by Tim Parks
Perhaps really this is nothing more than a development of the Biblical invitation: ask and it shall be given. The same article also discusses a fascinating aspect of pension law. For some years an elderly woman didn’t realise she had a right to a state pension. Eventually she went to the pension office, but was told that, not having made a request for the pension at the appropriate time, she has no retrospective right to have it. If in doubt, make a request!
Make demands! Protest constantly. The laws are ambiguous and fragile. The referee may be inclined to favour a big team, but your protest might remind him of his respect for the regulations. The rule itself isn’t so much sacred as a weapon in the power game. One person protests that it must be applied. One person protests that it would be inappropriate to apply it. Hellas Verona’s next three games, against Atalanta, Inter and Vicenza, were all characterised by the most vigorous protests, all decided by refereeing decisions taken after agonising moments of hesitation.
It is 4 March. My son has worked out how to make my mobile phone sound off the triumphal march of Aïda when someone calls: Gialloblù, gialloblù-ù-ù! it trills. The Arena has announced that on Good Friday in the duomo the Via Crucis will for the first time be read in local dialect. Is this a reaction to Santoro’s criticism of our bishop’s attending a mass in Latin? The weather has turned cold again after a brief false spring and Hellas, third from bottom, once again have to win at home. This time the opponent is Atalanta.
Even before the game starts, someone is protesting: the so-called popolo di Seattle are in Trieste. Overstretched, the police protest that our game – ‘one of the most dangerous encounters of the season’ – be postponed. The fans protest that if it’s played on Monday afternoon there won’t be a crowd and we’ll lose home advantage. It is part of a plot against Hellas. Time for Pastorello to show what his political connections are really worth: what’s the point of kissing the Pope’s hand and constantly being photographed with celebrities of the sports world if one of the most important games of the season has to be played on a week day? In the event the Football League refuse to move the game. ‘A thousand thanks to El Pastor,’ someone writes to The Wall, ‘he may be a shit as a man, but at least he has the right fucking connections.’
The morning of the game it rained heavily, then suddenly a warm sun appeared, drew up the moisture from the ground and faded into a white disc in thick haze. ‘The Bentegodi is now the worst pitch in Serie A,’ the Arena protests. ‘A bog.’
In the stadium, yet another form of protest awaited us. I didn’t understand it at first. We sat down as usual and I could sense something was wrong, but what? Finally Pietro, the ever-faithful keeper of seats, explains, ‘No banners.’ Of course. The whole Curva Sud is dark and grey. The parapet in particular, usually a patchwork of colourful emblems and flags, is just one long stretch of grey concrete. Finally someone hands us a leaflet:
TIRED OF BEING GUINEA PIGS
UNDER CONSTANT PRESSURE, VERONA’S CURVA SUD IS TIRED OF BEING USED FOR TARGET PRACTICE.
NONE OF US HAS EVER EXPLOITED VERONA’S COLOURS FOR ECONOMIC OR POLITICAL ENDS, BUT THERE ARE THOSE WHO USE US FOR THEIR OWN ENDS:
The leaflet goes on to list the culprits:
THE CLUB: WHO ATTACK US TO HIDE THEIR OWN INABILITY TO CONSTRUCT A COMPETITIVE TEAM.
THE POLICE: WHO WITH THEIR THREATS AND UNFOUNDED ACCUSATIONS ARE RUINING INNOCENT PEOPLE’S LIVES TO FURTHER THEIR OWN PERSONAL CAREERS.
OUR MAYOR: WHO CLAIMS SHE HAS BEEN THREATENED BY US AND, LIKE A MAGISTRATE DEALING WITH SERIOUS MAFIA CRIMES, GOES AROUND THE TOWN WITH AN ARMED, ANTI-TERRORIST POLICE ESCORT.
THE CITY’S CHIEF PUBLIC PROSECUTOR [PAPALIA] WHO HAS OPENED A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION INTO THE FAMOUS ‘OO-OOS’.
THE MASS MEDIA: WHO ARE USING THE ENTIRE CITY FOR THEIR OWN FILTHY SECRET AGENDA.
THE SO-CALLED ‘REAL FANS’: ALWAYS READY TO SPIT POISON ON THE CURVA IN THE BENTEGODI, BUT NEVER THERE TO SUPPORT THE TEAM IN OTHER TOWNS.
