Back where it all began (for me at least)

Dear friends, if you shift your focus about one inch to the south, you will see the second part of my book. I won't be putting every chapter up, I don't think, but I hope you enjoy this while it lasts.

Back where it all began (for me, at least)

U.C. Sampdoria v A.S. Roma, 25/9/13, Stadio Luigi Ferraris, Genoa

Kilometres covered: My house to the stadium = about 1.5 km x 2 = 3km

Euros spent: 25 euros

One month to the day since my first and last trip round Italy, I really pushed the boat out for my second foray into watching calcio. The gruelling voyage of discovery to watch Sampdoria took me about 15 minutes, which was most satisfyingly easy. The game was a Wednesday night affair, and given that I had work on the Wednesday afternoon and then again on the Thursday morning, venturing too far from home would have been tricky.

So, after starting with Il Toro, game number two was Sampdoria versus Roma. In a way, this game brought me back full-circle to my Italian football origins, if that doesn't sound too poncey. When I was but a child, my first interest in Italian football blossomed through Gazzetta Football Italia with James Richardson, and Roma winning the Scudetto. Playing for them at that time were Totti, Batistuta, Montella and Delvecchio, but over the years three of them departed, Totti's arse got much bigger, and I lost interest in obsessing over football, instead embracing other pastimes that teenagers enjoy.

Then, when I came to Italy in 2008, my first game was watching Sampdoria play Juventus. Compared to Scottish fitba' and straining to watch a match at Easter Road through the rolling sleet, this was a revelation. It was sunny! I (probably) wore a T shirt! There were flags, banners and flares a kimbo! It was another world.

Since then, I found myself becoming a member of another parish, so this game felt a bit like crossing over to the dark side. When I went to buy my ticket from the Samp store I was unreasonably worried that people might see and judge me, so I went in camouflage. Initial reconnaissance done, I was ready to go behind enemy lines to see what information I could glean.

My inside man was Simone, who for much of this chapter I owe a debt of gratitude to. If he ever wants to come to the stadium with me, he's more than welcome, although I suspect this offer will not be taken up. Before all that though, you may be interested to know a little about the team.

Unione Calcio Sampdoria in their current incarnation were pretty late to the Italian football party. A hybrid of two teams from Genoa (Sampierdarenese and Andrea Doria) who had been around since the 1890's, it wasn't until 1946 that the Samp we see today were formed. Their strip is pretty unique, and combines aspects of both their disparate parts: the blue of Andrea Doria, and the red, white and black of Sampierdarenese. In a world of black-and-another-colour vertical stripes or one-hue shirts, it's refreshing to see something different once in a while. For football strip anoraks out there, the

Dundee FC strips of 1992-94 were similar in homage.

Sampdoria supporters go by the nicknames 'blucerchiati', a reference to their strip (blue and a hoop), or the more obvious 'doriani'. The symbol, 'Il Baciccia' is pretty distinctive and of the silhouette of a man smoking a pipe. His name comes from a shortened version of Giovanni Battista (John the Baptist), who is the patron saint of the city.

Despite being formed relatively recently in footballing-terms, they've not done too badly. They were the last team to win the championship from outside the Rome-Milan-Turin axis, in season 1990-91, and won the Coppa Italia three times in the 1980's. They've also made three finals-appearances in Europe: in 1988-89 they lost to Barcelona in the Cup Winner's Cup, then in 89-90 beat Anderlecht in the same competition, before their last shot at European glory was ended at Wembley by Ronald Koeman and Barcelona again, in 1991-92. Since then they've been up and down a couple of times, and reached a Coppa Italia final a few years back.

Players-wise, they've not done too badly for themselves down the years. Graeme Souness, David Platt, Des Walker, Lee Sharpe and Trevor Francis have all pulled on their shirts, not to mention the likes of Mancini, Vialli, Veron and Gullit. Not such a bad roll-call (although I'll concede that Lee Sharpe isn't in the same league as the others). When I asked Simone, seeing as he's a Samp man, who his favourite player was, he told me: “I've been a Samp fan since nursery, and I remember that I liked Trevor Francis' name. I never saw him play, but I've seen lots of great players. But of all of these, I'd say Vialli, for one particular reason: years after having retired, he said that his biggest regret was losing the Champions' League final with Samp.” He's a sentimental chap, is our Simone.

