Giuseppe Meazza

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.

That's it, then.

He stood watching the ride shrinking before his eyes, and it was almost by the horizon before traveling on and out of sight. He felt it an eternity, until the ’89 Lincoln finally lapsed into nothingness, as he waited for the desert silence to engulf it's purr and again he waited as the dusty, greyed, squared silhouette of the All American, of which he’d grown somewhat familiar and fond, abandoned his world. That’s it then, he thought to himself affording a sigh.

His right hand shielded his stinging eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, it was July and the summer kept it high for extended hours in the light blue sky, as he scanned the final reaches of views he could make out beyond the golden fields and plains bleached by sustained shine. Satisfied by the emptiness, he turned to look from where he’d come; and he had come some distance. The road mirrored almost perfectly; to the degree that, beyond the scattering of dilapidated farm houses, it converged on itself, lined by burgeoning copper cornfields, as far in one direction as the other. Despite not knowing exactly where he was, traveling east for so long had bothered him greatly and necessitated a change.

The surrounds were barren but he didn’t doubt the assurance of life; the number of pickups and old four-doors in respective yards vouched for a community of a decent descript. Standard Southern affair of red state America was unnatural and unfamiliar, and he as wary as he was curious in seeking out the unknown. By custom he had always avoided these parts and these people his entire life; of white picket fences, modest homes, dusty pickups, and washed Cadillacs prepared for the daily or weekly (whichever it is) church commute. 

He was best served prepping for when the folk do appear; he knew they’d be wary and think it queer to have a man of his portrait appear alone, on foot, out of nowhere. It was surely a matter of time before he was greeted and offered some assistance.That was one thing he knew first-hand from Southerners; when they saw something unusual or unfamiliar, even when it was threatening, they confronted it. He recited his familiar alibi, strolling down the road on slight edge, passing huge barren lots of brown grasses and dirts and black-grey gravels accommodating small brick houses and fading barns of peeling white, his rubber soles heavy on the steaming tarmac. 

He felt a sensation of great sickness and stickiness about him as beads of sweat collected and rolled off his forehead. There was little to distract from the suffocating heat: a small trad-brick house of the two bedroom variety fronted by a wooden porch shaded by an acutely slanted roof; three cars at idling out the front amongst a yard of gravel and dirt; two Ford pickups of maroon and white, a silver Chevrolet van. This is American oblivion. Sitting opposite, on his right, another brick house of similar size but with a kind of thatched roof was obstructed from view by a cluster of frail ironwoods and elms: the cluster of struggling, fading beings somehow heightened the desolation he felt. 

A sign by the roadside up ahead read in bold thick black print “Harry Hickey’s”. Finally, perhaps something abstractly representing civilization. It was the finest house on the street; a two story colonial with unspoiled white paint and its windows and doors intact. He trudged hopefully up the gravel frontage, watching his feet in ditches carved by thick-wheeled workers’ trucks, and onto the porch. The front door was open and he could see through the screen door a spacious restaurant floor. It appeared empty, as did the bar hiding in gloom along the back wall. He entered upon finding the door unlocked.

It was cooler inside, a corner fan sat on the wall slowly oscillating, quietly murmuring. The restaurant was homely and the liquor bottles along the wall behind the bar beckoned his attention. ‘Hey - hello - is there someone here?!’, he waited as no response was forthcoming, ‘what kinda people leave their restaurant open! Hey!’ Damn it, just great.  He walked behind the bar and fixed himself a drink of bourbon, cola and a ton of ice. What kinda place is so deserted for lunch anyway.. how the hell do they survive?  He must have a day job. He knew he could be waiting a while for company and made his way to a table that viewed out the generous windows onto the road. It was comfortable.

This place is alright: eight tables plus a space at the bar; and you could fit more in. And heaving on a July evening: with Southern tunes of blues, jazz, rock n roll - whatever they’re feeling; young waitresses in wispy dresses taking orders, collecting bills and workin’ hard for their tips; the whiskey flowing as round after round is shouted round the room by the local sycophant. Hell, after dark it could flow out onto the porch, into the yard. It could be something. He drew a long drink, the ice had already taken hold, and rejuvenation flew around his nerves. Within moments his eyes closed and his head tapped the window pane.

The sound of a rumbling ‘76 Chevy shifting gravel had his eyes alert and expending a moment to retrace his movements. The dull canary yellow Malibu pulled up slowly beneath the porch. A man of his forties, in blue flannelet and jeans and heavy boots, got out before bending down to release a discernibly younger and thinner man from the backseat. A woman in a floral dress emerged from the passenger side, also younger, tanned, with long wavy blond hair. He watched her as they approached the house and took another drink; it wasn’t as refreshing, there was no longer ice.

The young woman entered followed closely by the young man, they greeted their guest with a smile and a nod as they continued on into the back. The woman’s red heels caught his gaze as they clicked on the floorboards past the bar. ‘How do you Sir, can I help you?’ the old man offered, appearing at the door, as he considered the image of the young man with the disheveled thin, black tie over a soiled, white button-down, with sleeves half-rolled up, half-tucked into tanned slacks resting over brown leather shoes, that rested at ease on top of table eight. For sure you can.

4/6/10

i will miss this place. i will come back, but it will not be the same. the stuff will still be there: the bars, restaurants and fields and stadiums. but the people change; the context and structure of the relationships change. to leave is ultimately a selfish act; And there are traces of guilt. one comfort is that what is will change; it cannot be preserved. it is best just to be enjoyed, and then remembered.

and so to all the people in whom i love so much, i will see them again. it will be different, but it will be enjoyed just as much.

so we move on, and forward, and continue. what's next.