Until 10.45pm on Monday I was convinced that the our national team was among the weakest. Then I read and listened to a lot of nonsense, desperate or imaginative interventions, and above all I saw – like you – several times at work the other so-called greats: France, Germany, Netherlands, Portugal, Belgium and therefore Mbappé and Griezmann, Havertz and Kroos, Gakpo and Reijnders, Ronaldo and Bernardo, Lukaku and De Bruyne, coming to the optimistic conclusion that with a little more ass we could even win it, this blessed tournament. After all, we qualified second in the group of Spain, the only more than decent group, and Croatia – the Croatia of Modric, Kovacic, Brozovic, Pasalic and Sucic – despite the worst Di Lorenzo of the last three years; Jorginho electrocuted on the road to Damascus; Pellegrini, Chiesa and Dimarco in full mystical crisis; Scamacca and Retegui apparently willing to make people regret the worst Property ever, that of last season: if injuries hadn’t stopped him, Ciro would still be an irremovable starter.
They were the only ones who kept us alive Donnarumma, Calafiori, Barella, Bastoni and Zaccagniwho played 17 minutes. Think about what could happen if Jorginho found his Sarri streak, Di Lorenzo remembered how he flew with Spalletti at Napoli; Scamacca feels like he’s back in the Europa League and Chiesa, Pellegrini and Dimarco replaced their respective cousins seen in the first three games. The truth is that athletes have arrived in Germany with 60, 65 games under their belt (thanks, UEFA) and also mentally exhausted, I am thinking in particular of the top players who play all year round with City, Bayern, Real, Barcelona, PSG, Inter. It’s natural that they struggle to give their best. Furthermore, we are in a phase of international football that is very lacking in talent, therefore the expression of technical values is not exciting.
For days we have been witnessing very boring departures, the most pleasant one was Türkiye-Georgia. The few finalists who amused me are called Nico Williams21 years old, salary of 7 million a year, Fabianwhich we shipped to France, Güler, Musiala and Mikautadze. I have always believed in miracles: from Robi Baggio’s goal against Nigeria in ’94 to the high-flying header by Giorgino Bresciani, 1.70 metres, against Chievo who in ’96 gave my Bologna promotion to Serie B. The delpierata, or the tottata, of Zaccagni to Croatia it is nothing other than yet another miracle of football, which remains the most exciting sport on the planet. Zac’s goal was miraculous, but not as much as Lukaku’s pass from traitor and boiled when he left Inter for Roma to break goals incomparable now that it seems to be a goal for Milan. Miracles have no limits. Come on, Lucio.
