If you like shaved, maybe Africa is not for her beauty te.La is lush but buried under mountains of crap.
The crap is everywhere, and almost all imported.
Arrivals in Africa and you understand immediately that this is hell. But the discovery more terrible is the next: African hell this is infinitely more livable and attractive aseptic hell of your own home. If we then add a Freddie Beccioni almost teetotal regime in pre-derby and the children of the Soccer School in Malindi, the confusion is total.
However, in light of the equator, the red and blue become even more resplendent, fascinate you, you take your breath away.
Ok, maybe Malindi is not Africa, or Africa in a somewhat 'special. Like when you dig a hole you pour in the polenta and the spices, porcini mushrooms. Africa, the polenta, it's all around, but if you fall right in the middle of the spices, you can also get the impression of enjoying a holiday on the Italian cinepanettoni.
However, the Gryphon can not find some valuable in the folds of the tricolor of Malindi decorated with bows. The Griffon is not, of course, branded with the dudes on the coast, immersed in their villas and their ports round the shadow of cocktails in glasses from the stems immense. No. Cut to a dirt road that branches off from the center. From the center of Malindi African, the real one. At the edge of the road, bouncing, see poor stands with any merchandise, precarious shacks inhabited by hungry lives of grace, precarious mountain of waste (we do not know for what mysterious reason the poverty generated so much waste). Down the street, shortly after a landfill, a huge baobab introduces you to the camp of the children of Genoa.
They are there, eager to wear the glorious coat. Their smiles and their curious eyes are worth a goal of Palacio, in the derby, in 94mo. They play against a team in an orphanage. The opponents wear beautiful sponsored links, but reveal unfamiliarity with the tactics. We would like to Gasperini. Perhaps you could also do Pato. The children of the Genoa (many of them barefoot) apply the patterns in memory of their coach and they seem to Barcelona. At the end you do not count the goals: 8 or 9 to zero. All I know is that we start doing all the cheering for the opponents. Because a true Genoa player, even when he has to win, always ends up with losers share the defeat.
mainly because of Mystic and Stanley, two boys are very good and very in need of sponsors. Have serious family problems, but they play happily communicating joy. Mystic is a midfielder from the feet and brain superfine. I do not know whether it is better to Milanetto, but it is very beautiful to behold. Stanley played on the wing, with the right energy and well-balanced placement. I like it a lot. Then there's Joseph, the sweet Cirino. E 'injured, but comes with a t-shirt Griffin and cheering from the sidelines. And certainly not gliel'hanno suggested shoes or Jane Doe.
The next week I see our team against a mangy: bright kids, and some experts' louts, without a uniform. There is the one who plays shirtless, one with his shirt torn, that in Bermuda. But they are strong. Went ahead on a fast break (offside not seen) and then defend it as if we train them Novellino. Grifoncino I can draw at half time. Even if the opponents clog the spaces did not relinquish their elegant triangular plots and in the second half, marking the 2-1 and then 3-1, with great action.
But the result is a relative factor. You see them take the field, with red and blue glow, and you understand that, whatever happens, have already won. They and all those who love him.
Genoa true, what about? It seems absurd that the African entity in a position to quibble, born artistic Beccioni call. After the litany of Bari, I have to share the Derby with that crazy. After searching for a tv in the direct relatives of Mozambique Eduardo, crafted a daring crock skype, dreamed of a bouncy song, there remains only the voice of Brenzini. The Bill is imbufalito, except for a bottle of "Libertas," a South African cabernet sauvignon that has tracked mud in the basement of a sorcerer Bantu. The avalanche of goals wrong predisposes us to be the nemesis. Tusker beers also leave. We look depressed, so confident that the worst, Rafinha's goal, jumped up cheering evil, conditioned by the fear that, ultimately, victory escapes us because we are in Africa. We win, however, but it's all unreal. You see a little 'you: a man who, in my eyes does not shine for intelligence, told me, from inside a box, while I'm at the equator, the Genoa is winning the Derby. Clear that I do not trust. It all seems a contrived affair: Africa, wine, warm beer, the girl from the escort of the beak that is waiting for me at the hotel. I go to her, I put the scarf rossoblù and run through the streets to show off. Beccioni honks for a city that does not know why, for a nation and a continent that does not know why and perhaps wonder what ever will be addressed in the country with the flag rossoblù. Let's do some 'casino, but the television talking about something else. In bars, in the streets, no sign. I wake up at night, with the equatorial sky looming, the girl who hugs me tenderly, scarf rossoblù again at the foot of the bed and say to myself: "It can not be true. It's a trick of that devil of a beak. Do not fall for it, boy. " Just wake up the phone and, stupidly, anxiously, I implore: "They said on TV? It says in the papers? Tell me that is true. " He tells me that there is evidence and so I go to the beach, facing the ocean, alone. And only then, like a fool, I let myself go to true joy and overwhelming, with 14-hour delay.
The following Sunday is that of Genoa-Roma, but also that it is preparing my last night in Africa. The beak picks me up at the hotel to suffer together in front of some other household appliance end. It's a bit 'late, after the revelry of a mega concert the previous night and an afternoon at sea. As soon as I opened the car door that says to me, with a heavy heart: "We just caught goals. We are raising the Rometta. He invites me to his house, fumbling a bit 'with TV and the Internet and here is the second pear. Shit. There is a very sad RAI transmission. They show the AC Milan game and connect with other fields for each goal scored. You hear the blare of a trumpet out of tune and is again Marassi: 3-0. Fuck. We pull down the equatorial virgins, turn off the heats and begin to talk business and various hobbies. From time to spend six months a year here, and will place via email to Mystic Ligorna and Stanley to Sestri Levante. My last Sunday promises to be black. Black as Africa, and perhaps even more. In the study of the Romans RAI gloating. Begin the second time and rings the trumpet. The golletto Palacio us afresh. Come on, guys! After the second goal rossoblù we are sure you will not end like this: they do or the fourth or draw. Trombetta. Beers. Pictures of Griffin embracing. We jump up like crazy, scream, wake the whole neighborhood. I look at my watch, I watch your mouth and proclaim: "Now I want to win." What happened the winning goal I'll leave to your imagination. A historic comeback, a pleasure. I go to the hotel to pick up my friend, we dress up and go to rossoblù to celebrate a wonderful restaurant recommended by the beak: "The Old Man and the Sea". As Hemingway would have done, but also PAP, we strabuffiamo fish and crustaceans, decked with the colors of the Griffon. Around us there is a Muslim family, who does not understand but adjusts.
Then the evening slips into night, which is the long night of farewells. The joy is diluted in nostalgia, the tusker no longer enough to curb the sadness and the eyes of my fellow African-genoani uncontrollable tears run down. I figure it's better to cut your head the bull, before the situation deteriorates. We gather with all the tenderness and can slip in the last two beer Rohypnol. The feelings fade. The 4-3 pm hour seems far away. And even more distant, the last derby win by default. But that's okay. Also to bear the happiness you have to be trained.
From kids to the first team: a Gryphon unforgettable apotheosis.
If so give me time, I subscribe to stay here. Other than
Pizzighettone!
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