Grenoble, December 16 to 18
Black of Troy and the wine of Isere, and the brawn of Faeto, Alpine salami, cheese and cheese on the table common, while in their hands parade photographs, mixed languages, is trudging explanations. To say that this is Cremona, on the day of the playoffs and here they are in Rennes. Cheers and hugs when friends come knocking at the door and we have not seen since July. From Casalecchio. This is the first time in France, the first time we look from this friendship. Really want to know, to know us better. To achieve a destinazione abbiamo marciato lungo l’Adriatica stretta nella morsa, a 30 all’ora dietro i mezzi spargisale. Dieci ore di cammino per la colazione alla Bolognina, dove ci scambiano per una compagnia teatrale o, tutt’al più, cinematografica. Pagliacci. La strada per Torino, le tristi Langhe di pianura, l’esoso Frejus. E poi, finalmente, la France. In alto i bicchieri, e la casa si riempie di fumo e racconti, mescolati l’uno all’altro in un’unica splendida cacofonia. Fuori, il freddo non è così glaciale come ce l’aspettavamo. I giacconi da neve d’alta quota restano negli zaini, a ricordarci i colbacchi di Totò e Peppino. Possiamo affrontare i marciapiedi, muoverci verso il centro città. Alle nostre spalle scorre il Donc. Silenziosamente. Le case sono moderne in questa zona. In Place Notre Dame si aprono le porte del Centenaire. Calore improvviso. Altre strette di mano, altri abbracci. È il loro feudo. La loro base. Il loro chiosco di Salvatore. Birra e Chartreuse, che sembra assenzio. 55°. L’ideale per affrontare la prima serata grenoblese. Per sentirci a casa. In pochi minuti siamo sparsi per il locale, come se lo conoscessimo da sempre. Sono incredibili queste alchimie. Intuire un’affinità, approfondirla, viverla, e scoprire che – per quanti chilometri possano dividerci – c’è un’idea che è quasi un ideale, un misto di valori e cultura di strada, che supera le barriere, even national ones, and unites in common. Does resemble this plaza in the center of Grenoble, a projection of our street Pagano. Ultras. A word that inspired today as yesterday in a dull conformists fear dictated by ignorance, which in this Italian has been the target of a crusade by the rare previous ministerial, designed to bring to school the rest of the active society, more and more numbed by the media fear . But in these parts is still envied the name of an extraordinary youth movement. And aggregation, social, and values. And share similar principles makes men (and women) more comprehensive. Able to understand without a translator. Outside to smoke, while the temperature falls and wobbles. It looks like a city quiet this. Tidy, clean, not too noisy. Yet even in large metropolitan crowd, out of the metaphorical walls of the city, made in the large suburb of neighboring countries, there are suburbs. There is the fire of revolt that adds to the difficult integration of communities. 40 thousand Italians, with their neighborhood pizzerias on the river, just below the cable car lines. And a return of machismo, a misguided sense of belonging, the younger generations. In those grandchildren of Sicilians who have never seen Sicily. In Orthodoxy, the third generation of Algerians. The gang playing the Bronx. But it is a rich city, Grenoble, industrious, which offers opportunities and not asking much. The boys and girls of the Red Kaos include all sources, light years away from sectarianism Community. The French thoroughbreds and those from Corato. They are hooligans, and they look to Italy. In Genoa, Turin, Pisa. The cradle of a movement that sometimes we underestimate ourselves in its true scope. I almost embarrassed to tell us the pass, mortal outrage almost immediately from our world. A veil of sadness for those curves now devoid of passion, annihilated by the arrogance of those who exchanged a mandate from Parliament to the right not to give respect. Considerations heavy, alternating with the original basis to the questions. We are curious, really, really proud of this, that know "crushed" between the ancient glory of Saint Etienne, the modern and contemporary dell'Olimpique Marseille Lyon. And happy to answer questions that relate to our reality, his passion. It's time for dinner, and the caravan of cars heads out of town, on high ground. The restaurant is full, our friends have occupied two rooms. The flat land on the dinner tables, while the rising chorus. Those in French and Italian ones. Even those in dialect. The snow stopped the romance. It is destructive and intense, like the one that falls to us once every three years. We must abandon the station, the balcony and city lights from above. In ten minutes we will be blocked from the world. So, back down, winding between white-washed already that tend to make us more than it should be on your toes. Here are accustomed to, although this year, we are told, has not yet begun to get serious. We land in a pub. The city center is covered with snow. It begins to slip. And, consequently, to laugh at the misfortunes of others. Seems to take life from the cold does. We do not drink on the street, so into the crowd is impressive. The boys keep us from putting hands in wallets, it seems almost a form of religion. Their hospitality is very Mediterranean. Our throats and our stomachs they forget the element of water. And at night we talk again, scroll through photos of their trips, the old curve. Find out they are on bad terms with the club's owner, a Japanese who hardly ever set foot in the stadium, and that the structure of the futuristic "Des Alpes" has taken away a lot 