The year was 1984, and it was an insouciant summer afternoon in the lush, verdant cliffs near Bonassola. The crickets were chanting in unison as the sweet breeze of the Mar Ligure strolled my burnished skin before hiding away under the thick, salted, golden curls of my marvelous rebel mane. Scents and sounds of my childhood summers, where art thee now? Where are aunt Pepponzia and her brown apron perennially covered with flour? Where is the quintessential feeling of "la Magnun" rubbing Q-tips inside my ear as I lie on my side on the brick bench of a sun-bathed courtyard? Where are the fireflies....WHERE are the fireflies?? Gone, gone, everything is GONE! My incipient mid life, and the cacophony of the nearby 2nd ring road is all I have now. And the stench of choù doùfu BÚ XÚ YÃO, BÚ XÚ YÃO, BÚ XÚ YÃO!!! And the ochre sand of the Gobi desert covering the entire city now, drying out my throat, penetrating my lungs so let's move on I think we shall.
For that very summer, my friends, the Giuve was preparing her long overdue climbing to the top of the world. It would culminate 10 months later, in the form of an abject libation of gobbo blood on the altar of the Football Gods. After the obscenity of that May night in the City of EUnuchs, the Beautiful Game had changed forever - for the worse. No, never again were things going to be the same. The fairytale of Hellas Verona's scudetto just a few days earlier was but the swan song of a blessed era, one that the under 30's can only have heard of or read about but they don't listen do they they don't read they CAN'T read. An era where all games were played on Sunday-at-three, no if nor buts nor Tettecom italia. Where no less than twice a week one could find actual sports news on the Cazzetta. Where the whole family was waiting in anticipation for Tonino Carino's twitches and grammatical stabbings on Paolo Valenti's 90° minuto. Where Michel Platoche proudly sported a beautiful paunch, for bionic chests and mortadella thighs weren't prerequisites for being an athlete. Where Cristic Ronaldi were driving miniature Vulgari and Lamburini at best. What a blessed era indeed.
And for the time wassing, on that 1984 Ligurian summer afternoon, this insouciant 7 year old didn't know worse than to spend long hours near the grey, crackled low walls of aunt Pepponzia's bungalow, chasing lizards with his faithful Pilù, and kicking the ball. Chasing lizards and kicking that very ball which had been offered to him by his uncle Chicco. Yes, that same uncle Chicco who happened to be a gobbo fundamentalist, determined to convert his only male nephew to the cult. For everybody in Kaiserino's family was a gobbo. Everybody bar his agnostic parents and grandpa Italo, a respectable and respected ambrosianista (yes, those existed too!). And aunt Luiginia in Bergamo, who had naturally been won over by Atalanta. But that was all. EVERYBODY else was a gobbo. Especially, obviously, on the piemunteis side. "Il Teto"? A gobbo. "Il Biund"? A gobbo. "Il Francun"? A gobbo. "La Melasecca", "Magna Rina", "Magna Spina", "Barba Spusa", "Barba Giuan", "Barba bietule e spinazz' tri palanch' al mazz'"?? FILTHY GOBBI, the lot of them.
So yeah I assumed I was a juventino too back then. I mean it's only natural right, peer pressure and all that bollocks, right? Right. Amarcord all too well that damn ball I used to kick, you know. A most decent replica of the Adidas Tango 1982, with none other than Michel Platoche's radiant mug on it, and his autograph printed underneath. I was a gobbo back then, fine : I haven't forgotten. But there is something else I haven't forgotten. I haven't forgotten how that same zio Chicco, who was coaching the pulcini at the defunct CASPORT, used to say how my feet were too big. "They're too big", he would say. "Too big, Kaiserino, they're just too big. Let's face it, you will never be a Michel Platoche. But with hard work and some luck you might become a Manfredonia". Lionello Manfredonia. No chit-chat defensive mid who played both for Nazio and Roma...he had a stint at Giuve too, remember? Of course you don't, nobody ever remembers. He wore 46. So I said fuck this man, ama be a milanista, I know they're shit, especially Mark Hateley but I kinda like him.
For that very summer, my friends, the Giuve was preparing her long overdue climbing to the top of the world. It would culminate 10 months later, in the form of an abject libation of gobbo blood on the altar of the Football Gods. After the obscenity of that May night in the City of EUnuchs, the Beautiful Game had changed forever - for the worse. No, never again were things going to be the same. The fairytale of Hellas Verona's scudetto just a few days earlier was but the swan song of a blessed era, one that the under 30's can only have heard of or read about but they don't listen do they they don't read they CAN'T read. An era where all games were played on Sunday-at-three, no if nor buts nor Tettecom italia. Where no less than twice a week one could find actual sports news on the Cazzetta. Where the whole family was waiting in anticipation for Tonino Carino's twitches and grammatical stabbings on Paolo Valenti's 90° minuto. Where Michel Platoche proudly sported a beautiful paunch, for bionic chests and mortadella thighs weren't prerequisites for being an athlete. Where Cristic Ronaldi were driving miniature Vulgari and Lamburini at best. What a blessed era indeed.
And for the time wassing, on that 1984 Ligurian summer afternoon, this insouciant 7 year old didn't know worse than to spend long hours near the grey, crackled low walls of aunt Pepponzia's bungalow, chasing lizards with his faithful Pilù, and kicking the ball. Chasing lizards and kicking that very ball which had been offered to him by his uncle Chicco. Yes, that same uncle Chicco who happened to be a gobbo fundamentalist, determined to convert his only male nephew to the cult. For everybody in Kaiserino's family was a gobbo. Everybody bar his agnostic parents and grandpa Italo, a respectable and respected ambrosianista (yes, those existed too!). And aunt Luiginia in Bergamo, who had naturally been won over by Atalanta. But that was all. EVERYBODY else was a gobbo. Especially, obviously, on the piemunteis side. "Il Teto"? A gobbo. "Il Biund"? A gobbo. "Il Francun"? A gobbo. "La Melasecca", "Magna Rina", "Magna Spina", "Barba Spusa", "Barba Giuan", "Barba bietule e spinazz' tri palanch' al mazz'"?? FILTHY GOBBI, the lot of them.
So yeah I assumed I was a juventino too back then. I mean it's only natural right, peer pressure and all that bollocks, right? Right. Amarcord all too well that damn ball I used to kick, you know. A most decent replica of the Adidas Tango 1982, with none other than Michel Platoche's radiant mug on it, and his autograph printed underneath. I was a gobbo back then, fine : I haven't forgotten. But there is something else I haven't forgotten. I haven't forgotten how that same zio Chicco, who was coaching the pulcini at the defunct CASPORT, used to say how my feet were too big. "They're too big", he would say. "Too big, Kaiserino, they're just too big. Let's face it, you will never be a Michel Platoche. But with hard work and some luck you might become a Manfredonia". Lionello Manfredonia. No chit-chat defensive mid who played both for Nazio and Roma...he had a stint at Giuve too, remember? Of course you don't, nobody ever remembers. He wore 46. So I said fuck this man, ama be a milanista, I know they're shit, especially Mark Hateley but I kinda like him.
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I can't believe I missed him.