I met him pre-match for a brief libation. Re-hydrated, we made our way up river to our destination, the great little Ferraris stadium, although feel free to call it Marassi. This, you see, is the area it's in and most people call it by that instead of its official name. The same goes for the stadium in Milan, officially called Stadio Giuseppe Meazza, but in the San Siro neighbourhood. Learn something new everyday, eh?

One of the jibes that the other Genoese team (Genoa) throw at Samp fans is that they aren't really from the city, but more from the suburbs or region. I wanted to get Simone's thoughts on this, and to find out if he felt that Sampdoria still had a strong connection with the local area: “Despite what Genoa supporters say, Samp is absolutely Genoese. It all started from the coming together of two teams who wanted their own team, without depending on the English (Genoa was founded by a group of Englishmen). Furthermore, beating Juventus or a Milanese team is a great joy for a Sampdoriano, and this comes from the centuries-old rivalry between Genoa, Turin and Milan. I remember a Samp match against Pisa when I was young, when I saw for the first time the hatred between fans. It was a rivalry that came from medieval times and the Maritime Republics. Apart from the big teams (Milan, Inter or Juve), in Italy which team you support is tightly interconnected with where you're from.”

As we made our way past the stadium in the direction of our turnstiles, a song was carried on the wind and into our ears. The Roma supporters had, it seemed, already gone in the stadium and were serenading those early-bird Sampdoriani with: “Tornerete in [serie] B” (“you're going back down”). As ever, the visiting support at a stadium are guests as gracious as Richard Dawkins at an evangelist christening.

The stadium here bucks the trend of most Italian stadia. Pretty much every city's stadium is owned by the local council and gets rented out to the football teams, and so many have running tracks and the most basic of facilities. In Genoa the facilities are the same, greeting the user with an overwhelming aroma of what can only be described as too many men's pish. And that's just the bar. The stadium is also owned by the council, but when it was designed for Italia '90, the architect thankfully didn't include a running track and instead made it very British in appearance, i.e. pitch narrowly bordered with stands. We were in the Gradinata Nord (north stand), which isn't the hard-core supporters' stand, but is favoured by Simone, so that's where I went. I have been in the Gradinata Sud (the Samp 'home end') before for a game of theirs a few years ago in the Uefa Cup, so I can tick the box of having been with the mental supporters. On that occasion it was a bit too mental for me as there was a fight between two guys about 2 yards away from me. So, I was happy in the Nord. We sat ourselves down in seats designed for fat-arsed dwarves (the leg room on offer is less than that you can find on a Ryanair flight) and waited for the fun to commence.

Just before kick-off, the Gradinata Sud was making a hell of a racket. It was packed, flags and flares everywhere, and kept up a constant chorus for about 15 minutes, which was great sight and sound. This being Italy, there are multiple Ultras groups, but, the most prominent are, in no particular order, the Ultras Tito Cucchiaroni, the Fedelissimi and the Fieri del Fossato. These all inhabit the Gradinata Sud on match-days, and are easily identified by their multiple flags and banners. When I went to have a look at the website of the Fedelissimi, I was greeted with: “Garrone (the president of Samp) give us a surprise..... find yourself a replacement! We've run out of patience!” Needless to say, they're not entirely happy with the direction of the club. The name of the Ultras Tito Cucchiaroni may give the impression that they were named after someone. This is because they were, the titular Tito having played for Samp in the early 1960's.

Some of the biggest flags being waved read 1999. This seemed odd, as that was the second-last time they were relegated, which would be an odd thing to celebrate. In actual fact, it was the year in which the Fieri del Fossato was created when two other supporters clubs came together. I just thought they all really liked Prince.

The game itself lived up to expectations, in so much as Samp aren't very good, and Roma are. Before the game Simone had gloomily suggested that my book and the season will finish with Samp's relegation, and although they were pretty organised defensively, up front they were as toothless as a geriatric cat. Goals from Benatia (nice wee run then fell over, but still scored while lying on the ground) and Gervinho (remember him, Arsenal fans? He can score goals here) made it 0-2. Both of these goals came in the second half and woke up the Roma fans who had been quite quiet up to that point, but there's nothing like a goal to remind you to sing and set off some smoke bombs.

