Sunday, October 10, Gela-Foggia 2-1
The launch and Barletta Foggia is the stuff of members, live on TV with a growing feeling of inadequacy, di non-appartenenza. Il Foggia del ritorno allo Zaccheria, quello visto e non vissuto col Viareggio, resta materiale da tifosi di gradinata. Quello di Cava e di Castellammare, poi, talmente finto, costruito, appartiene per intero ad un concetto astratto, etereo di “tifoso”. Non è di nessuno.
La traversata
I fari tagliano un buio carico d’acqua. Non piove ancora con decisione, ma i tergicristalli sono all’opera. Tutti a destra, e-eh, tutti a sinistra, alé-alé. Dal buio del circondario – Puglia estrema, Basilicata, forse un pezzo di Campania, forse la taiga russo-siberiana – ritagliamo solo la forma del furgone che ci precede. E quando la carreggiata leans to one side, the night makes the image of one of the most fascinating spectacles in nature: the convoy. Seven, eight vans interspersed with several private cars. The style points to non-members Tickets South in your pocket, those of the forum, which cost 20 € sweaty. But a price has not been approved, and we intend to pay. Beers passed from hand to hand, replace the thermos of coffee. In front, a Johnny Walker on a crossing does less damage Borghetti incontinent. I would stay awake for as long as possible. I would like to see the interior of Sicily. We leave behind Consilina room, and with increasing emotion static admire the work on the Salerno-Reggio. They touch speed unthinkable in some places are grazed 40 km / h, in others the caravan becomes a row of ten little Indians. When we quantify in 300 passes and the miles still to go before moving on to the ferry, drown the sorrow of realism in bars Kinder family package. Three and a half hours, maybe four, to hear Enzo talking about oranges and saffron. He talks non-stop since Thursday now, so I decided not to even prepare a sandwich for not spoil the surprise. The dawn salute the best stretch of the entire artery, the one where cars walk in two different lanes (pure unconsciousness!) And show the drug raised in their chilling beauty. You see the sea, and in front of Sicily, while the countries of the last portion of the road on the continent are indistinguishable under the asphalt stains. The past 8 when we reach the boarding of Villa San Giovanni. Maritime Station to stretch their legs. To see it, all down by the media, we are a discreet black spot. It is hard to remain consistent, to endure the bad luck, when surrender would seem so easy, almost obvious, almost predictable. Instead. The pleasure that one feels mad to be stoic and suffering in order to keep your head up, is priceless. It is not a spot. On the ferry you can ascend to the upper floors. We ramps as children in ecstasy. And when the vehicle is moving, feel the cold on his face, detached from the mainland and pointing at another, it is a pleasant feeling. It is as boatswains to challenge the winds. And the metaphors would rain down easy, if we wanted to stay in the banal. Instead. Pirate flag hoisted on the balcony. Messina approaching. Then back down again in the media, again the spectacle of the convoy. On the motorway to Catania, Sicily, but flowing side still manages to catch the eye. Nature, the island, though the most interesting section, I am sure it is the only one I want to live in wide-eyed, will be inside the state to Caltagirone and Gela. And not for nothing, after a night spent to operate the CD player of the Duchy, to listen and hear a babbling Giuliano Palma jump the Bluebeaters, singing a live version of Nightmare before caught on the radio, his eyes suddenly become heavy. And I fall into the void of unconsciousness in its long-awaited moment. A release. When I open them missing thirty kilometers to the goal. I lost everything. I drink whiskey bottle like a drunk clinging to a long course. Around the lights are clear, the countryside is dry and yellow and green and fresh at the same time. On the height, Niscemi. Behind in the van, no life. There is talk of oranges to the sauce and variations of the anchovies. They probably did not talk about something else during the entire trip. I remember being hungry. So hungry. Fame authentic. The large face of the eternal child of Kinder me flirtatious smiles from the box on the dashboard: "Fuck you?". The last sign. Gela.
