Forza Azzuri!

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Sometimes things just work out well without planning. Being in Italy for the World Cup final while Italy playing was once such time. After the debacle that saw Italy knock Australia out of the tournament (dubious refereeing, but I won’t harp) I didn’t think I’d support the Azzuri; in fact I started out the match with a distinct pro-French feeling, though this was silently acknowledged only to myself!

Amalfi beach started filling up about an hour before the game started. There was a big screen at one end of the beach, green tarpaulins draped on either side in an attempt to block out some of the glare of the setting sun. The dons of the beach chair rental let the crowds take their beach lounges for free and so we reclined in style on the beach with a bottle of wine, a bag of cannoli, a block of Cadbury’s, relaxing in the setting sun as the match started.

Italian passion was evident from the start, although in a surprisingly ordered manner. To the left of the screen were rows of beach lounges, to the right a standing mob. As soon as any of the standers got in the way of the sitters shouts and gesticulations rapidly shamed the errant stander back into his half of the beach. Heads were held, hands thrown in the air and non-breath-taking diatribes spat out at every anti-Italian decision by the ref and, in the world’s biggest irony, every trip and fall from a Frenchman. It was hard not to get caught up in it - go Italia!

Full time and then extra time came and passed. With the score still 1-1 penalties were on. A look of despair was on the faces of all in the crowd…except for those of a brave French family, obviously rueing their choice of weekends for a pleasant Italian getaway. After 120 minutes of haranguing and taunting and chanting from the locals, mainly one group of teenage girls, I’m sure that with history’s odds on their side (Italy had never won a World Cup penalty shootout) the French family were feeling confident. The tete-a-tete began. With growing confidence the Azzuri put in one, then two, three and then four goals, the eyes of the crowd were wide, fists clenched and bodies ready to spring. Grosso walked to the spot , kicked, beat Barthez, the crowd jumped up as one. The party was on!

First reactions were physical: jumping, hugging, shouting, air punching… and then stripping followed by swimming. Flags were waved and jumping on the spot continued. Explosions started; fireworks and flares were let off all over the place. Songs were sung. People moved up from the beach to the roundabout on the main road. The crowd thronged. People stood on cars. Statues were draped in flags. Obituary posters for France were stuck to walls and cars. Someone paraded an optimistically pre-prepared miniature coffin painted in the French tricolore.

The crowd moved into the main piazza. The imposing steps up to the cathedral, usually filled with gelati eating tourists and close sitting couples was rammed with jumping and singing Italians. The fountain filled with near naked men. A small car was carried through the piazza. Vespas with passengers carrying enormous flags tried to drive through the hoards, beeping horns adding to the noise. It was an loud and vibrant atmosphere, but comfortable and fun at the same time. Once again nobody was drunk. On the beach only maybe five people had been drinking and that was about one beer each for the match.

Anyway, after some time, the crowd, tiring of the piazza, oozed its way back down to the beachfront. We stayed sitting on the steps, the square quickly empty save for parents walking children home and the occasional flag bearing Vespa driving through and beeping at nobody. With the sound of the party continuing behind us, we walked back to the hotel to sleep. I’m sure the French family had done the same hours before.

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Photos

With our new friend...
... who during the day hired out the beach chairs to us.