AND LAST OF ALL THERE IS THE TREATMENT THE FANS WERE GIVEN LAST SUNDAY ON THEIR WAY TO ROME.
FOR ALL THESE REASONS, TODAY THE CURVA WILL HANG OUT NO FLAGS OR BANNERS OR COLOURS OF ANY SORT BUT WILL BE LEFT GREY, GREY AS THE HEARTS OF THOSE WHO LIVE AND SUFFER FOR HELLAS.
As ever when I read the curva’s announcements, I feel a mixture of admiration and dismay for the rhetoric they use. There are echoes of Garibaldi, echoes of D’Annunzio. But it wasn’t quite true that no banners would be hung. For just before the game began, an immensely long slogan – black letters on white – was unrolled and suspended on the central parapet:
SOLO CONTRO TUTTI
Alone against the world.
‘Do Atalanta have a black player?’ I asked Pietro. He shook his head. ‘Thank God for that.’
The players line up for the start. Today their shirts pointlessly announce the club’s opposition to torture in the world’s police states. Michele muttered, ‘More police state than this!’ And then he said, ‘The only torture here is going to be the result.’ My son is growing more and more silent as the year progresses, more and more morose. I worry for him. Atalanta are fourth from top, they are having a wonderful season. What’s more, in the January transfer market they bought Morfeo, our hero of last year. He’s back. On the wrong side.
But Verona begin brilliantly. It’s really months since we saw them play so well. Camoranesi is on form, a tiny Indios figure dribbling the ball wherever he chooses. Mutu is behaving himself and looking bright. Even the gloomy Salvetti seems to have woken up. And just ten minutes into the first half it’s Emiliano Salvetti – the man who, on the return from Lecce, seemed to me one of the saddest youngsters I’d ever met – who crashes in a goal in the mêlée that follows a corner.
It was a few moments after that that the crowd’s quarrel with Doni began. Cristiano Doni is Veronese, a tall talented midfielder largely responsible for Atalanta’s success this year. But he is also formally under investigation for match-fixing after members of his extended family betted against the odds on a result unfavourable to Atalanta and got the score exactly right. Doni and various others should surely have been suspended. But as ever the Federcalcio’s way is to let enquiries go on ad infinitum. Doni’s still playing. And being a rash man, in the frustration at finding his team unexpectedly outplayed by lowly Verona, he commits a couple of bad fouls and collects a yellow card. So the curva begin to taunt him about his betting problems: ‘Calcio scommesse, voi fate calcio scommesse!’ ‘Football fixers.’
Inevitably the game grows tense. Then just moments before half-time, Morfeo performs one of the small miracles for which we worshipped him so much last year. Picking up a loose ball outside the box, he back-heels at once to send Doni, arriving in full flight, clear through the defence. The big man streaks into the area and hits the ball straight into the top corner of the net. It’s a wonderful goal. Even in your misery you can’t help but admire. Then, to the fans’ shocked surprise, Doni runs to face the curva and makes the gesture of holding a finger to his lips, as if saying shush to a rowdy child.
What on earth possessed the boy to launch such a challenge? For the whole of the following week The Wall would be filled with shrieks of indignation: ‘It seems impossible’, writes Il Bandito ‘that a Veronese born and bred should have made that gesture to the mythical yellow-blue curva.’ No sooner was Doni on the pitch for the second half than the monkey treatment began. As if to demonstrate that in the end grunting has nothing to do with blacks or racism, the curva was giving the works to a local boy.
I often wonder if this deafening and very specific racket distracts the players. Is Laursen thinking, Good, they’re giving Doni the grunts? Is Doni thinking, Now I’m going to play even better and silence them again? The minutes slip by. Verona are in deeper and deeper trouble. They’ve lost the sparkle of the first half We have to win. When you always lose away, you have to win at home. Perotti grows desperate, brings out defenders, throws in strikers. But already we’re into the last ten min
utes. Atalanta respond by taking off Doni and bringing on another defender. They’re settling for a draw. The odious scorer goes off to a gale of whistles but again has the temerity to make a gesture of derision to the crowd and, instead of retiring to the dressing room, goes to sit by the coach on the bench to watch out the last few minutes. ‘Doni Doni faccia da cul,’ the curva are singing. Arse-face. They won’t let him be.
