Qui non è questione di uova o di galline. E neppure di concatenazione logica. Il prima e il dopo, in questa storia, non c’entrano. C’entra l’approccio. Prima di Foggia-Viareggio – e si parla di un paio di mesi fa, di meno e non di più – con la città estasiata che aveva assaltato le ricevitorie per i biglietti, esplorai le lande alte della Curva Sud. Da non tesserato, mi ero posto a disposizione di chiunque avesse voluto sapere perché mai i gruppi avevano deciso di “transennare” e lasciare vuoto il centro della curva per dieci minuti, come forma di protesta nei confronti del decreto Maroni. La gente, di lato, era tanta. E continuava a sbucare dagli ingressi, ad ammassarsi. C’era tensione nell’aria. Bastò una parola. L’insofferenza dei “laterali” nei confronti degli energumeni che costringevano la brava gente ad un supplizio inutile per harmful to the cause and the team was evident, they considered it an exercise in pure arrogance without explanation. And that was the good people who - for fear of not finding a ticket, however, fear induced by the corporate terrorism - had signed the draft of us outside the stadiums. Putting the desire to see each of the eleven children Zeman freedom, rushed to get the card, because they had nothing to hide. The fuse is lit and discussion, fierce on both sides, lasted over forty minutes. Needless to go into detail: this is not about who suffers more, most of the ones you love that shirt. Neither of eggs and chickens, who came first, as we have already said. The blockade of the curve was repeated. The first ten minutes "without ultras" - that popular nell'accezione ie without vocals, without color, without heat - have been repeated with Andria and with Syracuse. I have lived it quietly. With Ternana, however, I returned to high moors. And it was different. No fuse, no power, less people. The air power of the big event picturesque had broken into the routine. The inhabitants of these areas had laid out the facts, quietly, quietly resigned to this new rite, who lived with a mixture of impatience and naturalness, as the payment of a bill of Enel. But there was something more, di inedito. Una barriera invisibile, impalpabile, eppure spessa e invalicabile, tra me e loro. Cresciuto nell’epica della comunità, di quel sentire che affratella, di quella fede che unisce le anime distanti, non avevo mai provato questo senso di distacco. Né mai ipotizzato che potesse esistere. I ragazzi che sedevano alla mia sinistra, in attesa dell’inizio della partita e della fine del rito, mi ignoravano. Ed io ignoravo loro, dandogli le spalle. Niente, neppure la polemica di due mesi prima, univa i nostri due mondi. L’uno in lotta disperata contro il baratro, terrorizzato dall’idea dell’estinzione; l’altro sereno, furbo al punto giusto da non farsi risucchiare dai gorghi dell’ossessione passionale, seconded to participate but only sporting event. Between me and them, such as a fault that threatens San Francisco. They talked among themselves. Ibrahimovic and Ronaldinho, Quagliarella and Fantasy Football. Models generational different approach. Nothing in Common. The ninety minutes of live football as a starter to a crash Sunday like many others, to live among Pre Sky and delay. There is the Milan derby, as if it could somehow tangere. And it is rising in his throat a sentence read in adolescence, written with black Uniposca sull'Invicta orange: For us, Foggia is not a matter of life or death. It is much more. A boastful age daughter, no doubt. But the difference between the impulse totalitarian and sloppy relativism of these young men, appears to me even now equally painful. I spoke last night with a friend. I think I have figured out how things are. There is no question of Tessera, is a matter of mind. And heart. The challenge of Pisa, which is prohibited, we lived chatting amiably of this and that. Nocera's game, which is prohibited, I lived grilled cuttlefish, sausage, eggplant. I will have seen the first fifteen minutes and ten the second. Because the television team did not belong to me, not mine. And when you think it could be a loss of passion, a kind of foretaste of the peace of the senses, the mind returns to the Eagle and the Foggia Gela. And you realize that that's not how things are. The Foggia Mario Schena and Teleblu is the shapes of the members. Foggia is the kids relativists, those behind the Iron Curtain. Separate those at home. Another team than the one for which typhus. There is no story. It's not a question of who came first between the chicken and the egg. Simply, I'm not a team that I chose between the two hundred possible, it is the Foggia exists because I exist. Dolce arrogance in times of disaster. Founded, plus: Lapland is there, but the difference between having and not having ever feel it is minimal non-existent. Limbo.
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