When they kick at your front door/ How you gonna come?/With your hands on your head/Or on the trigger of your gun! (The Clash – The Guns of Brixton – 1978)
Eh già, la domanda che si facevano i mai dimenticati Jones e Strummer è oggi più che mai – metaforicamente – legittima: quando ci prendono a calci la porta, come andiamo ad aprire, a braccia alzate o con il dito sul grilletto?
Ecco, fuor di metafora, oggi noi tifosi come dobbiamo porci di fronte a tutto quello che ci stanno facendo? E, per di più, viene da chiedersi se veramente abbiamo chiaro quello che ci stanno facendo? Ma ancor first, backwards logically and psychologically, who are we? We
football, that's true, the fact that emotions and passions, are the ones who live forever 90 minutes, they think football, they see football, they feel football, live football. We are the ones we use color as a sign of our identification, our songs as a soundtrack of a lifetime, our joys and love of life, our moments of pain as a black to be overcome quickly. We are people who love to madness, or rather we are fools who have learned to love and teach him in turn. We are infected and infectious, proudly imperfect, heroically stupid, consciously unconscious. We are capable of anything at all. We alone even in the midst of thousands like us, but we feel at home every time we see our colors. We win and lose for a third party, but then at the end we think that those who are casually playing field for us. Without us believe that the world would not exist, the world is better with us.
But before all this, perhaps because of it, who slowly but surely we have pulled the toy from the hands, they started kicking us in the face.
They stole our mesh, filling them with outrageous smears, took our shoes coloring as a carnival, have drugged our teams to win without glory, have changed the rules to please the television; bought and sold players to rip the flags, they always talk about budgets, but never dreams have not muted the microphones to make our voices heard, have ruined the four stages to enrich palazzinari; have suppressed our love of life stopped, the smoke and we have raised the melting membership groups, have clipped wings to our imagination, taking away the banners, have ruined the waiting time by giving us empty words every second, shut off the heat with cages and nets, have ruined our inventing rituals lay out a timetable that does not exist, have turned Sundays into weeks and weeks into months and have made all samples so that samples do not exist anymore; Ministers wanted police hitting fans and parliamentary supporters to show him who to hit, Gabriele Sandri was shot at and they said it was a case, they have divided those who had joined with cards to say who was good and who's not, they put barriers any kind to prevent us from going to the stadium, they wanted to fill empty stadiums sofas, they put the fake fans to cover the empty stadiums, have done all this and more and then tried to blame someone ... And, magically, we were perfect for this.
But they reckoned without us. We're fans and we will always be: do not get up your hands.
0 comments:
Post a Comment