It was after this game with Atalanta, standing under the shower at home, that I first asked myself: who was it, more than a century ago, who decided that ninety minutes was the right length of time for a game of football? Who was it who understood that the players would be able to hold up for about eighty, or even eighty-five minutes, but that very few would have the stamina for the full ninety? It’s in the last few minutes that everything starts to happen. However much they’ve trained, the boys are exhausted, they begin to make mistakes. And it’s in the very last minutes, as the result is about to crystallise, that the crowd’s frenzy reaches its climax. ‘Su, su, su!’ everybody is shouting. Up up up! Meaning upfield. Attack! But we might just as well have been willing the team up the league table point by desperate point.
Monday’s Arena always lists the scoring opportunities minute by minute:
Cross in the 80th, Cossato brought down as he goes up to head. No penalty, the ref says.
Corner at the 84th, Bonazzoli heads across the goal, Laursen and Gonnella both slide together at the far post, but the ball escapes by a whisker.
Cross from Salvetti in the 86th, Cossato heads just over the bar.
Three chances in six minutes. Atalanta had stopped playing. They were all in their area, panting, hands on their thighs, praying for the end. Magically, the crowd were putting energy in the home team’s legs.
‘Cross from Melis in the 88th, again Cossato heads, this time just wide of the post.’
The curva is a storm. Anxiety is exploding. The opponent is on the ropes, but we have to find the knockout punch. Then in the ninetieth minute, as the Arena reports, Melis crosses from the left. At the far side of the area Camoranesi takes the ball high on his chest. Or did he control it with his arm? In any event he dribbles round his man and from the top of the six-yard box sends the ball back across the area to the left. Salvetti is there. ‘Not Salvetti,’ Pietro always groans. He crashes in the most perfect of shots. His second goal of the day.
The referee points to the centre. Goal. But the Atalanta players won’t accept it. They’re protesting. The coach, Vavassori, a big bluff man, is protesting. He’s on his feet. He’s on the pitch. Handball! they’re shrieking. Camoranesi has slunk away. The referee consults the linesman. The linesman indicates that from his position Camoranesi was covered by a defender. He didn’t see how he took the cross. A knot of players has formed. People are pushing and shoving. And now Doni is on the pitch again. Substituted, he’s nevertheless come back on to protest! The Atalanta players obviously believe they might convince the referee to change his mind, the way so many of us have convinced a ticket inspector not to fine us, a policeman to ignore an illegal overtake, a teacher to improve an exam result. The curva go back to their monkey grunts. Doni Doni, faccia da cul. It’s pandemonium. The seconds tick by. Then the referee is holding up a red card. It’s for Doni. He’s sent off a player who was already off! The man will have to miss the next game. The fans are in a delirium of pleasure. Got you! Arsehole! At the other end the Atalanta fans are fighting the police. A tear-gas canister has been fired. The police are throwing Atalanta’s banners down from the parapet.
Somehow the referee gets play going again. Three minutes of injury time are given. Morfeo is at his most violent and provocative. He’s chasing Mutu. What must it be like to live through these moments on the pitch, trembling with tiredness, deafened by the crowd, exhilarated by unexpected triumph? Out of his mind with excitement, the Romanian gives our ex-darling a hefty shove. Morfeo leaps backwards as if he’s been shot. He rolls around pretending he’s received an elbow in the face. Video will show there was no such contact. The crowd know it. The two players had been facing the curva. It was just a shoulder-shove. But the referee goes directly for the red card. Mutu’s off. And it’s here that one has to ask oneself whether Atalanta’s protest wasn’t worth something after all, for surely the referee is partly acting in an attempt to show he is being fair. He is sending one of our lot off as well. In fact our key man. Mutu too will miss the next match. The game ends with the rules dissolving into anarchy and the players collapsing with cramps. Ninety-three minutes. Perfect. Whoever it was decided how long a game should last, they got it just right. Hellas are back in business. Doni has been punished. Salvetti is a hero. We’ve even learned to hate Morfeo. I never want to see him again.
San Siro
We really must sing like mad on Sunday, we must give them such determination that when they run they plough up the pitch, I want those miserable peasants in overalls to have to work hours and hours to put clods back where they belong!!!
