I lent against the cheap white plastic bar that supported my espresso and sugar by tiny plastic cup (for one euro; as is usually the case in this country - grazie italia!). At one end, past the row of like-minded enthusiasts tending own little white cups, sat a glorious -- shining -- industrial-size espresso machine. There was very little else around the bar or the entire vast, faded and grayed expanse. I stood there, on the concrete walkway 10 storeys up, looking out across the orange lit gates crowded with black coats and scarves sporting hints of blue, over the long queues at the ticket offices, past the endless ocean of cars and vespas fitted into every conceived crevasse of what was probably a quiet neighbourhood cul-de-sac by day, and into the early evening darkness that illuminated the clustered lights of the sprawling Milan city centre.
‘The fish! the fish!’, a middle-aged smoky Italian man is shouting as he grabs my shoulder. His eyes squinting with laughter, checking I’m thoroughly entertained by this idea.
I stared back at him blankly; he couldn’t speak English, nor I Italian, after all.
He pointed down toward the pitch cupping his hand while waving his arm in and out, as if to motion a fish swimming through the sea, ‘Nagamoto! the fish!’.
I grinned at the old bastard, it was actually pretty true: half an hour had elapsed thus far and Yuto Nagamoto had spent much of his time in the final third, gliding forward on the overlap in horribly haphazard fashion, successfully distracting and dragging much of the Cagliari midfield and defense out of position. The Inter left back was working hard; super keen and eager to impress – almost too hard as Leonardo was persistently waving and shouting at his Japanese newcomer to drop. Samuel Eto’o seemed almost put-off as Nagamoto popped up randomly to his left and his right. But the crowd was behind him; captured in wonder by his energy and movement and some decent final balls. The Fish!
The grayed man, happy with himself and my reaction went back to his preset anthems as Inter comfortably dictated play. The Nerrazzuri were already one nil up - owing to an astute Andrea Rannocchia. The young Italian defender, in the image of a tall and shorter-haired Alessandro Nesta, won a goal-mouth scramble to put the hosts ahead within 10 minutes.
Such is the nature of Italian football there was no intention to press for further goals. 1-0 and you are comfortable. You are winning -- and have no reason that you won’t win. To extend yourself in seeking further goals simply increases the risk of conceding. At one nil, you stay. If you are the crowd, you celebrate. It was the Ultra’s who led on the position. They were up in unison, clapping, chanting, singing, as brilliant red flares kindled the atmosphere and - every so often - all bounced that weren’t the Rossoneri! Eh! Eh!
The other stands followed in kind. When things are going well it is the collective, rather than the individual, that succeeds. People are always willing to quit their own values and march to a mass-inducing beat when it is one which is assured. The collective identity – with unique characteristics, personality and charms – is always greater than one's own. A sense of belonging is overcoming when one adheres. It provides a simultaneous responsibility for all to support and help their team as best they can: to be present; to shout loud; to think positively; to contribute financially. The sense of responsibility is the drug that keeps them coming back - it is incredibly inviting. Like nationalism, religion or xenophobia it is all the same. It all exists on a deeply personal and introspective level.
Some nifty work from Julio Cesar, successfully playing out from the back to keep possession, drew applause from all, then the ten square balls that followed -- almost a standing ovation from the 70,000 on hand. The old-suited man next to me remained as enthusiastic as ever but not quite in tune with the general vibe. His expression more a confused cocktail of his own material; much of which was apparently offensive as scores of people all around were looking at him with a mixed expression of curiosity and indignation.
But the unknown, incongruous man was oblivious to any negativity. In his drink/drug fuelled haze he was enjoying the attention and acknowledgement of his genius. He stood for the 90 minutes in its entirety, enticing everyone to follow his lead. You sensed his comfort. He’d spent some time in these pews. He knew every word of every song, and had his own to carry as well. He saw every pass, every touch, and praised and criticised every player by name, home and away. He was invested. He got it. And he knew – if Inter were in need of support; 1 goal down in extra time – the crowd would be with him too: they were on his side after all. A winner in the last minute of the game, the type that comes by maybe once a season at home, when all hope is lost, and the entire crowd rises erupting in ecstasy; jumping, air-punching, hugging strangers they've never met but suddenly completely empathise with. That’s for the real fans. He was simply there already.
Tonight there was no such single moment of delight, or any real notes of pure footballing interest. Inter did it comfortably, as planned, it was a perfect 1 – 0. The crowd, satisfied with their night's work, left to await their next engagement. For me, to wonder where football – an equaliser for so much in this world – doesn’t lend itself, and of when I will next return to the Giuseppe Meazza.
