Wandering through the streets of the Torrione district, the only smell that can be perceived is that of steaming pastiere – fresh out of the oven and ready to be the protagonists of the Easter tables – and of savory pies filled with every good thing. The bakeries invite you to buy latest products available, leaving their shutters open in a continuous cycle. Non stop. Proud of that glimmer of tradition (gosh, maybe not quite a glimmer around here!) that they still have the job of showering on their customers. The railway bridge divides Salerno in two: on one side the city of housewives, old men at the bar and companies who ride mopeds talking about the stadium and girls, on the other runners busy enjoying the sun reflected from the sea and a bevy of serial walkers, who have recently discovered the arrival of spring.
In the heart of this popular area several grenade flags adorn the balconies, while the first scarves are already beginning to circulate on the sidewalks and streets. Despite missing more than three hours to kick-off. Just outside the station underpass, where the initials are imprinted on a large mural Torrionesi, some boys are playing football. Challenging and teasing each other. Comparing himself to the footballers who brought and maintained the Little horse in the top division and turning the clock back at least a couple of decades. When this was the norm in all our cities.
There is something I have always recognized about Salerno, and which I think is undeniable even in the eyes of its sworn enemies: the passion for football. That passion that fifty kilometers further north overflows, explodes, excited by a tricolor that after thirty-three years is returning to the slopes of Vesuvius. But that here – apart from any rhetoric – does not seem to matter much. The street is the best confidant in these situations. Its windows, its colors and its voices suggest a lot about a city. Of course, it would be hardly credible to say that a football giant like Napoli (especially in the south, where it has roots far greater than simple football affiliation) does not make converts here and does not have people ready to celebrate. But it is membership in Salernitana that seems to make this more cautious. Maybe more respectful? I don’t know. Certainly walking from the station, advancing through Torrione, Pastena, Arbostella, it is difficult not to be impressed by the garnet hues that proudly color these spaces. A discourse that goes well beyond the ultras, but which obviously finds its pioneers in the latter. The outpost tasked with defending and honoring the banner.
Then Salerno, for better or for worse, does not differ so much from many ways of being typical of the Campania people. Indeed, in some ways it accentuates them. Salerno creates melodrama even where it would be enough to do one’s job (salvation after a 0-4 with Udinese docet), he complains to the extreme even when one should have an extra pinch of patience and breathe deeply the air of top division – which until a few years ago was rarefied oxygen, barely held back in heart-pounding clashes to regain the cadetry and then preserve it -, but is also capable of rallying around his team, his community and his colors to make it more sweet sunset over the sea, just behind the stadium Arechi. On days like these.
The International is coming and for those who experience the stadium in a certain way this is not great news. Top club first of all it means skyrocketing ticket prices. On this the Iervolino management is anything but impeccable, just think of the 60 Euros for a Distino and 45 for a Curva. Even if one should always open another appendix: one never reacts, one never boycotts, one limits oneself to lightening one’s wallet or at the most to some sterile banner rigorously displayed in the anti-stadium, something that on the other side will hardly be able to bring one step back. Mere and sad law of the market. Observation obviously referring to the entire Italian ultras world.
The arrival of the big clubs is also a constant and perennial “carnage”, produced by the mixture in the home sectors between fans from the province and from all over Italy and those from the grenade. Who logically do not tolerate festive shows with sweaters and scarves of other colors, which often make the climate incandescent. In short, playing against the big names is certainly a factor of pride, but it is undeniable that in the deeply self-defeating soul of the inveterate and omnipresent fan, this whole series of circumstances ends up producing a sort of hatred for today. A sweet hate, of course. But still I hate!
With half an hour left before the kick-off, the sea breeze carries a strong charge of saltiness along the seafront, covering the strong smell of the exhaust pipes caused by the cars still lined up a few hundred meters from the stadium. Luckily I have my feet at my disposal and in one way or another I (almost) always manage to reach the bleachers before the match director is on the threshold of the tunnel, ready for the two teams to take the field. I am obsessively keen to enter first, not to lose even a minute of the game. Even when it’s not about my team. I’ve never understood who is taking it easy, considering entry to a tender that has already started to be almost normal. Let alone, then, what he might think of those who leave early “not to find traffic”. It’s practically like going to the cinema and getting up ten minutes before the end so as not to find crowds at the exits. In fact, it’s even worse. The fideistic, liturgical element that characterizes the fan is not staged in the cinema. You don’t bring the colors of your city to the cinema, so to speak. Unbelievers!
