Monza, surreal and beautiful Berlusconi gives us back the 80s

History

You can’t get out of the Eighties alive, Afterhours sang. But only because they underestimated Silvio Berlusconi. Which not only gave rise to Reagan hedonism that decade, but also managed to make it a successful format. Purchased by Sarkozy, Trump, Boris Johnson. But at a certain point they gave in, they slipped on the path of opportunity, of the cause-effect relationship, of betrayed promises, of papier-mâché foundations, of hostile public opinion. Which he, however, continued to seduce. Suspended between stage and reality, in his colorful world in which to go up to the Quirinale or in Serie A they have the same value: a living monument, naturally equestrian, and the continuation of an infinite epic. Just like the trials he never presented himself to.

The parable of Monza football has something surreal and beautiful. It resembles Domenico Procacci’s sumptuous series on the Azzurri team that won the Davis Cup in ’76 – “A team” – where Mussolini’s tennis teacher, anonymous pariolini, accents from Banda della Magliana, an extreme humanity that includes everything, meet and justifies everything: scazzi, talent, triumphs, grudges, self-indulgence, moments of happiness. A difficult life, but not that much. Italy as always. Its contradictions. The DNA of a people who think they live in Dino Risi’s “Il Sorpasso” but are convinced that the truck in the opposite direction won’t be there. Sometimes happens.

But Berlusconi is contemporary. That “everything” is live but always the same, just like his TV. He reassures us. If he does not age, at least inside, since on the outside it looks like a self-propelled Sagrada Familia, we too remain suspended. Thus, we witness this minor clone of AC Milan with a kind of smile. We almost cheer him on. We follow every market hit like at the funfair, as if we were still at the time when Canale 5 broadcast the Mundialito in violation of the laws in force. Commented by a Swiss chronicler. We close our eyes, hear him and Adriano Galliani talk about the red and white goals to come, and we are back in those years. Indeed: The Years. Same street, same place, same bar. The song plays, but the voice is not by Manuel Agnelli. It is by Max Pezzali.

In addition, there is an element that the political Berlusconi has always attended very little: reality. When it comes to football, it becomes a vintage Amber Angiolini: it promises and delivers. And it belongs to us, we belong to it. Since in 2018 it passed into his hands, big hands, endless hands, Monza has broken through the 100 million investment. There is no day in which the red and white do not pursue, and reach, a grandeur that seems to be related to even earlier eras: when the mills were white and the presidents at first rich and stupid, then a little less rich. Stop.

Legend has it that Arcore’s Dorian Gray was an Inter player in his youth. And it is true that seeing him like this, with his acrobatic patronage, he looks more like Angelo Moratti than any Rossoneri president. Perhaps Felicino Riva has been removed. One fact remains: for his second invincible passion, Fifa, he is spending even more than for the first. Because together with the ball he acquires what he has always pursued: not power, but consent. Indeed: indiscriminate love, what only a fan can give.

The Monza of Berlusconi and Galliani is a relative of the Edilnord, of the cruises in which Confalonieri tortured Charles Trenet, of that joyful and ferocious era, without even one Dell’Utri that zompetta left, at a short ideal distance, on the Bacigalupo fields. There is sunshine in your pocket and the ability to sell it. To rent it. To make it a political manifesto even beyond the state of necessity. Uppercase.

Perhaps also Dzeko or Icardi will arrive, therefore Wanda Nara, therefore the pastiche between Silvio’s sporting imagination and that other. Meanwhile, there is Matteo Pessina who had any European squadron in front of him and instead he was convinced to be captain at his house. For money and for love, in fact. And there is, unspoken, the hope of returning to San Siro to kick Milan. To close the circle drawn by giving it to the Chinese. That too, with a compass.

Berlusconi thinks he is Berlusconi, and this is his strength. He believes in his own immanence. But he wants her surrounded by the gratitude of others. For this he has compensated his brother Paolo, who was a human shield during Mani Pulite, hoisting him to the presidency of the club. And, unlike the family newspaper, without even a law requiring it. For this reason, the Monza jerseys are produced by those who made the invincible Milan ones, as if to trace a sort of aesthetic continuum with the big-eared cup. She too. For this reason, even the sponsor, announced yesterday, is straight from the time when Mediaset made itself a party and defended its patron: Motorola. It was, at the time, THE mobile phone. A very light shell, a status symbol to flaunt, while we mortals still exhibited cast iron cell phones. A Milan to call, let’s say. Then came Steve Jobs with his touch screen and Motorola lost track. Until recently, the Chinese bought it from Lenovo.

Now think about it: an apparently obsolete object, which we embellish with nostalgia, risen to new life with the money of red capitalism. More than a sponsor, an autobiography. Whose next target will be the left side of the leaderboard. But only to be able to accuse her more closely of being the usual communist.

While we will continue to mirror ourselves in him.

Someone enthusiastic, someone heartbroken. All, inevitably, Italians. –

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