Offab, boi@chimolla
IF ONLY THE political battle could be resolved in ninety minutes! On 10 March the President of the Republic, Carlo Azeglio Ciampi, finally tells us when election day will be: 13 May.
That’s sixty-four days away. And the election, of course, is only the beginning of the battle. Centre-left deputy Massimo Mauro, erstwhile footballer and winner of two league championships alongside Platini and Maradona, announces that he won’t be standing again. ‘It takes too long to get a result in politics,’ he explains. ‘When you go on to the pitch you know you’ll come off ninety minutes later, for better or worse, with a final score. When you go into government you work for months and months only to find there’s no parliamentary time for the law you have drawn up.’
To add to the general blurring of boundaries, Rigore fields an article on the growing tendency to describe the election campaign in football terms. The advantage of this, the paper decides, is that football metaphors simplify things and de-dramatise (favourite Italian word) a potentially contentious situation. I’m standing in the big piazza outside the Curva Sud as I read this reflection. It’s 11 March. This afternoon we’ll be playing Inter away. The wind is tugging at the paper. And honestly, I can’t believe it. How could anyone who regularly goes to the stadium imagine that the use of football terminology could de-dramatise an already comatose election campaign? What on earth could be more dramatic than those last ten minutes against Atalanta, against Napoli? When have I ever seen collective passions more violently aroused? How could contemporary, management-driven politics possibly be as dramatic as this? ‘I will never forget’, Massimo Mauro says, ‘my debut in Serie A. Catanzaro–Milan Nineteen eighty. Nor will I ever forget my first day as a deputy in a packed parliament. But the latter was a different feeling, it wasn’t so intense.’
And don’t tell me, I say to myself out loud, that football vocabulary simplifies things! My wife, who is an extremely intelligent woman, doesn’t even begin to understand the complications of the offside trap. ‘You can count me out as a translator for this book,’ she tells me. ‘All this weird terminology is beyond me.’ ‘There’s one team in form,’ says Roberto Formigoni, member of Forza Italia, governor of the Region of Lombardy, whose plans for giving financial assistance to private schools have just been vetoed by central government in Rome, ‘and that team is the Lega Nord. But we’re obliged to play away [in Rome] with a referee who always favours home teams and is likely at any moment to give them a penalty or stretch out injury time for as long as they need.’,
What’s simple about that?
Explaining, at a press conference in Peking, why the government didn’t manage to pass its electoral reform during the five years of the present parliament, Giuliano Amato remarks: ‘The opposition [i.e. Berlusconi] was time-wasting before we were even into the second half. They used ruthless catenaccio tactics of a variety not even Milan [Berlusconi’s team] ever used.’
My wife wouldn’t even begin to understand this, I tell myself, never
mind the poor Chinese journalists. No, politicians don’t use football terminology because it’s simple, and least of all because it tones things down. They use it because for the most part politicians are men and football is the most exciting thing they’ve ever been involved in. Standing outside the Bentegodi, I’m already nervous. Will Verona at last get a point away? Inter have been playing miserably of late. In the end, they only have seven points more than us.
I’m waiting for the charismatic Forza to travel by car with him to Milan, San Siro. And the reason I’m waiting for Forza, rather than travelling in the special train, which is even now pulling out of Verona Porta Nuova with the bulk of the fans, once again has to do with protests and rules. The Brigate Gialloblù have long had a gemellaggio with Inter: a friendship, a twinning. But the Loma Band, or Butei della Curva, as they call themselves, want to break it. They would have broken it when Inter came to the Bentegodi, but there are strict ‘rules of honour’ which state that a gemellaggio can only be broken away from home, when there are less of you than of them.
In any event, Forza and the old group from the Zanzibar are against breaking the gemellaggio because they have friends at Inter. So, in protest at the Loma Band’s decision, they are refusing to travel by train and have arranged a fleet of cars. I’ve been invited to join them. In the general fizz of factionalism that reigns in this country, whether at the university, the stadium or in politics, it is always wise to make sure that you do actually belong to one group. Otherwise you are a pariah. For myself, I seem physiologically attracted to losing factions: the literature brigade in a university that is fast becoming a marketing school, the Zanzibar faculty in a curva that is going Loma.
