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.
notice a diminishing desire to celebrate birthdays. The syndrome of white hair is taking shape more in-house over our heads and that I think is a symptom related to the rains of recent days. Here in the north the clouds pass usual, umbrellas open and get wet, you can see a few glimpses of sunshine from November to March. The air stinks, in these streets. The future smells of "Freedom for Italy" (this will arrive shortly) and that there had been so far, faces the same coin that debris after sowing realized that they no longer want to continue to divide the metal valuable to show on the podium. In my small way, I still want to my share of the podium, with people standing next to me, though when I pick up the phone (an archaic expression, in the era of cell phones) for the usual greetings, I realize that I should have less of them than they ever did interested parties to receive them. Not because I do not like to hear them, imagine their faces that giggle at the sound of the hundredth day, talk, but because we are so absorbed by the search for stability that we have to wait for a birthday deal. I had my way, dear friends passed the next year will be meeting in front of a table periodically to tell you that I want to continue to hope, in the enthusiasm to celebrate in front of the child as well as in cake little things I keep in my bag of irregular happiness. Why does nothing to regulate the youth in recent years, including a law that does not belong to those who legislate (never was quite and still less can it be now) and the belief that better to make the kingdom around us are the details of each day, a smile, a girl on the subway, a memory that comes at the right time. Whatever you like this, what little is left of your plunged into a laugh, is the grip to be happy when you feel the weight of a year that has passed. Cling to this, if you see the dark after turning off the candles. 
E 'finished May. A fortnight is over in May of 2010, the month with the "M" capitalized, the thirty days of the condor. Thirty-one, to be exact, to chase the words on the keys as if they were girls from the short skirt, to spy while under the shadow reflected on the thighs there is something more than a trivial thought. 