Around this time Simone was starting to get a bit agitated, and at one point jumped up to remonstrate and question the referee's paternity. He's normally such a quiet guy, but this is an important part of his life, as he told me when I asked what it meant to him be a supporter,: “It's the feeling of being part of a family. Although I'm not a hardcore fan, when I have to work and can't see the game, I feel like a part of me is missing. From that point of view, summer is terrible. In general I love football, I like watching matches of any team, but nothing is comparable to the physical need of watching my team. Even if they play badly or lose, the important thing for me is to watch them.”

The game kind of petered out but the Doriani kept up their singing. One of the things that interests me, and I would like to investigate a bit in this book, is if clubs in Italy still have a connection with the supporters beyond their historical roots, and how, if at all, this has changed in football's money-spinning recent years. “The bond has changed, because football has changed” Simone told me. “These days, a lot of supporters want to fight against football fixtures being dictated by TV, or against the restrictions brought about by the Tessera del tifoso (a kind of supporter's ID card which you have to have to get a season ticket). Many fans say they “only support the strip” because they're against football as a business and the disappointment of players who switch teams so often (meaning more contracts and more money for their agents).

I just want to see my team play though. More than anything else, I still appreciate Samp's players, even if they were only with us for a couple of years. I still sometimes look on Wikipedia to see what they're doing now [after their career], or, if they're playing for another team, I hope when/if they come back here they wave to our fans, because that means they haven't forgotten us.”

With the final whistle, came time to head home. My route normally involves a really long and steep staircase, with the steps painted in the blue, black, red and white of Samp. Before starting this leg-draining ascent though, I had one last thing on my mind. Now, I'm not a prude about bad language, but while fun and full of energy, the stadia here don't strike me as being particularly safe, and inside the ground seem almost entirely out of control of the authorities. If he had a kid, would he bring him/her with him?

“Why not? Football in the stadium is a world away from football on TV, so the sooner he/she starts coming, the better. It might be better if they didn't see me insulting the referee and the other team.... but yeah, I'd be happy if they had the same passion for Samp as I do.”

And with that said, we made our separate ways into the night.

When washing machines die and dogs cry

Dig if you will a picture
Of me waking up and needing a piss
oh, sorry mum, I mean a pee
Can you my darlings
Can you picture this?
Dream if you can my bathroom
Fairly standard, not much of a view
Sink, shower, toilet
Washing machine
From which lots of water had spewed

And then a sound while I was sleeping
Through a recurring dream so old
Maybe I'm just too demanding
Why can't I stay in sleep's warm hold?
But a sound was piercing my cover
Coming in from outside (in from outside)
That wee yappy thing I'd like to smother
This is the idea I'm filled with
When dogs cry

Hello chums. Above is Prince's original idea for When Doves Cry. If you'd already guessed this and were humming along, congratulations. If not, don't worry, he generally keeps it pretty close to his chest, and you can't all be the same level as me and the Squiggle-meister (his preferred nickname). I guess he's embarrassed, although I'm not sure why, because at least it makes more sense that crying doves. Next time I see him I'll ask what drugs he was on when he thought he heard a weeping dove.

So, if you're sharp enough to get what I was getting at, my washing machine is broken, and a dog cries every morning. My rock 'n' roll life of teetering on the cusp of excess continues unabated!

A couple of weeks ago, I went out for an evening of refreshments, but only had a couple, as was my want and my terrifyingly increasing level of maturity. Upon awaking the next day I nipped to the loo for a tinkle but something didn't seem right. There was an element of dampness abound in the bathroom, which was not the norm. As I'd just woken up it took me a few moments to identify what was strange, but then realised that I was standing in a puddle. Thankfully I still needed a pee, so despite my decrepitness, reasoned that I hadn't been caught short (phew!). I looked around thinking maybe her upstairs had stepped up her reign of irritation against me by deliberately flooding her bathroom in order to get at me, but while entirely and justifiably paranoid, that'd have crossed my red line from which no amount of mediation by Russia could persuade me to forget. I then though that maybe the water was coming from the washing machine, so like the genius I am, I opened the door, thus unleashing all the dammed up water to wash over my feet like some kind of really bad version of the poseidon adventure. It would seem that my washing machine had miraculously broken overnight, and had been leaking for hours. Huzzah. After mopping it up and some profusely-choice swearing on my part, everything was good again. A new washing machine will arrive next week, and the workies will take the broken one away, presumably to a museum for school children to gawk at while their minds boggle at the technology of the 1970's.

