literature

La Curva Fiorentina

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Literature Text

As I stepped into line outside of The Franchi Stadium of Florence to watch La Viola take on Messina Sicily, my increasing excitement began to morph into slight unease. The warrior faces of the purple-scarfed fans surrounding me concentrated on the doors ahead and spoke of impending doom to their southern neighbors. With the collars of their denim jackets turned up to kiss the base of their chins and their black hair tediously sculpted with a generous dollop of gel, these men were suited to take their positions on the front lines.
The forward-marching crowd soon drove me through the ticket gates and under the cool cement canopy of the stadium bleachers above. I turned to my friend and hardly recognized him as he too seemed to have breathed in a little too much of the air that whispered “anarchy.” Once again he reminded me of how clever he was to have obtained tickets in the section called La Curva Fiorentina. I began to question how clever I was to have accepted the invitation.
We made our way through the tunnel and onto the deck of the sun-drenched Curve. With my back to the field and braced against the railing, I lifted my head up to see row upon row of a stormy testosterone sea. A tidal wave of voices flooded down from the chests of the agitated men above as they anxiously waited for the action to start. The fluid force of their melodious chants was so strong that I could feel it vibrate my insides.
The knuckles of my hands whitened as I clenched the metal rail more tightly. To my left I looked up to see a hunched over youth screaming into a microphone from atop a small ladder. The contraption he clung to seemed to rock precariously on the edge of the curve. A bent pole grew from his platform and duck tape secured a speaker to its head. The youth was possessed. He filled his small frame with air and then exploded with eyes of fire as he screamed the title of the next chant, “Forza Viola” into the microphone. From my vantage point I saw him deftly kick his pronged red tail back under the cover of his pant leg.
I took a deep breath and braved the waters. Like a professional contortionist I tip-toed over the feet and under the armpits of the chest-beating fanatics as I searched for a spot to claim to view the spectacle. However, I soon realized that watching the game was clearly secondary to proving one’s supreme loyalty to La Fiorentina. One simply manifests their supreme loyalty to their squadra by expressing their supreme hatred to the opposing team in innovative ways. Any number of nifty hand gestures or crafty phrases will do the trick.
The fans from Messina and subsequent recipients of all this attention, were housed in a cage on the opposite end of the stadium. Their section was small but the fence surrounding them was remarkably comprehensive in the barrier of protection it provided. The Sicilians were clearly only allowed to occupy seats in the center of the cage, out of the range of flying objects such as coke cans or half-eaten pizzas, hurled over by devilishly snickering Florentines. One had to appreciate the solidarity the islanders showed by daring to be present at the match.
Back on La Curva the chants and whistles soon erupted into a uniform ecstatic whooping as red fireworks burst directly overhead to announce the start of the game. Their red glare illuminated the dark faces of the men in one bright boom that would fade only to be sporadically reborn by another deafening boom. Strangely the firemen below seemed to be more interested in the game then the safety of the fans, as they casually chatted against the fence. I ducked out of sheer terror and found myself being shoved against the fists and stomachs of the rowdy crowd. Coming up for air I was engulfed in a lingering cloud of smoke from the fireworks and other celebratory substances and began to wonder if I had unknowingly fallen into one of Dante’s spirals of hell.
The chanting continued at a higher decibel, but I began to relax as I realized I was still in possession of my life. Clearly this was a “man’s” domain. The uniformity of the faces was unsettling. It seemed like the spawning ground of the slick club-type who dance with you without asking first. I was in some twisted parallel universe of an American baseball game in the early twentieth century. Few female faces stood out from the crowd.
The speaker teetered from side to side on its crooked pole as it continued to convey the message of the youth below, conducting his crackled commands to his people. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he searched through the endless repertoire of titles there-in. As members of La Curva it was our duty to provoke the whole of the stadium by shouting “everybody on your feet” at various intervals, which would be Grandpa Giovanni’s cue to jump up and sing along songs imbedded into the hearts of all the Florentines. The songs were quite varied. For example: “Fiorentina this is a love song to you / you are my passion / you fill me with an insane love” to the less amorous, but equally emotional “Messina listen when we tell you, your city is a weak piece of (unflattering description).” The latter being sung to the delightful melody of Campdown Races. All who chose not to stand up and participate would immediately be labeled a “dirty Messinian.”
At one point a drunk came up and took the microphone from our leader to have his own go at leading a few rounds. He delighted the crowd for awhile until the youth could persuade him to occupy the post of waving a gigantic flag back and forth. However, this blocked the view of the crowd who could not see the field through the billowing purple and white sail.
Suddenly, their cries of dismay were drowned out in an eruption of noise and movement. I was forced off my feet and into the pony tail of the head in front of me as the crowd lunged its body forward. The spring beneath us had been let go as La Fiorentina scored their first goal. As I regained footing I prayed that would be the last time the ball would find its way into a net.
Still nervous I jumped as someone tapped me on the shoulder. A severe-looking fellow interrupted me while visualized the quickest escape route out of the stadium. He ordered me to pass a tightly rolled up banner down the length of the row. The appointed bearers of the elaborate banners have a grave respect for their position as they slither through the crowd unnoticed, urgently distributing the ends of the long cotton displays. Soon they give the signal to let down their words and all cameras turn to the children of the Curve holding their messages. The well-articulated messages that usually grace the cotton sheets were absent on this day. They were rather vulgar instead. But my knowledgeable friend told me of the last banner he had seen at the Fiorentina-Verona game which suggested the dubious nature of Juliette’s faithfulness to young Romeo.
Thankfully La Fiorentina, looking out for my safety, beat Messina by two goals. As I made my way out of the stadium parking lot and away from the honking horns and joyous cheering, the calm of the dark back roads formed a marked contrast to the primitive scene I just left. Secured with high walls, the loss of inhibition in the stadium is encouraged and society provides a momentary outlet for the pent-up aggression and taboos it suppresses. The gently-lit stone streets home calmed the soccer goers, cooling-off their boiling blood.
Soccer game in Florence, Italy
© 2005 - 2024 Lzeah
Comments2
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Mmmm, well written without any doubt but, in my humble opinion, a bit exaggerated. It sounds like a novel from Lovecraft, while I've spent my youth in that curva without a single problem. The name of that sector is Fiesole because it faces the town on the hill, not fiorentina.