A Season With Verona

by Tim Parks

  I went along. It was raining. Only fifty or so people had gathered at the gates to the training ground. On the other side of the road was the stadium and the railings behind which the players parked their cars: Mercedes, BMWs, Alfa Romeos, a Porsche.

  The players had changed into their shorts, but then we saw them sneak out of the dressing room and into some conference place. We waited, some with umbrellas, some without. At least three distinct generations of fans were present: the older men, grumbling among themselves; the young boys, fierce and callow, and in the middle, most respected of all, the leaders of the so-called brigate storiche, the now aging boys of the Primo Febbraio group who had followed the team around Europe in their glory years.

  A small shaven-headed, bull-necked man dressed in overalls carried on a conversation by walking up to the group he was addressing, talking to them intensely, belligerently, then walking away, then turning round and shouting at them again. Then he laughed and embraced a tall, stout, Dickensian figure, under whose office jacket and tie, just slightly askew, you could see the powerful body and manic energy of the fan of twenty years ago. ‘Oddo è venduto,’ this man said. Paid by the other side.

  Beppe, the Solohellas webmaster, arrived. I had never seen him in his insurance-office clothes. Glasses made him vaguely owlish. ‘Who would insure against relegation now?’ I asked. ‘You could buy Maradona with a premium like that,’ he laughed. He shook his head and nodded towards the stadium. ‘Down south they wouldn’t have the courage to stick those cars under our noses. They’d have more respect.’

  The players were late. The small crowd moved over to the stadium and the gate they would appear from. ‘They’re scared.’ The drizzle sifted down. Finally a couple of players appeared. In ones and twos they crossed the yard to the gate, then the road to the training ground. Heads were bowed, features anxious. As they passed us at the gate, the words scandalo and vergogna were frequently muttered, but no one said anything out loud until at last Perotti arrived. Once again I was struck by the man’s immense unease. Was it significant that none of the staff – the doctor, the deputy trainer – had chosen to walk out with him? He hurried past the fans, two of whom half stepped forward to block his way. ‘Vergogna!’ Just one voice was raised. Perotti accelerated. Our chance was gone.

  Then for the first time in my life I heard the Veronese expressing serious respect for southerners. ‘If this was Naples, we would have spat on them!’ ‘We’re too civil, Dio boia!’ ‘Butei, we should have been yelling!’ ‘If this was Calabria we’d have insulted their mothers, Dio boia, slashed their car tyres.’

  ‘But would that really help?’ I asked Beppe.

  ‘You bet,’ he told me. ‘They’d show a bit more respect for the colours if they knew they were going to be spat on, if they knew our women wouldn’t look at them.’

  But even this wasn’t quite Caporetto. Hellas had lost honourably against Roma and Juve. They had lost miserably against Baggio’s Brescia. But one–nil away still wasn’t Caporetto. OK we were third from bottom, but now we had Reggina, the second to bottom club, at home. It was 22 April.

  Another way you can try to turn misery into some kind of second-rate pleasure is through analogy. At its most extravagant, this is the territory of Blackadder: ‘The worst capuccino since Pavarotti’s diarrhoeic dog shat in the cat’s milk.’ More usually, the unhappy mind seeks out some obvious resemblance and reposes there, glad to be distracted from the ugly event itself by this parallel. At five to three the brigate unfolded the week’s big banner across the parapet of the curva.

  MERCENARI INFAMI, TUTTI I VOSTRI MILIARDI NON VALGONO LA NOSTRA FEDE.

  Disgraceful mercenaries, all your billions are not worth our loyalty.

  So later that afternoon I tried to detach my mind from the catastrophe being played out before me by thinking about mercenaries. Wasn’t there an analogy with the situation in medieval times, when the city states of Italy used to debate whether it was better to rely on one’s own homebred soldiers, or whether riches amassed could usefully be spent bringing in paid troops from elsewhere? As I recall, it was Machiavelli who had the last word. ‘With mercenaries,’ he writes in Il Principe, ‘victories are slow, tardy and unconvincing, whereas defeats, when they come, are unexpected and overwhelming.’

