From dust to stars in about twenty days, no more. Those that separate the discovery of Roberto Calvi's body dangling from the London bridge of the Black Friars, on 18 June, until blue triumph at the 1982 World Cup, on 11 July, in a Madrid that, as Nando Martellini said in his most famous commentary, "tonight is tinged with the tricolor".
A great stroke of luck for Giovanni Spadolini, the president of the Council with the most ignorance of football science in our history who, on 2 July, had the fortunate intuition to stop at home in Italy, the blue fort besieged by hostile criticism, a mirror of a Stressed country, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, as always, perhaps more than ever: inflation at 18,7%, public finances grappling with the divorce between the Bank of Italy and the Treasury, Fiat in midstream. And as for the country's climate, General Dalla Chiesa isolated in Palermo (will be assassinated in September), while the Red Brigades still keep factories and institutions under strong pressure.
But this was Italy before. Before those three goals against Sarrià in Barcelona that Paolo Rossi, from that moment for all Pablito, scores against the Brazilian battleship, except for a repeat against Argentina of the nascent legend Maradona and the German battleship, which has always been the historical rival. A miracle? Something more: the blue that Giovanni Arpino, in a novel dedicated to the national team, had described as "darkness" to describe that murky je ne sais quoi that surrounds official Italy, takes on a sunny character, the image of a country that deludes itself into thinking it can be "the fifth industrial power", the industrialists leave their armored cars in the garages of Montecarlo to go around the cities: Gianni Agnelli is surrounded by a crowd of students in a gallery in Milan. Dispute? No, the crowd applauds one of the leaders, those who, from Silvio Berlusconi to Raul Gardini and Carlo De Benedetti, promised to make Italy great even outside the stadiums.
It didn't happen that way. Certainly not the fault of Paolo Rossi, a champion with a common name but with exceptional human talents, not only in football. Someone who has been able to respond with deeds to the most poisonous words, leveraging that team spirit that we often lack.
Without complexes, as demonstrated in one historic tug of war with Boniperti who until the last minute refused to match his salary with the last Ballon d'Or of Italian football: 125 million old lire, stuff that today would be worth hiring a good Serie A backup goalkeeper. by Marco Tardelli, still alive today in the memory of all Italians for that race on the lawn in Madrid which sounded a bit like liberation from the years of lead.
It is no coincidence that it is always the turn of football, the maximum expression of our local popular culture, playing the rescue in the most delicate moments. Even Fabio Grosso, author of the decisive penalty at the World Cup in Germany, has been able to awaken that something that goes beyond engagements, classification calculations, various miseries of everyday life.
three flashes, Rossi, Tardelli, Grosso, which represent a common thread that marks the generations and acts as a antidote to the provincialism of secession (out of fashion) as well as the great shouting of sovereignties. What matters is not shouting in the wind or whispering in the notebook of the journalist friend. The time has come for everyone to demonstrate that they know how to play. Like those three, awaiting heirs.
