I’m writing because I understand that the boy is out of danger.
We knew Edoardo Bove as the “sick dog” José Mourinho.
A soldier ready to die for his commander, grateful to have been chosen among many.
A tarantolato on the pitch, victim of the senseless exasperation that made Mou’s Roma the most unpleasant team on the planet.
He arrives in Florence at the last second, displaced and betrayed by the club he considered home.
It is clear that he is an honest guy, he has no problem hiding his disappointment because he knows that those who listen to him are able to understand the reasons.
In Florence those who speak from the heart speak our language.
On the pitch he is no longer Mou’s sick dog
but a modern midfielder, skilled in both phases and capable of making decisive choices.
Palladino would also let him play at night.
Tonight Edoardo starts well, intercepts and overturns the front a couple of times.
He’s tasked with standing tall and keeping Dumfries holed up.
Then the bastard illness and the fear.
And, finally, the good news.
You were born in Rome, Edoardo, but now you are a son of Florence.