are the pimply guy you meet in the school, mistaking him for a junior high school. They beat the young man from the bathroom during recess, to which the victim are stealing the pizza or empty your wallet, I'm the little Fantozzi to send home without new shoes. In short are the loser, still plucking Toppo for high school and too old for kindergarten. Like all hairless thirteen unlucky I enjoy hobbies of which have nothing to do with the field-mouse. From the construction of fighter planes, the collection of Diabolik, tennis pool, snowshoeing from gut strings. In the early 80's is a disaster not to qualify for the kennel and shelter in the wide arms of rock music is the ideal escape from the real armor armpit male hormone warthog. The '82 season, opens with the dilemma of watching World Cup football matches, or do anything else. For those who were young during the World Cup 82, remember that the absence from the vicinity of a television during the matches of the national law, was punishable by excommunication, friends and relatives. Some of the stigmas, similar to a branding done on the outside thigh type beef in movies with John Wayne, nell'epiteto consisted of "ricchione (ie, one who prefers other sports that are not the ball) or" dry "( one who prefers studying spherical activities - games), or otherwise "Cujo" (meaning "fool", who choose to do otherwise). There is something in the air, in addition to the smell of my sneakers on my window sill. Yes feels that this will be a summer special. Then comes my fishing season, trying to snub the sports events, including the disapproval of my neighbors umbrella, which live on the fork and go around with the flag slippers, sporting T-shirts with the face of Franco Cause with the halo . There is also the Rolling Stones are coming, but to me, at thirteen, is not allowed even to go to see the evening concerts in the church organist. In a tape of AC / DC and one of Jethro Tull, the World Cup starts, with a mustache Claudio Gentile topics from the first page of all the news. Tension builds up Bearzot and exciting results of the first games. He even risks the figure of shit to Cameroon. Kazz negro! When these things happen, the discomfort that impose BDSM, losing those games, it's almost pleasant. It 'a kind of stimulation to contract the anus. Meanwhile, on the beaches, miles of Gazzetta dello Sport, shown off in a coconut oil extract and a Camillone flavored strawberry and cream. Step back from the pier without emotion, having chosen the fishing activities such as misleading. It seems that even the fish are watching the world, so that catches are rare and minor. I note with pleasure that the breakwater, are emptied, with the advance of Italy in qualifying. Among the rocks, covered with mussels and seaweed, echo the strident urletti of transistors to break the meditative silence of the fishermen. With great ass and three draws, Italy goes to the quarters. The group that is presented to the Italian "all is staggering: captain along with Brazil and Argentina, is almost like putting a pea on the banks of the Nile crocodiles on the water. On the beach you start a series of strange rites. The group of Neapolitans who occupies the beach, cast into ancient ceremony, akin to human sacrifice. Strangers, in principle, bring bad luck. The balls of the older, grandfather, uncles, great-grandparents, are rubbed several times a day. Who does not arrive at the beach, keeping an arm Gazzetta dello Sport is an infector of doom. Seeking to distance themselves collective hysteria: Dear will cut the mustache? Rossi does not score because they do not trumpet for more than two weeks with his wife? Or, Antonioni is a fag? That brings us to the fateful June twenty-nine millenovecentottantadue: Italy Argentina. In the morning there were already the first signs. Closed offices, shops struggling with off-season inventories. ER flooded the bathrooms, undertakers without boxes in stock. No one can die, nobody can get hurt, no one can not watch the game. If it was a Berlusconi arrived that afternoon, and had taken possession of the parliament, with a military junta led by Pinochet, no one would give a kazza. The TV was the only reason. For all, except for one: myself. Unmoved, unperturbed, at 14.30 I leave the house, with trash barrels, hooks, this time amid general indifference. No one notices my absence. Out of silence after a bomb, broken only by a monotonous voice Martellini, coming out from any window of the house in which there is a shred of life. With a pitch that resonates to the "Five o'clock in the morning" the Village People, get down under the south pier. None. Nothing. Umbrellas closed, shutters down, without boats, real estate crabs, mussels tightened on the rocks. There at that time, I understand and I understand to be the "real jerk" who fell the sea to do something "against", knowing that this gesture will not be noticed by anyone because there is none. Check with ease to the lighthouse and I am going to this useless exercise in stupidity of being different at all costs. But the silence amplified the breadth of space, reminds me of the distant echoes of the houses at the Oriental Institute, where flocks of italioti infoiati, screaming, sweating, compared with cathode ray tube. Sometimes the sounds of the sea breeze beluine screams of my fellow citizens. Only in this silence, crouching on the rock, in the thrill of the pleasure of deprivation, which no sane man would approve, start, gently poking in costume. A feeling Damp heat, attacks my hand, just out of the water, letting it harden tool. I decide the dramatic gesture, which for years I blend in the mind, without ever having been possible because of the crowding of the site. Beginning to get me the tool. But it is a saw fast to avoid scandal. E 'saw a gradual, measured, prior to the squatting position, then gradually becomes more explicit. In the other hand always shake a fishing rod, as stringessi two cocks at once. Excited by the risk of being messed with and the desire to be messed in my modest initial erection, it becomes a principle of priapism. And 'the fifty-sixth the first time, I stand on the rock, legs apart, with kazza facing east. Now, they are in full swoon, shooting, archery, shooting, Tardelli ... Goooooooaaaaallllll !!!!! I come home late at night, between the trumpeting of a city exploded in an orgy of low expressions of animal dignity. I find the neighbor who drools, purplish, gasping on the mat. Within home. My father, his gaze between the reproach and pity, I cold apostrophe: "You do not know what a show you missed." "If you only knew what a show you missed you." I think and I lock myself in the room.
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