Nicole Martinelli
posted June 30 16:00
Hundreds of soccer fans in Milan are going wild.
A sea of blue shirts, the color of Italy’s national team, breaks into a cheer as another fantastic goal is served by the Azzurri. Fireworks go off, cheers of ‘Go Italy’ drown out the commentary, back slaps all around.
Lately, just about the only way Italians can have this much fun with soccer is to remember the good times.
They are watching a soccer game, of sorts. There is one player-actor on the field. There is no ball. There are no referees. Only a lone kitchen chair serves as a prop.
Fans are packed into the city stadium, joyously reliving the final game of the 1982 World Cup in Madrid where Italy trumped Germany 3 -1, in an interactive performance piece.
A journalist makes live commentary while watching the old game from a local radio station, incorporating the ‘boos’ and chants of ‘Germany, potato eaters’ from the 2004 crowd. Audience members have brought portable radios to follow along, in keeping with the retro theme. The crackle of old transistors almost drowns out ringing cell phones.
Star of the one-man show Furlan/numero ventitr? is Massimo Furlan, born in Switzerland to Italian parents, who created the piece out of his own deep attachment to the glory days of Italian soccer. Furlan, age 37, as fictional number 23 deftly follows the action, arguing with the referee and triumphing over goals. It was Italy’s last grand win and coincided with the end of his childhood, he says.
In 1982, Germany is still West Germany. Dino Zoff, who will later coach Lazio and the national team, is still working his magic as goal keeper. Then Italian President Sandro Pertini breaks protocol by jumping to his feet to cheer and whispering to King Juan Carlos of Spain, “They can’t catch us now” after the third goal is made.
It is a rare feel-good moment for Italian soccer fans. Recent betting scandals, finance scandals, doping scandals and the disappointing performance by the Azzurri in Europe 2004 has turned off all but the most loyal to the national sport.
The Italian friend who brought me along is not a soccer fan by any stretch of the imagination, has no favorite team and has only seen a only a handful of professional games, but this is different. It is history, glorious history, and Italians remember it in a ‘where were you when the first man went into space’ kind of way. They know when to expect the goals, anticipate the contested calls by Brazilian referee Arnaldo Coelho and fouls by the hated Uli Stielike, whose unsportsmanlike efforts to trip the Italians are simulated by a tumble over the chair.
Mario, then 11 years old and on vacation at the beach, remembers the game perfectly. His cousin, who would go on to become a semi-professional soccer coach, marshaled the troops, finding the only cafe in town with a TV, convincing his mother to make an impromptu Italian flag and decorate some blue T-shirts. He strikes up a conversation with the white-haired man sitting next to us who, with a laugh, proclaims the show “idiotic but highly addictive.” Our neighbor hears the names of long-forgotten soccer pros over his radio and repeats them in sort of litany: “Conti, Bruno Conti! He was amazing. Tardelli, oh yes Tardelli, Rossi, Scirea, Scirea! Now, those were great players.”
Some fundamental differences between this nostalgia show and a regular Italian soccer game make it particularly enjoyable. About half the crowd is made up of women, there are lots of young kids, spectators are actually sitting down, drinking beer and eating sandwiches, chatting. Nothing like the testosterone fest of some Italian soccer matches, almost strictly reserved for serious fans.
There is something of an ageist barrier, though, to really get the show you kinda had to be there in 1982. Next to the field, one little boy with a Francesco Totti jersey is racing against a friend wearing a Milan jersey; two 10-year-old boys sitting next to us are fiddling with a Gameboy, trying to combat boredom.
After nearly 90 minutes, Furlan gets called out of the action, substituted by another player. Stadium lights dim and the live commentary fades. In the last few seconds of the game, the 1982 commentary booms over the crowd.
“The champions! We are the champions of the world!” proclaims Nando Martellini, beloved sports journalist who died in May 2004.
When the lights go back on, there isn’t a dry eye in the stands. ? photo + text 1999-2004 zoomata.com This is an original news story. Play nice. Please use contact form for reprint/reuse info.
