Chronicle of a drama (sports). Roma’s defeat seen from the Olimpico

The unreality lay in making those 55,329 souls seem little more than a trivial midweek parish gathering. When Gonzalo Montiel in Budapest on Wednesday evening shattered Roma’s dream in the Europa League final, the echoes could be heard at the Stadio Olimpico, you could almost decipher from the Curva Nord what was being whispered in the Distinti Sud, hundreds of meters away and emotional loads of distance. More than three hours of all the rhetorical paraphernalia of those who support the yellow and red colours: belonging, joy for the little things, apprehension, fear, contemplation, sweat, despite the cold wind blowing from Monte Mario. And then obviously, of course, the excruciating suffering for a final from the spot that was lived with a little resignation, all wrapped up in a kind of mass psychoanalytic session. We know where Roma history goes when it comes to penalties.

And to think that the evening had begun with “Never alone ever” sung at the top of the lungs together with the singer-songwriter Marco Conidi, left to guard the Olimpico given that 90 percent of those working for Rome in those hours had moved bag and baggage to the Puskas Arena. Then the anthem, experienced with the enthusiasm that has always surrounded the matches of Mourinho’s team for almost two years, with the guttural load of the final “Roma Roma Roma” that you could listen to all the way to Guidonia. Blackbirds flew, confused with the eagles (“Ahò, ce stà Olimpia”), waiting for the steps to make way for the seagulls in search of pizza edges and leftover chips with the sad outflow.

In this large family album, there are some images that have remained with us more than others. In Curva Nord, Flavio didn’t have a good time waiting for the match, for example. He exaggerated with the beers, lit a spliff, and then at a certain point, even before the kick-off, he started pouring all the liquids he had inside onto the two-three rows of seats that they were in front. He will create a cordon of empty seats. Not entirely useful to prevent everything from taking on a persistent unpleasant smell. He rolled over, opened his nose: a considerable wound. The arrival of two paramedics started a Flavio-medicine negotiation to take him away. Alas, Paulo Dybala’s goal will be lost, which will close all discussions with the neighbors on the spot if it were better to deploy him immediately or if instead it made sense to preserve him for the second half.

There is one thing that Roma supporters who flock to a sort of religious rite enjoy doing the most: the standing ovations. And those for Francesco Totti in the meantime in Hungary are, of course, obvious. Of the same breed the uprisings for Jose Mourinho, for Captain Lorenzo Pellegrini. Less written those for Stephan El Shaarawy, which is enough to appear on video to revive the people of the Olimpico during the second half. Then everyone agrees, there isn’t one in the stadium who disagrees: the one on Matic’s cross (another reason for which the decibels rise when he leaves the field) is a penalty. “Sham game!”, He pushes a boy to argue as he goes out. They are almost all boys, girls, they arrive on mopeds, they have scarves, they don’t display banners. So that the effect of seeing the curve of Roma supporters in Budapest from a bare Olympian is that of a concert in a deconsecrated cathedral. Or a listening group (but huge) to see each other together, for example, the Sanremo final. As happened in Ronciglione this year for Marco Mengoni’s final.

They are all boys (and blonde teenagers, made up in a coarse way), they have shirts by Totti, Dybala, De Rossi, Pellegrini, Cristante, Castan, the most original of Ljaic. But there are also fathers. And perhaps the final image is the one that best summarizes the evening of the Roma fan who spent 20 euros to get the impression of having at least a little trip to Hungary. The maxi screens frame him as he hugs his weeping son. Everyone applauds, while with great timing in the background the Red Hot Chili Peppers are explaining a metaphor about “scar tissue, which I wished you’d see, sarcastic mister ‘know it all’. Close your eyes and I’m going to kiss you, because with the birds I’m going to share this solitary sight”.

In all of this, no one knows what happened to Flavio.