoreboard says 3-3 behind us. In the gallery there are so many kids. Between us, the only Aurelio at home that runs between the seats and forcing Manu Ceska a fantastic tackles in the temple of rugby. The Foggia attacks. We are conditioned by Zeman, that we want to win. Because we deserve. And when one of our places to ride on the far post and the ball touches the post, the disappointment is authentic. I turned to look at the display. Recitation: 91'22 ". It would have been fantastic. Three to three. This is the final result. Who knows as he took it Venditti. Who knows Bobo Craxi.
Appendix and dedication to our little ultras
in the box when we closed, we wandered. It seems vaguely Benevento, on the day of the famous play-off defeat. It seems that once again want to avoid encounters. And carry away the members. They think we're on the civil war. Until then, the protagonist is still Aurelius. It was the beginning. You may say that he had lived his first trip in 13 months authentic. A luxury reserved only for the predestined. The ultras might select it as a Tibetan Lama. The van, as highway, "Take a look if you see Bari. In winter evening already smoothed output for 2 hours and wander among the Castles, in one of the wildest and most inaccessible areas of Europe. Frascati would expect the wine of the tavern and pork offered by Angel, who in life has ceased to be an individual and now is merely a function: the father of Aurelius. Is a function, you know, not a birthday. Either tonight or Thursday. Other dinner tables, spartan other taverns, and other third parties times lie ahead, while we await the same time taking up a choir. Still the same: Aurelio does not pass!
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