A washing machine that breaks I can live with, even if it continues to fill up despite being unplugged and the water intake pipe switched off. I really don't understand how that works, but non me ne frega. As many of you will attest when my back's turned however, I need my beauty sleep and some effing-dog is stopping me. Bad dog!

About a week ago, it'd seem that one of my neighbours got a puppy. While puppies are often thought of as being cute, this one has a dark side. Or at least a deeply annoying dickish side. Every morning from about 6 to 9 it cries and howls in a way that makes me want to hit it in the head with a spanner. Actually, that's very cruel, I like dogs, so I'll rephrase that to say that I'd like to hit its owner in the head with a spanner. There, much better.

So yeah, it cries and cries and howls and howls, while I lie in bed and seethe and curse and curse and seethe. It only does that at that time of the day too, so I guess its owners are going out between those hours, so after some thought I reckon its owner is an old person, as they're the only people who would get up so ridiculously early, nip to the shops/church and then spend the rest of day at home. Its inherent cuteness is anathema to my other neighbours who have started shouting out the windows at it, threatening to call the police, although these threats fall on highly sensitive (it's a dog after all) but ultimately deaf ears (it doesn't speak human). Someone's put up a couple of signs in the street lambasting the on(an)er, so hopefully my precious delirium-filled sleep will be ok next week.


Che cavolo succede?!


Tomorrow is the Derby della Lanterna (Samp v Genoa), so that'll be nice and relaxing for all concerned. Yesterday Samp had a closed training session in order to keep their diabolical schemes secret. They would have been, had they not been being watched by the Genoa goalkeepers' coach who was dressed from head to toe in camouflage gear and hiding in the woods above the training ground. The club deny that he was operating on their orders, but still, it's all quite amusingly amateur and underhand. Oh, Genoa!

................And finally, thanks to all those who've read my previous blog about football, hold on tight guys, just nine more months to go and I may or may not have a book which may or may not be published.

Til the next time, buy buy (my book if it's published)!

....And on the first day there was Il Toro

Buongiorno chums!

As you may know, I fancy writing a book about fitba'. I also don't fancy writing a blog today, but thought you might fancy reading the provisional first chapter. Eccolo qua sotto:

Torino v Sassuolo, 25/8/13, Stadio Olimpico, Turin

Kilometres covered: Genova to Turin = 170km x four trips = 680km

Euros spent: 115 euros

The first stop on my magical mystery tour of calcio was Turin, to watch Torino play newly-promoted Sassuolo. Previous to last season, I'd never heard of the visitors, and had to look them up on a map, and I'm still not much the wiser. Somewhere near Modena seems to be the conclusion. Getting there won't be much fun as it'll involve three different trains, but that will be a pain in the arse for another day.

So, Il Toro was pick number one to get me started. When Italy was formed in 1871, Turin was the first capital, and so from a historical point of view, I reasoned it would be a good place to start. In reality, the reason I chose Turin was because I thought it'd be the least maddeningly hot city to start in in late August. The heat, it would later turn out, was not to be an issue.

Another bonus of Turin is that it's quite near my base in Genoa, so I could ease myself into the waters of football travelling and watching quite easily and without spending a lot of time or money to get there. That's dedication for you!

Originally formed in 1887 as a football and cricket club, it wasn't until 19 years later that the team that is recognised today as 'Il Toro' was created. The symbol is a bull (hence 'Il Toro'), while another sobriquet they have is 'I Granata', after the claret strips they wear. The majority of supporters of many teams would claim theirs to be one of the most important or storied clubs in the country, and while many of these would be guilty of rose-tinting in the name of their passion, the Torino supporters may have a point. The joint-fifth most successful club based on championship wins, they were a force to be reckoned with in the past. Their last glimpse of glory (excluding promotions) was in 1992 when they reached the UEFA Cup final, only to be bested by cleaning products' Ajax who scrubbed up better over two legs.

