A group of friends start watching the football world cup. For some it is an invitation which leaves them cold. The popular national ritual no longer excites. At least to begin with. The news has been full of football scandals and ItalyâÂÂs favourite game now has an uneasy feeling. It all seems a bit vulgar and unhealthy. Then the magic. Game after game disbelief turns to wonder, an unexpected patriotism bubbles up in the hearts of the people. What a surprise! For your own actions. For the joy being shared. For a simplicity which is unfamiliar. Used to negotiation, compromise and analysing events with cynical disillusion, we find ourselves faced with clear rules and a clearly defined playing field. All self-control is lost, a part of ourselves we have kept reigned in explodes, the animal and childlike part which has been sleeping within us. Ball in good, ball out bad. GAME OVER. And we scream for ItalyâÂÂs goal. The national team of a country we don't like. A country which will leave us with no voice, dismissing us after the celebrations at the Circo Massimo in Rome. The eleven soldiers who give us an identity and deceive us. They beguile us, then leave us alone and desperate in a country which just can't manage to be European. But it is the champion of the world.