'of that poem that was in the past . Are relegated from Ligue 1 last year and this year instead of traveling the last lower division. A heavy crisis, which reduced bone lovers. A plot that we know well in Foggia. Even the fans, as the ultras, seems to know no boundaries. Friday is the day of the game. You play to 20, compared to Dijon, which for us is the Dijon. A glass of mulled wine to wake up, and a little 'play to the tourists. But the snow fall throughout the night makes the ideal location on the Isar bridge of a battle of snowballs with no holds barred. Centenaire to find the fanzine. The curve West greets friends Foggia, it says. In Italian. There is also the title dell'Uesse, and talk of our town and its football history. We sing and toast, while the snow is flying on the windows and flooded the streets. "But we are sure that you play?" And all respond that yes, this is an area used to certain climatic events, the soil has warmed. They say, and any of us understand that the seats are heated and have a foretaste of the Gyser in the ass. Gathered in the bottom of the forum locally, the joint committee, study the game. "Where is the Snai?", We call in French. We must bet on resurgence. A final result, a partial. And we assemble the debate on the exact result. Back to mind a challenge from another time, in the "Zaccheria" of the past. It was the first year of the series B Zeman on the bench. Foggia was the veteran of several setbacks, and addressed the house in Messina. The trend is not challenged, he decided to support those guys. It was the turning point of the season. We won 3-1, also marked the Lords. "Then she's gone, we also play the 3-1 correct score." Similarity. Grenoblois I laugh, do not believe in revenge. The biancoblu well to be the last, very marked. Three goals are too many. Darkness falls. And we are ready to move in procession to the stadium. Under the fountain in the square we lined up. Between choruses and handclaps cut the old city, where the impression of strangeness increase rather than decrease. The few passers-by, the clerks and the orders behind the heated display cases, observe without participation. It must be hard to be hooligans here. But the kids believe in it, and sing, and clap their hands. We light a torch to illuminate the road. We raise the standards. Never enrolled. But how nice it is ... There is a fully painted park near the stadium lights and futuristic. We mention the draft Casillo, skeptical. Then it is again time to battle. Foggia vs Grenoble, with blows of assault with bayonets, hand to hand and snowballs, posted under the eyes of the stewards. There are many here. There is also a department anti-ultras, borrowed from Paris. They look professional. We overcome the barriers and look out on the plant. A little jewel in proportion, from 20 thousand seats. It takes me time to understand what's so different from the stage of my house. Lack the barriers of division between the field and the stands. The goalkeeper who is training is at your doorstep. We explain that the Grenoble, was not enough, is in training emergency. At least seven unavailable, and many spring. We move in curves, we reach the team. "You have to win," we cry in Foggia. Those we feel, they turn around, look at us. Needless to say, do not understand. Then we are dedicated to the children of the school mascot: We support the first kick! The stands are half empty. In turn there is the bar. Mulled wine and loaf, as we never do at home. The banquet of the fanzine Red Kaos produces new and scarves. The group supplies. Inside there is a small stage for lanciacori. We look with envy. It's time to gamble. And the curve, blanket, began to scream. The roof creates a nice overall, and even if they are to sing in a hundred, they feel. And how. Teams in the field. We, unfamiliar languages, we strive to follow the words, but they are i ritornelli quelli che intoniamo in blocco. Il Grenoble, in campo, ci mette l’anima. Una prova d’agonismo che ci coinvolge, acuita dal fatto che c’è finanche qualche giocatore senza nome dietro la maglia. Non professionisti. Poco alla volta ci appassioniamo, e quando il bolide da trenta metri incrocia il sette, esultiamo. Ha segnato un ragazzo che, ci dicono, è l’unico nativo di Grenoble, della banlieue. L’unico al quale si tributa un coro. Finisce il tempo, torniamo al bar. Il primo pronostico si è rivelato fondato. Ma la ripresa riserva altre sorprese. Il ragazzotto di Grenoble segna la sua personale doppietta, poi è il Digione a rifarsi sotto, a colpire una traversa, ad accorciare le distanze e fallire nearly the same. It's a fun game. The boys pay homage to a banner and a nice pair of chorus. We returned, happy and confident. And at the end, a shot from outside to fill the net in the intersection. It is the 3-1 correct score. We look at each other during the crush. Too bad the lady of the tobacconist has told us: "In France you can not play the exact result." Final whistle and team under the curve. Patience, we are satisfied of the 60 euro collected. We would like to say: "Tonight we will offer you a ride", but do not allow it. So the Irish pub where we spend the evening and the night (and where the "unlucky" Charlotte has decided to celebrate her birthday that night!) we are still guests. Guests of this reality, clean cheerful and passionate, and proud young man, who gave us back a bit 'of enthusiasm than at home, banned from travel, loyalty-card owners and presidents, we had lost. Even so, hats off to the Red Kaos. Merci beaucoup. Really.
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