The greatest era of Torino Calcio was undoubtedly that of 'Il Grande Torino', the legendary five-in-a-row champions of Serie A between 1942 and 1949 (the seasons 1943-44 and '44-'45 were not recognised as being official Italian Football Association competitions). This period ended tragically when the plane that was carrying them from a friendly against Benfica crashed into the Superga hill near Turin, killing all 31 people on board. Only three squad members who had not made the flight remained.

On a more anglicised note, Il Toro were the club where Denis Law and Joe Baker used to lay their hats; Graeme Souness sat in the big comfy managers chair for 4 months in 1997 (so on second thoughts maybe it wasn't comfy enough); and for connoiseurs of shin-kicking, Pasquale Bruno hatchet-manned for them for three seasons following Italia '90.

But back to the story.

I set off on the Saturday to buy my ticket and proceeded to get lost in the centre of Turin. Even using Google maps, my innate sense of direction was intuitively pointing me in various wrong directions, and I couldn't find many landmarks to orientate myself with. Essentially, the centre of Turin is a collection of very long, very straight roads, which served to bamboozle and infuriate me in a muggy blanket of heat and irritation. Once I'd sorted my backside from my elbow, I wanted to go and have a look at 'Il Museo del Grande Torino' that seemed like a better place to learn about the team than Wikipedia. Unfortunately, my map once again foiled my good intentions, as it was not the 3 centimetres away from the centre that it had teased me with. It turned out to be several kilometres, and, after having walked about half the way there (but always on the same street) I turned back to get my train under some fairly cantankerous looking skies. Wikipedia it is, then.

Given that this tour is probably going to cost me a fair whack of cash, I was dead happy to know that the ticket in the prole sections of the ground cost only 20 euros. Not bad to watch a Serie A match, even if the standard isn't what it once was.

I went back to Turin the day after, full of a heady cocktail of one part hangover, one part excitement and two parts nervousness (better to be neither shaken nor stirred for fear of embarrassing accidents). Would I find people who would speak to me (I'm not that desperate for company, I wanted to interview locals about their team)? Would I be able to find the stadium following yesterday's farce? And more importantly, would I get mugged in the shady-looking part of town that my hotel was in? Thankfully, the answers to all those questions were not uniform.

I'd been told to hang about at the bar near the Maratona, the Ultra's stand of the stadium, if I wanted to talk to fans. It took me nary 20 minutes of looking pensive and alone to catch my first. This might not be so hard, I thought. Turns out he only wanted to know if I was smoking drugs or a cigarette. He seemed quite disappointed with my answer, and he didn't seem all that enthused with my questions, so I left him on his way. In order to not look like an undercover policeman (being alone, trying to speak to people, not wearing the ubiquitous claret t-shirt, and refusing offers of joints) I obliged myself to a beer or two. It's an ugly job, but someone has to do it.

Unfortunately, I'd found out the day before that all of the tickets for the Maratona had been sold out, so I made my way round to the other side of the stadium to watch the game. My first impressions were soured when the security guard took my lighter off me. My intricate fireworks routine thus scuppered, I concentrated instead on the stadium and atmosphere, and was surprised by how small the Olimpico is. Two pretty small teirs encircle (but it's really more of an oval..... enoval?) a running track and the pitch. What's more, everyone was sitting on their seats in my stand. This is quite different from my previous football experiences in Italy, as I had been under the impression that seats in Italian stadiums were for standing on and kicking when you conceded a goal. Maybe folk in Turin are more civilised? Or maybe I was just in a more gentrified stand.

