di ANTONIO GURRADO
Se mi consentite una metafora extracalcistica (ed evidentemente svincolata dall’attualità) immaginate di essere un grande partito di opposizione in uno Stato governato da un più grande partito di maggioranza che di tanto in tanto, per beghe interne alla coalizione che lo sostiene, ha bisogno dei vostri voti su questioni fondamentali. Cosa fate? Ci sono due tipi di persone: quelli che si allineano a votare insieme al partito di maggioranza, pur con tutti i distinguo del caso, in nome del più alto e comune interesse nazionale; quelli che al contrario ritengono che l’interesse nazionale sia meglio protetto facendo cadere il governo, andando a nuove elezioni, possibilmente vincendole e dando così allo Stato un nuovo governo più stabile.Entrambe queste opzioni hanno, a mio avviso, pari dignità; ma quando si tratta dell’Italia io appoggio decisamente la seconda. Ho tragicamente dimenticato di dire che la metafora extracalcistica è finita col capoverso precedente, quindi parlando dell’Italia I refer to the National team coached by Donadoni. I remember throbbing former player: I was a child when AC Milan gave us a hand and a half to win trophies on trophies at least once a month I look unchanged with emotion his goal for Real Madrid in 1989, the year after I wanted to be with another fifty million people behind him to deflect a blow from his outstretched hands of Goycochea rigor to avoid the all-Italian epic of tragic night - and so on, then pull the necessary sums. In the same way I respect the coach (although with the typical reluctance to resign themselves to aging, typical of anyone who sees one day sit on the bench who at the time kicking in gold field), I agree that has amazing results at Livorno and I think with the experience to become excellent. With experience, though.
I regret to say that from the onset with Croatia trembling more than once reminded me of what Donadoni Gianni Brera Valcareggi said, commenting on Italy-Germany 4-3 at the World Cup of 1970: that to train should guide the national team with a strong hand and indomitable spirit, not just observe it scared off the bench. The first time I saw Donadoni frightened, surrounded by photographers galore, with the air of someone who wanted to apologize to star in a low voice starting to do the job that all other Italian (including me) have every day in theory - be ', I was reminded of the expression of Arrigo Sacchi first fifteen years after the debut insignificant draw with Norway. Re-read what I wrote earlier about my childhood AC Milan and imagine how much effort must have cost myself in time to start rooting against him and by extension against the national team, especially in the tactical progress unwatchable after the World Cup of 1994 (the last with Donadoni in the field, however). Each game of the National was a prayer lest a sudden pain to cease the continuous drip of pain, but wanted time there because it was not enough to illuminate the Football Association a draw with Slovenia, Croatia or a defeat, as even the defeat was enough - and who you forget it? - In the friendly against Pontedera. They had to lose 2-1 with Bosnia because Sacchi returned to Milan (scombiccherandolo rather not, but for this I will not do) and the National passed in other, more appropriate hands. It was the little bad for a lot of good. It was the providential misfortune. It was the second way to protect the interest nazionale.Lo myself have thought about Donadoni, God rest his soul. After faltering against Lithuania in Naples, the merry carousel kick-ass in-Saint-Denis against France and so on, I wondered if he should stay support for (the metaphor back) government and opposition to dirty for the good of Italy. The thinking has been done in a creeping way, becoming manifest as a result of the irrepressible and satisfied smile with which I greeted the goal of the willing (and surreal) of the Faroe carpenters, and leaving a small part of me that dreamed of a balanced . Then I became convinced that he might as well come out, hope for a draw (or even in defeat) on Wednesday in Lithuania, take off his tooth and pass away (best football life, God forbid). I just do not come to terms with the possibility that I was in England, that the only way to know the game would cling to the transmission of the unsteady commentary via the Internet, but also that the distance changes and the prospect that the heartbeat does not follow the rhythm of volition in the brain. Because the problem is that my dear, from the days when I was as tall as my knee today, when I see the blue jersey with the emblem flag do not understand anything nor intend to listen to reason: for my commitment to protect the national interest has waned when I heard it described the second goal by Quagliarella and I found myself dancing alone in the train room, without realizing star partying (it's a metaphor, again) because last Wednesday the government had held.
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