  This defeat was both. Twenty minutes into the first half, a figure in Reggina’s claret-and-white streaked down the left wing. Oddo, who should have been there, was nowhere to be seen. From the other side of the field another dark shirt was converging. Does anyone actually know the names of Reggina’s no-name team? Only the Pulieros of this world. The cross came high. Ferron moved out, as he should, to pluck it from the striker’s head. But there must have been some wind higher up. It had rained hard; now there was bright sunshine and an Alpine smell in the air. Driving to the stadium, you could see it had snowed on the peaks. A smell of Caporetto, perhaps, of avalanche and abyss. The ball ballooned, spinning bizarrely backwards. Too late, Ferron realised that it was doomed to fall plumb out of the blue sky and right into his goal. He dived back and scooped. The linesman’s flag was already up. One–nil!

  By half time it was two–nil. After months of giving him the benefit of the doubt, the curva had resumed their old chant: ‘Pas-tor-el-lo vaf-fan-cu-lo!’

  All the same, Reggina had had a defender sent off. Surely now Verona would make headway. For about five minutes we hoped. No headway was made. The players seemed to have no idea how to get the ball from the halfway line to the opponents’ goal. What does Perotti do with these people all week? All around me, a strange feeling of resignation had set in, quite different from the anger of the Juve game. Pietro propped his strong chin on an open hand and watched stony-faced as the minutes ticked by. He’s getting ready to withdraw, I thought. He’s preparing not to care.

  Suddenly there was a brusque movement in the curva. Twenty minutes from time a large number of fans were sucked down into the central stairs to reappear moments later low on the west side of the curva, as near as they could get to the bench. They began to jeer. ‘Perotti, Perotti vaffanculo!’ Whenever Verona made a mistake the whistling was fierce. Somebody decided it was time for Oddo to get the monkey grunts. Oddo has let us down seriously. Oo, oo, oo!

  The team went to pieces. Substituted, Bonazzoli appeared to be telling Perotti to go to hell. Adailton was sent off for an incident off the ball. Another suspension. The crowd began to applaud every move Reggina made. The brigate pressed against the railings behind Perotti. It was menacing. A squad of riot police in full gear appeared below us on the east side of the curva and marched behind the goal to the west side. They had a military step. In the VIP section, Pastorello got to his feet and headed for the exit. He was thus spared the scene when, with just seconds left, Reggina grabbed a third on the break. The brigate cheered. The final whistle blew. ‘Come under the curva!’ the fans invited the players. But they had disappeared. ‘If this were Naples, they’d have to leave the stadium in a helicopter,’ Pietro said grimly.

  ‘That’s it,’ Michele announced in the car. ‘I’m not coming to the last games.’ I drove in silence. Unusually, we didn’t turn on the radio to pick up the other results, though we already knew Chievo had won again. Chievo were coming up. We were going down. We were still third from bottom, but five points away from safety now. Is it time to detach myself, I wondered? The season was beginning to take on the trajectory of a love affair that had never been easy and was now turning decidedly sour. Time to cut losses perhaps. ‘I’m not coming again,’ Michele repeated. I didn’t try to persuade him. Back home I threw myself into some harmless task, gardening, fixing a broken shutter. It wasn’t until the following evening on my author tour in Munich that I conjured up the necessary mental energy to check The Wall. Once again, someone had found exactly the analogy that both expressed the dismay and made it easier to bear: ‘Supporting Verona yesterday was like being in love with a whore.’

  Two days after it arrived – in Berlin now – I clicked open the
message headed ‘Caporetto’. It was from a Hellas fan, Alvise, who lives and works in London. ‘Tim, we’re no longer the first team in Verona. I never thought I’d live to see such shame. Were we really that bad? Is there no hope?’

  Brusquely I tapped out: ‘None.’

  Credere, Obbedire, Combattere

  I don’t want them to wear me. Help! Please!

  A shirt of Hellas Verona

  Mercen@ries!

  IN AFGHANISTAN, THE Taliban continue to destroy the great statues of Buddhism. In the smoky bar where I go to read La Gazzetta dello Sport a row of bottles has appeared on the shelves behind the counter. ‘Cappuccino e brioche, per favore,’ I tell the barman. But for a moment I can’t believe my eyes. ‘Credere, obbedire, combattere!’ the bottle directly opposite me is shouting. On a white label against shiny black glass Il Duce raises a solid arm. ‘Believe, Fight, Win.’ The imperatives of Fascism.

