Simone Inzaghi, cross and delight of Inter in the cup
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The Finals have great charm. Dry matches, to death. Before starting, you really don’t want to think about the fact that someone will rejoice in the end and someone else will cry. Irreversibly. There are no two winners: the Winner is always and only one. The other is the king of losers, the last to fall, head held high or head bowed it doesn’t matter. One wins, everyone else loses. He knows it well Simone Inzaghi from Piacenza, 47 years old, particular signs: thick hair and parting in the middle, hoarse voice, expert in the cup finals and poet of the 3-5-2. Until now Simone had always gushed out the final tears of others, but the legends and the cabala meet the objective limit of the statistical sciences. It happened to Jose Mourinho a few days ago, now it’s Inzaghi’s turn.
On closer inspection, this final in Istanbul was very lost in the locker room, before entering the field. It should be said, without conceding anything to the consoling good-naturedness of those who compliment Piacentino only for not having been swept away by the celestial tide. First of all, it was lost in the head, then in the legs and finally in the protagonists, those who would be predestined to make a difference when History must then be archived in the books. We were all convinced that we were facing the current Invincibles of the pelota (a careful study of the recent FA Cup final would have been enough to reduce the seriousness of the problem). A kind of football war machine, capable of humiliating opponents with rolls of goals, one more spectacular than the other. This is the mainstream vulgate handed down to us, urbi et orbi, until yesterday evening.
In reality, these upstarts barely made a goal, honestly made for charity, but also due to the circumstances of the case. Self Matthew Darmian And Haken Chalanoglu had they remembered that they were on a soccer field, compressed in the penalty area and right in front of our goal line, perhaps they would have put up a less dodging barrier to a well thought-out shot, but nothing more and in any case the result of a rather anomalous defensive carom. Inter played until the 67th minute just to not lose and in fact we didn’t lose.
That is, she did lose, but she was neither overwhelmed nor humiliated, on the contrary, we even have some comforting recriminations against fate, which could have made Ataturk less bitter. But it is in the preparation of the match that the foundations of the defeat were built. That worm in the mind according to which Inter were clearly inferior to our opponents combined with that breath of slander that was perhaps in the Final instead of someone else, more deserving. Simone Inzaghi was unable to remove this worm. He did other good things, but in this he just didn’t make it. Above all because the aforementioned worm lived mainly in his head. Mountains of money it cost to assemble this City, we know it well, even in defiance of the reviled financial fair play (whatever it is). Rivers of literature (and more money) to prepare the defense of this Treble.
As if 11 drillers had come down on the field for the extraction of black gold, wearing the light blue shirt, instead of 11 pedatori. All the weight of this storytelling poured into the field yesterday. Nonetheless, those terrified of failing were the Citizens, with Guardiola in the lead (more neurotic and theatrical than ever), but Inter didn’t notice. Inzaghi paid no attention to it. They were too focused on playing their script of illustrious sacrificial victim. The table had already been set and they were unable to refuse the richly cooked dishes, overturning it.
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