While everyone is talking about the aggression in the stadium, let us share with you two points of view on Internazionale’s being a big brotherhood, not only in the words declared on March 9th 1908, but also in real life.
Siavoush Fallahi (Sempreinter) from Stockholm to Milano – It feels like a very long time since I wrote this post about the problems in being an Interista who isn’t from Italy. The true meaning of being brothers of the world was shown last weekend when I was in Milan with my Swedish friends to see Inter-Juventus.
Our friends from Bauscià Café had helped us with getting tickets to a part of the group. After this we found out that it was possible to get tickets on Inter.it without any problems, even though you don’t have the Tessera del tifoso. Great stuff really. And Inter also fixed the problem with name changes for season tickets. But this was just a small part of what made us feel like brothers of the world this time.
At the game day we had been invited to a lunch with a group of Interisti active on Twitter and Facebook. We were the first ones to arrive at the restaurant and instantly put our Giacinto Facchetti flag up. After this person after person arrived and the atmosphere was great. People ate, drank and laughed. And the Swedish friends who don’t talk a word of Italian, felt at home as well. After the lunch we went to the stadium together and had a couple of beers before we all entered, and after the game Miss and Sullina guided us to an Interisti bar where it all continued.
We felt like home, and we felt like we were brothers of the world. In the true sign of F.C. Internazionale, in opposite to other things that happened on the game day.
Gigi di Biagio, from Italy to Jakarta – It all started the day of the draw of the Serie A fixtures. In my hand I have a plane ticket that would open the doors to a 10 days business trip through the Southeast. In the other one I have lucky horns, garlic heads, horseshoes and the best italian hesoterism has to offer: I have to avoid irreparable damages. The trip would have included not only the useless National Team’s game weekend, but also the third Serie A game. If I really had to lose the game, at least I hoped it would have been a less important one (yeah, as if there are less important games), let’s say against a newly promoted team, or a second/third ranked one.
Like you know… Sassuolo.
Or AC Milan.
Anyhow, everyone but them: J**entus. And there you go, Inter-Juventus. On time like tax payements and a love declaration of Kaká to AC Milan. I obviously travel thinking that I’ll be able to watch the game, one way or another. It’s the Derby d’Italia, right? The eternal challenge between Good and Bad. I’m also in a such a hotel that will cost me an Alex-Ferguson-hairdryer scene from my boss when I go back home, so I bet I’ll be able to see the game in one of the thousand of sports bar nearby.
After a series of polite but determined denials, I am now convinced that in Indonesia, people would rather watch any of the funny Premier League games instead of the most important Italian game. I dont’ undestand them… Exhausted and almost resigned I announce I’ll not be able to watch the game and I take this opportunity to implore someone to update me at least per phone, I’m ready to be alone n my luxury room, emptying the mini bar and waiting for the phone to ring.
It is exactly at this point of the story that Miss Green makes her appearance, I’m sure she is feeling pity for me, in her best imitation of Mother Theresa, however she is so determined she could win the salesman of the year award. In a couple of minutes she pulls all her black&blue Indonesian strings in Jakarta (I still don’t want to know how she has all these contacts): within 20 minutes I have my inbox full of proposals for the game. Also people who live thousands of kilometers away from the Capital provide me the contact of a friend, a relative, electrician and even a policeman who is very passionate about Inter, so that they can help me.
That night I sleep tight: the very next day I’ll be the special guest at the Inter Club Indonesia to assist the game with my new friends. There are only a couple of details missing, this time just details, for real.
I spend Saturday afternoon hanging around, I eat my dinner so fast I look like a food processor and then meet my companion for the night and guardian angel. Engel, a true steamed rice raised nerazzurro, who has a contageous smile and wants to know everything about Inter, the stadium and Bausciacafè. I’ have to at lease offer him a beer.
I have two.
I mean, the place is muslim, but I’m not.
In the storm we get on a taxi and we are in one of those Jakarta-style traffic jams (I promise I’ll never ever talk about traffic NOW that I know what it really means). I can’t wait because I fear we might not arrive there on time, Engel is calm as Mourinho would be, before apre-season game against Battipagliese, while indicates shortcuts to the driver bringing us to the Inter Club Indonesia in time.
I honestly thought the ICI would have been a private place for few friends or a bar with a TV, however what I see is beyond my imagination. The ICI is the studio of the local TV where the games are shown. Capacity, which is by the way insufficient, is 1500 people distributed over tribunes and a the stage in front of the maxi-screen. Everyone is wearing Inter stuff, including a moving Giacinto’s number 3 shirt and also some who remind “gobbi” of their true nature. Their reputation precedes them here too.
I immediately sense something is wrong when I pass between two wings of fans, I jump the long queue to the entrance as a VIP, and Shakti, the ICI president, vigorously hugs me and gives me an entrance ticket. My suspects become certainty when I’m forbidden to pay it and I’m invited on the stage to start singing with the megaphone.
Yes, there is a megaphone. The guys over here are not kidding at all.
I politely decline, also because everyone wants to take a picture with me and I cannot refuse: what kind of persons would we otherwise be? Nothing is missing, the choreography, the flags, the chants in a quite good Italian and almost always the right one for the right situation. I’m pleased when they sing “Milano siamo noi” and I am amused when they sing “come la j**e, voi siete come la j**e”. At this stage, taken by megalomania, I cheer up the crowd from the stage before and during the game. A lot has already been said about the game, I didn’t even see Icardi’s goal, or the replays.
Before leaving I thank everyone from the bottom of my heart, I distribute brotherly hugs to those who made me feel like home, I am requested for a last photo session (I still can’t believe it, Brad Pitt who are you?) and then I head back to my hotel with my guardian angel, who refuses to let me pay the taxi fare.
The end? Don’t even think about it. After a couple of evenings, before my flight back, I decide to thank everyone again through Twitter. Engel, him again!, comes to my hotel on behalf of the club and gives me two official ICI Moratti t-shirts. I am an official member of the club now. I happily accept: I’ll be wearing it with immense proud next time I’ll be in San Siro, running for Foreing Affair Minister of Bausciacafè.
You tell me now, isn’t this the true meaning of being “brothers of the world”?
p.s. I almost forgot, Thohir was not there.