The curse of British pre-game festivities – the latest entries on the hit parade - has made its way over here, and so while I was trying to soak up some atmosphere and badger the locals about the whys and wherefores of their fandom, we were treated to the same God awful music you could hear if you so pleased on the car radio on the way to the stadium. Just much louder. Thankfully, this was interrupted by sections of the stand singing abuse about a player whose mooted signing had been in the paper in the previous days. Now, I'm not condoning abusing players, but if said player had previously played for your city rivals and had mocked your team during a goal celebration in a derby some years earlier, well, what would you expect? As it was, given the option of pop or abuse, I much preferred the renditions of: “Maresca, gobbo di merda, gobbo di meeeeeeeerda”, which would more or less be: “Maresca, shitty hunchback, shiiiiiiiiiity hunchback” (Maresca, being Enzo Maresca, hunchback referring to the loving nickname of all things Juventus). It added a little local colour, if nothing else. It was a little after this that I decided that I'd much rather have been sitting/standing in the Maratona, because it looked like a pretty rocking place to be. Packed to the rafters and moving as if caught up in a tide, it was illuminated by occasional flares. Looking at them, then looking at the swathes of empty rows around me, I promised myself that for future trips I'd get a ticket in the hardcore stands. One bone of contention with the songs though, was that the effort to squeeze 'gobbo di merda' into as many chants as possible sometimes led to a lot of creative licence being taken with the number of syllables, which while I admire their dedication, from a musical perspective felt a bit jammed in and one track minded.

When the game itself kicked off, it wasn't much to speak of. The small band of Sassuolo supporters who had made the trip from, well, Sassuolo (but who knows where that is really) tried to get something going, but sadly for them their team couldn't reciprocate the feeling. A pretty bitty first half was enlivened by nominative determinism's bete noir, Ciro Immobile, when he set up an 18-yard strike into the bottom corner by Matteo Brighi. 1-0 to the Toro. For the rest of the game Immobile did what I'd understood him to be capable of from watching him play for Genoa last season: run about a lot and look lively, then when the inevitable chance crops up that his movement creates, fall on his arse. Oh, Ciro!

Just to prove that the Maratona wasn't the only place where people could have fun while watching an average game, a man behind me had an entertaining line of beseechments for his beloved Toro, or at least they were for me. He would frequently urge his players to remove something from their posteriors, and then for them to forcibly insert it into the collective 'sedere' of Sassuolo. Pretty standard fair for football stadiums perhaps, but the range of voices he used in doing this suggested that moon lighting as an impressionist might not be such a bad idea in these times of financial crisis. We might not have been in the party stand, but he knew how to have a good time. This was in marked contrast to the teenage couples who were sitting in front of me, some of whom alternated between dramatically covering their eyes, waving their arms, and screeching when Toro lost the ball. Their girlfriends weren't too impressed with it all either.

The second half was more of the same: a limited Sassuolo side getting a bit of the ball but as much as they huffed and puffed, couldn't quite create any clear chances. Torino were happy to get the ball back and try to hit them on the break, and added to their first half goal when Alessio Cerci charged across the defence and pinged a shot into the net. 2-0. He stood out as being the most gifted player on the pitch, but just don't ask him to move his car while he's eating.

With this cushion, the Torino players started to make themselves more comfortable, and the game fizzled out. The same could not be said of the weather, as at half-time I had started to see lightning in the distant sky. For the final fifteen minutes, I didn't really concentrate on the game and instead hoped that the rain would pass us by, or at least hold off until I'd got back to my hotel, but it was not to be. As the game approached the final whistle, so Jupiter approached the stadium with arms full of rain, thunder and lightning to throw down on us poor mortals. It started hosing down in a way that just doesn't happen back home in Scotland. It was like standing in a power shower turned up to eleven, with the added bonus of being fully dressed. Many people had brought ponchos that, while aesthetically unsatisfying, looked to be functionally solid. I, on the other hand was wearing shorts and T-shirt. The only even remotely satisfying aspect of all of this was that some supporters started singing a song to the tune of “Raindrops keep falling on my head”. Although it made me smile, it wouldn't keep me dry, so after the game had ended I hung about under cover before finally giving up on waiting out the storm and making a very wet dash for it. Predictably, I got lost on the way back to my hotel. By the time I had crossed some rivers that I'm sure hadn't been there four hours before, and had made it back, even my bones were soaked through. Next time I'm going to buy a poncho.