Gela
extreme periphery. A traffic jam, it would take Johnny Toothpick. Car horns trumpeting. Someone greets us from the cockpits and the sidewalk. Pachyderm we are a species of whale looking for great beach on quite afford of stalled. We do not ask for better. Without conscience, driven by the tide, we find ourselves in front of the stage, identified by a row of blue-white flags on flagpoles. Parking is nearby. Are 13. Eleven hours after departure a little square on Lebanon. The smoke of the Oranges illustrates our welcome to passers-by. "Do the good, "we hear from behind. The four policemen have faces Seduced and Abandoned. One tries to make a hostile, almost ordered. But let's face it, is not credible, and his move is limited to park us all in the same direction. A great job. Another, from person to do well, raise your voice when speaking on the phone: "But I'm here, I tell you ... I know ... But I guarantee you've got before." It makes one smile. Evidently had expected only those 5 members. And in the era that we are announcing the era of electronic microchip. I'm hungry and reached the clearing waiting for my share of the van. The Count and David give me a hand. We're ready. Ready to taste one of the reasons for this trip, the ghosts evoked by Enzo for a week. Developed the first bar. A flying alongside us. Accompanies us. Closed. Then the boy in the middle blue and white shows us a second port. Pointing to that, his stomach anxiously awaiting. But the lady only has two, and are cold and similar to those found at the picnic or Capriccio. We go out with a principle of incipient distress. And a new police officer has become involved in the debate. "Look, you have to follow but there anywhere?". What a little 'there is evil. He answers: "No ...." As if to say: I was just doing it together. We recover talking about food. He explains that Sicily is not the Puglia, where everything is played at lunch. Here the better if you reserve for the evening. There will be pizza, calzone and cannoli after 17.30. When we are traveling in practice. Leave us alone, as we requested. Relieve disappointment with Moretti. And my stomach twists. Gastritis typical of these situations of hope and illusion. We wander as lost, orphans of our bodyguard. A middle-aged couple stopped us and greets us. Are Licata, first homeland Zeman. They came on purpose. Two others are asking: "But still, as the coach?", "Old man," we reply. A new machine approaches the table where we ordered another round of beers. They are relatives of a player. Zeman said they saw. Now the figure of the coach above any other representation of our team. Yet. Today, for the shirt, we have traveled, and now and then. We feel reborn love thrown from Tessera.
methodological issues
At 14 we are ready. But being ready is not enough. Now the police officers tell us that we can accommodate. In the area guests. We think we have got it wrong. We believe that the inspector has been confused, have used terms in disuse because of habit. But it takes little to understand that it is not, and we find ourselves immersed in a flash to the ankles in a new thorny controversy. The question is, can not afford to take their seats in the one hundred Foggia next to the fans of the Gela. Would be forced to enforce the number of tickets, to scatter, to move many to Gela. It is a technicality, I guess you're miles away. It opens the debate, which generates a score of sub-debates. They know what it costs to people who has been the 800 km to give up the game. But stable. Moreover, we have had to give up so much, it will not be a game to change things. Seems to appear, and after a quarter of an hour door to door, guaranteed to make the block. After all: do not ask for more. Or better: we never thought of doing anything else. But you must always give the impression that the breath is a concession. It is the game of authority ("I we are dealing with because you are good friends of these people ...). Let's not pre-screen consists of electoral boards and warm voice. But it is nice to be with you, never licensed, never licensed, always in trouble. The row of Gela to enter is very long. Look at us all. We sing, hands to the sky. A white-haired gentleman sgom order to speak with a manager, "But come here?", "It seems to be," "And you can?", "Today." Not so much for the 20 euro spent. The money is never an issue worthy of note. It is the principle. If the trip is free, if the rules show a leak, I rushed. It's obvious. Non ho voglia, nessuno ha voglia, di farsi estromettere dal proprio habitat. Dentro sento un nuovo funzionario sbraitare con un sottoposto: “Ma tutte queste cazzo di bandiere chi le ha fatte entrare? Adesso mi sentono”. Devo ammettere che sono tanti i funzionari in borghese. Direi troppi, vista la relativa calma e l’inevitabile confusione degli ordini impartiti dall’alto. C’è molta gente. La curva è piena, la tribuna si riempie velocemente. Noi siamo a destra, in un fazzoletto di seggiolini. La gente attorno si è semplicemente spostata, lasciandoci un cuscinetto d’aria. Nessun problema. Invece. In cinque minuti cambia tutto. Di nuovo l’esercito di uomini in borghese cambia idea. E ci comunica che lì we can no longer stand. It is absurd, simply. Again face to face. The people of Gela, which he had held him without problems, no longer understands. Moreover: we are the ultras, irrational and bestial people, to hear media and ministers. Begins to rumble. We are still in a free zone invaders and their - legitimate inhabitants of those lands of