Ski Boot Calf Pressure

of ANTONIO Gurrado

For as we are Italians, more than likely to forget it. Monday, July 9 marks the first birthday of delirious triumph at Germany 2006 and it's fine, so if anyone remembers him, I think even Guido Rossi. But absurdly, counterfactually, although last year we had not won the World Cup we would have something to celebrate in July this unusually warm (non-football note: When the news are empty, with the summer, every July is unusually warm, as well as at Christmas each winter is unusually cold spring in each of the Inter scudetto is unusually well-deserved). Wednesday, July 11, raise your hand if you guessed, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the victory of Spain '82.
At the time I was born but, having just turned a year and a half, I preferred to concern itself with trivial matters, so that only I knew the tape through an intermediary shaky group stage of Vigo, the burial of pomposity Brazilian goal in the second round uselessness Breitner in the final. I do not regret essermelo lost, because the 2006 and 1982 dealing with two distinct sides of my heart football: one firmly anchored in the events that mark the change expected by the parties, and as such legendary time that has passed through a daily routine that made him credible, not to fade with the morning awakening and the second, on the contrary, necessarily confined to the testimony of others or in the newspapers of that time, a historical flow so dreamy and nebulous to disguise themselves by way 'of legend, although confirmed by repeated exposure (to interviews, celebrations social, MATCH amarcord) aging of the protagonists of that time. Why
football, I do not understand enough, we like because it teaches all get older and that while we can survive our age, crystallized at the time, no matter whether one or twenty-five years ago, two Italian hands raised to heaven a completely equal and golden cup. If I were a sociologist, I dedicate this merry week of July to the comparative study of two blue roses, the restricted choice of a dozen compatriots who, for one month, did not have to do is kick in the name of a entire nation. Not at all Italy, as it turned, it is boot-shaped, Calabria and under seem to be the cleats.
Not being able to play spot the difference, as in this week Puzzles, twenty-two between pairs world champions, I would limit myself to the pair of goalkeepers in two different centuries, as the week Puzzles, boasts countless imitations. You may be able to keep track of changes on the outlines of five decades of parallel Dino Zoff, the first, and Gigi Buffon, then? They have more in common than you might guess: they are both super-human, as is obvious from watching any movie vintage, have a diminutive name (for those curious eyes of the attackers is almost as big as the door to protect) and a surname as the trunk rumore di una parata; giocano nella Juventus e vincono campionati a ripetizione. Cosa li distingue? Tante, infinite cose; ma nella nostra memoria, se ci pensiamo un attimo, sono percepiti come speculari. A Zoff associamo, brutalmente, la vecchiaia, col bagaglio di esperienza e silenziosa saggezza che si porta; le rughe fissate nell’espressione perpetua con la quale ha attraversato il 1982, mutandola in un sollievo tanto raro da dover essere immortalato da Guttuso. A Buffon associamo, al contrario, la gioventù, col suo esordio precocissimo in Serie A, i capelli bagnati, l’occhiolino compulsivo, la battuta spontanea (dopo la miracolosa parata su Zidane, un anno fa, gli si avvicina e gli dice: “Scusa”), la fidanzata its beautiful and continue to be forever, when we read the date of birth on almanacs or on sticker album, surprisingly younger than they say the prize list (two years older than me, that I can barely keep a ball in hands).
Just to accept, we stop first at the numbers. But think how much information on twenty-five years of Italy could take the hypothetical sociologist by comparing the number 3 decided otherwise (Bergomi in Spain, Germany Grosso), the sneering 5 (first Collovati, then Cannavaro), the pugnacious 8 (in 1982 Vierchowood, Gattuso in 2006), the Florentine 9 (also with the rhyme: Antognoni by Toni), the versatile 15 (Tardelli, Iaquinta), the Noble 17 (Causes for elegance, Baron first name), and so on: similarity, opposition and signs of destiny is chasing indefinitely. I limit myself to just make a note: in Germany, with the number 7, playing the captain of Italy's most Tifata, sample the best of (her) a bad (the bad luck), clear, correct, successful, faithful decisive and praising the company: his plays and his interviews should become a compulsory subject in all the speakers in Italy, where I hope they're starting to work out the World Champions of 2030. In Germany, Alessandro Del Piero wore the shirt that was to Scirea.