  Waiting for my cappuccino to appear, I look more carefully. ‘DUX’ the bottle to the right announces. Mussolini’s torso rises gigantically from the tiny figures of a crowd in silhouette. ‘Ein Volk, ein Land, ein Führer’ claims the next bottle in line. Adolf himself is inviting me to join in the Nazi salute across the polished marble of the bar top.

  I choose a croissant with a custard filling. I am fascinated by these powerful images so unexpectedly presented to me with my morning coffee. The verticality of the wine bottle, its statuesque cylindrical form, allows these old icons to take on a new if contained strength. ‘Führerwein’ declares the next bottle, featuring that famous greatcoat, the peaked cap.

  But I’m taken aback too. Isn’t it illegal in Italy to display the emblems of Fascism in a public place? Weren’t these provocative images supposed to be imprisoned in history books or properly condemned in TV documentaries?

  ‘It’s a company from Friuli,’ the barman laughs, sensing in my interest a possible sale. ‘This one’s a cabernet.’ He picks up a bottle showing a little boy in uniform. ‘Balilla’ the label declares. Balilla was a patriotic hero whose name was used for Fascism’s youth brigades. ‘That’s the one most people choose,’ he says, when I ask for a bottle of Credere, obbedire, combattere. What better motto for Hellas? ‘It’s a merlot. They find Hitler a bit hard to stomach,’ he admits. ‘Pity because the wine’s good.’ He brightens up. ‘Most of the youngsters go for Che.’

  ‘Che? Che Guevara?’ I hadn’t noticed him, but there he is, on the far left of the line.

  ‘Che’s a cabernet again,’ the barman explains, drying a glass, ‘but lighter and fresher than Balilla. Question of vintage. There’s a Che bubbly too if you’re interested.’

  I stare at the bottle. The Communist revolutionary has his beret of old, the proud face for ever upturned in that gesture of defiance and hope.

  ‘Where’s Lenin?’

  ‘Suppose they haven’t got round to him yet.’

  I like the barman. He has a long bony face, a sort of triangle opening upwards, and then a thick tangle of curly hair.

  ‘There’s nothing political about it then?’

  He looks at me surprised. ‘Oh no, not at all.’

  It’s what the brigate always say about their monkey grunts.

  I sit down with my coffee and my rather expensive bottle and take a good long look at Benito Mussolini. In ancient times we bowed down to idols. They underpinned a mythology. The mind couldn’t escape them. Then when they had lost their power and the world seemed empty, it occurred to someone we might invent new icons and new mythologies to enthral the masses and have them rise up on the politicians’ behalf. That particular folly was an Italian first; the problem being that once you had created the images you had to produce the story they gestured to: war. And when at last that was over, we locked these new images away. People were scared of them. But now it seems they are seeping out again, free to circulate in bars and on dinner tables. They are free because they no longer mean anything. Che’s red label and Hitler’s black are equivalent now: grand gestures, strong lines, cut loose from any context: the way in a big museum you might find yourself equally interested in a Renaissance Madonna in one room and Shiva in the next.

  Il Duce safely bottled beside me, I open the papers. This is a major scandal, the atheist West laments of Islam’s destruction of these ancient statues. Various world celebrities are expressing their dismay. We’re jealous of the Taliban, it occurs to me. For us sacred images are merely art, an aesthetic aura that inspires no fundamentalism. But incredibly, the Taliban take those statues seriously. For them the symbol is potent, it can possess the mind. The only comparable concern I can think of is the left’s preoccupation that Berlusconi’s TV stations are winning the elections for him.

  ‘Below we publish a list’, the Arena announces, ‘of the party symbols that the voter will have to choose between on election day.’ There are more than a dozen of them: the oak tree, the olive tree, the daisy, the carnation, the national flag, the hammer and sickle, the sunflower, the raised sword, the tricolour flame, the red cross, the ivy leaf. But no one seems to be fundamentally attached to any of these icons. The paper lists all those candidates who in a frenzy of last-minute opportunism have pinned a new badge to their chests. More interestingly, the Gazzetta has an in-depth interview with Christian Vieri: ‘I’ll leave Inter at the end of the season if the team doesn’t make it to the Champions’ League,’ he says. ‘A player of my calibre should be in the Champions’ League.’ What does he care about the mythical blue-and-black shirt of Internazionale? Nothing. It means no more than a bottle of cabernet with a Nazi salute.