the stadium - do not want problems. It would be too much trouble, although it would be very useful to explain to everyone how things are. Talk about a useless decree, the contradictions it generates, which causes some discomfort at all. But there is no time. We invite you to dislodge. And the forum, which has followed the progress of the case, applauded the police che fanno il loro ingresso risolutore. Non è colpa loro, hanno semplicemente frainteso. Chi non ha frainteso per niente, invece, ed è responsabile del sommovimento d’animi che crea, blatera. Ci vuole fuori dalla tribuna in un flash. Io parlo con l’ennesimo uomo in borghese. È mancanza di buon senso, inutile lamentarsi dopo. Siamo entrati in pace in un settore pacifico. È solo grazie al loro intervento confusionario che adesso le tanto paventate “teste matte” potrebbero avere buon gioco e venire a galla. Noi non molliamo. Siamo sulla scalinata d’accesso, a due passi dalla rampa per i disabili. Siamo cento, disposti su tre file. Qualcuno in piedi sul muretto, qualcuno sotto, qualcuno in balaustra, ma i più a ground in a corridor from which the field is not even guess. But the stakes are always the same: dignity. Make people understand that we bend the rules absurd as not to retreat before the decrees crazy. We stay there. And sing. Come what may. But it is nice to be with you, never licensed, never licensed, always in trouble. The Gela forum whistle, but we left them indifferent. They may not fully understand, but if a hundred people singing and waving on a staircase, rejecting the guests comfortable and vacuum the area after a night and a morning trip, he shot. Many people look at us. Then, despite the cops, take courage. Also because to go to the bathroom, or exit, or go to the bar, we must move from the ramp. There is no third way. We need to move among us. Waving aside - because if you do beaks sure someone in the hall - I see the first Gela down. The Foggia, we have argued, already losing 2-0. A gentleman approached me and jokingly broke the ice on the defense of the U.S.. Then I said that we welcome in Gela. And you could tell that was what I wanted to tell me. That was down almost on purpose. A second man shakes my hand, "Welcome, boys." It is a sudden change of attitude. Many of us feel a gesture of support, to talk to us, to stop a few seconds more. We realize that we were not the problem. Noi ci facciamo sentire, sosteniamo la squadra che – poco alla volta – risentiamo nostra. Vedo persone che mi sfilano accanto con panini ripieni di gelato. Manca ancora un quarto d’ora alla fine del tempo e se esco, Enzo mi sgrida. E il mio fisico deprivato di cibo non è in grado di reggere le umiliazioni. Desisto. All’intervallo, l’intera tribuna si rovescia per le scale. Due battute col funzionario: “Sicché, era fuorilegge sistemarci sulle scale, e ci avete sistemato sulla rampa dei disabili. Ottima mossa”. Poi anch’io vado da Sasà il gelataio, che sembra una divinità indiana a molte braccia. Siamo gomito a gomito coi gelesi al bar, e non potrebbe essere altrimenti (quando si dice la sicurezza!). I wonder why we are against the pass. That's how it works, and it's beautiful. I explain, listen, ask again, nodding. "A Foggia do not have it here this granita, eh?". I smile, and do not know why I would reply that the c'abbiamo torcinelli. I say nothing just in time. The shot is beautiful. Not in the field, that we do not see really. But between us. A policeman asked me why I spend my time watching my flag flying and not the game. I would say: "But the facts your cock ..." (again, silent for a moment before), but I limit myself to an enigmatic: "The game is us." That does not understand, go to the guys on the wall, it's called one to say that it is likely to fall, touching him, that he loses his balance and falls. The policeman disappears among his colleagues. And I do feast for four days a month, the calendar for me to know no surprises. The Foggia makes it 2-1. The referee gives 5 minutes of recovery. Until the end, Come on guys! At that time, I recognize my shirt, my team. Defeated, desperate, beautiful. We lose. The gallery erupts, we call our under the ramp. Then, you remove the pieces, we are moving towards the exit. And here something unexpected happens. The entire forum is cheering, but it turned toward us. Is applauding us. I do not. Greet, salute. I'll have to rework this scene, I think, but I am sure that we left something here today, if a forum that two hours before the alleged intervention of the police, now pays tribute to our passion, our sacrifice made. On the ferry, a few hours later, someone will tell us that he heard on the radio-sporting fans of non-members of Foggia. I repeat: we are not saints, we are not angels, but we have dignity, respect and honor to sell. And not only us but many ultras in that country. It is time for ordinary people, terrified by the media for the scoop, I understand.
The launch and Barletta Foggia is the stuff of members, live on TV with a growing feeling of inadequacy, of not belonging. The return to Zaccheria of Foggia, one seen and lived with Viareggio, is material to fans on the steps. Cava and to Castellammare, then, so fake, constructed, belongs entirely to an abstract concept, ethereal "fan." To no one. The Foggia Gela is ours. Again, and forever.
PS:
"Stop! Stop! A rotisserie. " "Good evening, there is 25". And so, in that of Messina, a little after 21, even the ghost of Sicilian oranges hath been revealed.
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