I can still remember and never forget the summer and autumn of '97. It was my first year as a fan "practitioner" of those who a Sunday and not take the highway towards San Siro. I remember well the growing crowds that shout, audible even among the wretched of the first green ring (the ones that when there is a derby and see nothing but fog residue choreography for the first five minutes of the game) turned to the guy from the teeth with a view launched in progression. Without a slalom ski, can overcome the laws of physics that reluctantly studying at the time, high school and half-hearted follower of football as a future profession side, pen in hand and ball at the feet of others.
How I loved that 10 Inter. From the first day at the Meazza, surrounded by a crowd of children cheering for a simple friendly half July, shortly after facing the balcony of the venue as a way Durini Pope's Angelus. All in my mind: the goal annulled at home to Brescia, dribbling in Bologna against Paganin, the goal against Fiorentina, Parma up to the punishment and so forth one after another. There was nobody on the single season, can trigger the feeling of omnipotence football that Ronaldo shone out thirteen years ago, at the height of a career that saw him win a lot, lot less than it could have. The fame, the women (too many), the World Cup final in Saint Denis, which I still know very little of the suspicion they helped make it a player in decline, supported for years by a huge class without the brilliance of the first version.
There Ibrahimovic, Eto'o or Messi taking, perhaps because Argentina has gone to Milan twice in a season without a trace. What, as vintage newspaper clipping, a player was defined as "boxer's physique and feet from Fred Astaire," was simply the greatest of the last fifteen years, just because the memories are too far in time fuzzy to be considered.
Even in betrayal, love sport for those who made us cry keeps a lonely corner and eternal gratitude.
A tear is for you, Buster. Thanks.