  I salute the barman and leave. It’s 29 April. This afternoon we play Milan at San Siro. Does anyone take images seriously now? I wonder, wrapping up il Duce in the boot as I park the car at the station. But my thoughts are interrupted by a song. ‘In Italia, Hellas, in Europa, Hellas, e ovunque Hellas, per sempre gialloblù.’ For ever yellow-blue. And I realise I have the answer before my eyes. On the plaza outside the station the familiar faces are gathering: Forza, Fondo, Mauro, Albe, Busso. Even though it’s warm they’re wearing their blue-and-yellow scarves, they have their banners. The fans are the Taliban among us. At least on Sunday afternoons. It’s fantastic how much they care.

  Not that the fans’ banner is quite the same as the pagan’s idol. I’m sitting on the stone border of a flowerbed, beer in hand, watching the kids sing arm in arm. What’s the story here? Perhaps it starts with a sort of generalised nostalgia for the icon. The first nightmare we have any record of was that of a Mesopotamian queen who woke in panic after dreaming that the sacred images had been stolen from the temple. I once met a fan who complained he’d dreamed that the Curva Sud had been bulldozed to the ground. ‘Thought doesn’t aspire to emancipation,’ wrote the Colombian Gomez Davila. ‘but to bow to the appropriate yoke.’

  But it’s so hard to believe in sacred images now. From time to time the TV shows a cardinal holding a picture of the Virgin, while the faithful queue up to kiss it. This is hard for the thinking man. Or an idiot is arrested for daubing satanist symbols and swastikas in a cemetery in Soave. That is harder still. To remain transfixed by a Celtic cross requires a very special form of delirium.

  The fans, on the other hand, have invented a new, if more precarious, form of enslavement. We can carry the Hellas banner because it means no more than ourselves. Nothing beyond is gestured to. Nothing means more than us, our shared emotions, our antique company. We cheer and laugh. We have no saints. The players, who are really only eager to make money, are merely a necessary disturbance, as opportunist politicians are no doubt a disturbance for the voter who wants to enslave his mind to some ideal.

  ‘Out of respect for the colours, you mustn’t play in blue-and-yellow again till you have shown some balls.’

  Being in Germany, I couldn’t go to the altogether larger contestazione that followed our disastrous game against Reggina, but this, apparently, is what one of the leaders of Primo Febbraio told Perotti when he came out of the dressing room.
The big man was forthright. ‘The next match, you don’t play in blue-and-yellow. OK? You’re not fit to.’ And they didn’t. When finally we arrived at San Siro, five minutes after kick-off, it was to see Hellas on the field in all-white.

  Of course, whatever your attitude to scarves and banners, one image the mind, or at least the male mind, can always fasten to is that of the female form. When I returned from Germany on Saturday morning, the day before the game, it was to learn that another disaster had befallen Hellas. The previous evening, Alberto Gilardino, only eighteen, his driving licence just a few weeks old, plunged his Golf into a canal. Actually it wasn’t his Golf. He was planning to buy the car from one of two sisters whom, together with a mutual friend, he was driving back to their home in Treviso. Treviso is 150 kilometres from Verona. The girls were aged twenty-two and twenty-seven. It was 9.15 in the evening. Dazzled by oncoming headlights, he veered off the road and plunged into the canal. The car sank rapidly, but with his lightning reactions our star striker had managed to open his door and, despite injuries, he pulled his friends to safety. He is now in hospital with a compressed vertebra. Out for the duration.

  The following morning, The Wall was aflame with anger and insults. ‘Miserable mercenary brat out with his Treviso sluts only two days before a big game! When was he planning to get some sleep? We’ve lost four in a row, for Christ’s sake!’

  The two sisters are called Silvia and Cosetta Puppinato. In very short order someone has tracked them down on the web. ‘Butei, go to this address and check out the poppe [tits] of the Puppinato!’

  It was a site that had something to do with night-clubs. Almost immediately the tone of the messages changed. ‘Great knockers!’ ‘What a pair of melons! Someone better tell Gili, she’ll eat him alive.’ ‘What an arse, Dio boia!’ ‘You can understand why he was distracted, butei. You have to forgive him.’ One of Hellas Girls grew angry. ‘Little boys, haven’t you seen a pair of tits before? If you want to carry on this conversation, move over to a porno site.’ Then came the familiar refrain: ‘Ancor prima della mona, sempre Hellas Verona.’ Before the skirt, the shirt.