In the stands of theArechi over 23,000 spectators were registered, of which 1,800 were Inter supporters. A few minutes before 3 pm, the Sud puts on her classic scarf. Surely successful and also followed by other sectors of the stadium. At the beginning of the championship I had the opportunity to speak critically of Salerno supporters. I had done it in a respectful and constructive way, precisely because I know the great potential of this square. Today – like it or not – I find myself confirming the analysis made against Sampdoria. The glance is important, the flare-ups are often creepy (especially in the second half), but overall one always gets the impression that the people from Campania often travel with the handbrake on. And it’s weird. Do you know why I wanted to include in the piece those boys who played football outside the Torrione station? Because, as written, they have fully restored to me the devotion of a city to football and its team. And maybe, based on that, I always expect more. For a passion that is born and grows in such a fiery way, I think it is due to a fan base with very high levels of singing and support. Let’s be clear: we are talking about the Salerno public, one of the most faithful and folkloric in Italy. An added value for a Serie A that has to deal with “fairy tales” created ad hoc by the press from time to time, but not supported by any fairy-tale element. My speech starts precisely from these assumptions. The South can do more, I think there is no doubt. Its history says it and the peak moments that were recorded today also demonstrate it.
Side note: the challenges with the big teams inevitably lead to a watering down of the public. And it is unfortunately clear that many have preferred curve tickets or season tickets for the price, rather than for the desire to cheer. This also reveals another generic weakness of the Italian ultras world: the failure to have known, from a certain point on, to involve most of the fans present in the popular sectors. Being closed in on oneself and having slowed down the aggregation process has obviously left many out of certain dynamics. It has meant that the perception of the curve as a sacred place, as a temple of typhus, has disappeared. Often relegating it only to the scenic mythology of the stadium. The one with which the following Monday you brag at the bar or at school that you have been an integral part of the ultras. When maybe you didn’t even commit to following a clap!
In the away sector, shortly after the start of the match, the Inter ultras also take their places, positioned behind the banner of the North Curve. Their arrival produces an exchange of invectives with the home curve, for a rivalry which, although shelved for years due to the difference in category, has never ceased to exist. An antipathy also due to the interweaving of friendships and rivalries of the two respective factions (just think, for example, of the theft of a piece of the Ultras Platano which took place in 2005 before an Inter-Reggina), which adds a little spice to the warring comparison.
Now, I try to be honest about the bauscia: for many years I’ve seen them really in great difficulty, at least away from home. I perfectly understand that coordinating that myriad of occasional players isn’t easy at all, but there was also a certain disorganization away from the San Siro. I must say that, on the other hand, in recent times the unitary project has also been able to restore dignity to the singing aspect (as well as confirming the Milanese among less comfortable customers to be faced with). Surely there will not be a masterful and bubbling match in the style of Boca Junior or Partizan Belgrade, but the part of the sector where the ultras are located was constantly cheering until the 1990s. Coming well coordinated by a pair of drums and involved with some vehemence by the guys with megaphones in hand.
On the pitch, things immediately went well for the Internazionale, with Gosens finding the lead after 6′. And yet, despite everything suggesting an easy success, everything turns in the most unexpected way. The Nerazzurri wasted everything and more with missed goals into an empty net and phenomenal saves from Ochoa, until they were joined by a missed cross from the ex Candreva. Classic punishment that literally explodes theArechi, just when even the most optimistic of those present had begun to store defeat in their minds. A goal that is worth as much as a victory and that certainly makes Easter for Campania supporters more than satisfying.
Great jubilation at the triple whistle and the streets were clogged again, this time to celebrate an Easter egg in which an unexpected surprise was found. The grenade sea marches parallel to the one made of water and waves, a little further on. Fiercely part of each other. Those guys engaged a few hours earlier at the Torrione station will have abandoned the ball to give voice to their throats. Wearing his helmet and trying to defend his passion. After all, their neighborhood owes its name to Forte Le Carnale, a cavalry tower erected on the coast – near the mouth of the Irno – to face Saracen raids. As well as the basis of the Popular Command made up of a certain Ippolito di Pastena, one of the seventeenth-century city heroes, who rebelled against the abuses of the Spaniards and was followed by a fair number of people from Salerno for about a year. It must be for this reason that from that maze of narrow streets of the people (here, as in other parts of the world) it is still possible today to defend one’s nature and soul with every possible means.
Salerno always strikes the feeling of being in a specific place. Well outlined. It’s probably called self-determination.
Simone Meloni