There are days you don’t want to live. But they repeat themselves. There are moments you would like to escape from. But you can’t find the strength to get up and run away. In the sultry tulle of Berlin the Azzurri fans tried to spot the Azzurri but it wasn’t just the heavy, hot air that obstructed the view, there were distant figurines, they moved strangely, but inanimate puppets. Italian pride has lost its way under the same sky that had instead caressed and exalted us in 2006. Enough with the memories, a nostalgic exercise that only creates false, deceptive expectations, it’s useless to continue leafing through the album of beautiful photographs, it’s all old, ancient stuff, valuable pieces that have now disappeared in the blue company, we chase the past without having a certain present, safe, guarantor of a future that remains an idea empty of substances. The phrases of the parish priest Spalletti Luciano turn into blasphemies from the faithful, the sermons vanish into the faint chatter of a group that cannot always be saved from the holy hands of Donnarumma or from the diabolical joker drawn by Zaccagni, it takes more to stay and stay in Europe , we need to get to the bottom of things, starting from the youth teams, blocking the number of foreigners to be fielded on the pitch, the league doesn’t give a damn, the clubs think about inflating the agents’ accounts by hiring players of very poor technical standing but coming from abroad and pushed by the their agents, almost to blackmail.
Indeed, from today we are back to writing and chatting about transfer market football, as in the latest fashion of final exams those who fail are promoted, their silent scene on the pitch is quickly forgotten or passed off as an unfortunate coincidence. Something should happen, someone should decide. Something won’t happen, someone won’t speak. Italy is sad, stale bread and very bitter chocolate.
