It’s not easy to talk about football in the days of jumps, throws, dives, fencing brawls, cursed judo or boxing referees and “Senne” polluted like never before, but we’ll try.
(But in the end we’ll tell you something about table tennis, we really want to. And anyway, this gold won by the female fencers in front of the French. Ah, what a pleasure…).
But let’s get to the sacred ball and to a certainty: none of the big teams hungry for the tricolour have yet finished their work.
MILAN
Pavlovic has officially completed his medical and is a new defender for the Rossoneri. The Devils are thinking about selling Thiaw and are negotiating with Newcastle for a figure close to 30 million. As for the income, negotiations are underway with Tottenham for Emerson Royal (he will arrive), as well as the reinforcement in midfield: his name is Fofana, Monaco are aiming high at the moment, but the boy only wants the Rossoneri and, of course, that is an excellent starting point. Other arrivals? An alternative striker to Morata.
ATALANTA
Gasperini is a hyena on the pitch, but also off it. He asks for reinforcements everywhere, starting from the attack (El Bilal Touré doesn’t convince him): the coach would prefer a “new-Hojlund” to put behind Scamacca. In defence, with Scalvini injured and Djimsiti leaving, experience is sought, while in the middle the Koopmeiners issue is the main topic, with Percassi and Giuntoli teasing each other and the Bergamo players who won’t listen to offers lower than 60 million. The O’Riley chapter: Gasp doesn’t consider him an alternative to the Dutchman and, quite simply, demands him (he’s not stupid).
JUVENTUS
Three sure reinforcements are coming (Giuntoli told us so): Todibo is very close (35 million to Nice), Koopmeiners remains the only dream and only in midfield, for the attack they are aiming for Karim Adeyemi, even if Borussia’s valuation (45 million) is a bit scary. And Chiesa? He will leave, but first he will find a place to first free up space for the winger liked by Motta (same goes for Milik in attack).
INTER
Only tweaks. The main objective remains the left-footed arm, young and “futuristic” (like Bisseck a year ago, to be clear). The club is in no hurry and the names that have come out so far… They are all wrong (only Cabal was liked, but Juve snatched him up). Ausilio has a name in mind, we will know soon. And Valentin Carboni? He goes to Marseille for a 1 million loan, 36 for the redemption set for OM and 40 for the counter-redemption from the Nerazzurri. Basically Marotta maintains control and hopes that De Zerbi will make the youngster’s talent blossom. And up front? They need “another Sanchez”, but he will only arrive in the event of Correa and Arnautovic leaving (difficult).
NAPLES
With Buongiorno and Rafa Marin the defense is fine, it’s time to fix the attack. For Osimhen there are no valid offers at the moment and Lukaku must wait. Will the Belgian arrive? Yes, it will take time but in the end Conte will have his bomber. In the middle of the field they await the sale of Cajuste and they are targeting Brescianini (very strong and a little underrated) and Gilmour.
End of the market bullshit.
And now “Saheed without return”, a story of Olympic emotions and Sunday breakfasts. Enjoy the reading, if you like.
And nothing, I was having breakfast very calmly. You know, on Sunday. Screen randomly turned on on table tennis. “There are no Italians competing at the moment anyway”. I turn on the coffee machine while in Paris the Swede Anton Kallberg, 18th seed, and the Congolese Saheed Idowu, ranked beyond the hundredth place, are warming up. A 64th in the final, on paper there is no match.
We don’t want to think in stereotypes, but we have to: the Swede is blond, skinny, cold, probably didn’t smile even after making out for the first time. The Congolese is a bit overweight, nice and full of character and a nice guy, the kind you’d go and have a beer with on trust. Their respective technicians sitting on the sidelines, trivially, are their carbon copies, but a little older.
It begins.
(Quick review of the rules: mini-games are played, the mini-game is won by the player who gets to 11 or, in the case of 10-10, by the player who puts two points ahead of the opponent. The first player to win four mini-games advances to the next round.)
The Swede is a hyena, he makes very few mistakes, the Congolese is tense as a violin string, awkward, sweaty like Bonolis in the final game. The game goes by quickly, the crowd (the arena is packed) doesn’t give a damn and looks elsewhere, I dip a biscuit in my coffee with discreet indifference: 11-7.
I’m tempted to change the channel, but I give hope to Saheed, meanwhile scolded by his coach.
We start again and the story doesn’t change: Kallberg seems to have come out of an Ikea assembly line, he doesn’t make any mistakes, his opponent struggles to keep up with him but at least this time he fights. And he charges up. And he takes advantage of a very rare drop in attention from the blond guy: 11-13! Sensational at the Parisian Cibali.
The crowd starts to pay attention, me too. But it’s a waste of time: the Scandinavian robot gobbles up the African baba in one bite: 11-4, 11-6 and 3-1 overall.
The challenge is sealed, too much technical and tactical difference. The Congolese coach looks at his boy as if to say “’A Sa’, we’re making a fool of ourselves”.
The fifth mini-match begins and you expect something quick, a handshake and goodbye, but here the light comes on: Saheed rebels and starts hitting with a bestial lucidity and charge. It seems like Fantozzi in the legendary billiard challenge at Catellani’s house and “Will you allow me a shot?”.
At every point Saheed howls like a Maremma wolf to convince himself that it-can-be-done! In the Swede’s eyes only a minimal annoyance, the fact is that the crowd, as if by magic, begins to chant the name of the Brazzaville giant: Sah-eed! Sah-eed! And Saheed does not disappoint: 12-14 6-11, overall 3-3. Off to the final challenge!
Now the arena is really a red-hot tub, all on the side of the French speaker. The Ikea cabinet looks like a loose wire, his coach looks at him sternly as if to say “make sure you win or you’ll walk home”, Saheed loses gallons of sweat that the terry cloth struggles to contain.
We proceed point by point, with each lash from the Congolese everything falls down, when the point arrives from Stockholm it’s all a “nooooooooooooo!”.
Suddenly the screen beeps and warns me: “Azzurri in competition! Change channel, idiot!”, but I wouldn’t do it for anything in the world: “Fucking hell, I’m going round! Come on Saheed! Let’s break down this Swedish locker!”.
But at an incredible 8-9 for Saheed, the ranking comes out: Anton freezes his neurons, turns into a cold-blooded killer and makes no mistakes: 9-9, 10-9, match point.
Saheed recites all the saints of Congo, tries to find strength, looks for his coach who looks at him as if to say: “’A Sa, if you do this miracle I’ll take you to the Moulin Rouge”.
No miracle, no fairy tale, nothing at all: Saheed makes a mistake in response and for the first time the blond truly celebrates, the hero of Brazzaville is defeated and lowers his gaze.
Silence falls, but only for a moment: “Sa-heed! Sa-heeed! Sa-heeeeed!”. Thousands of fans present in the arena celebrate their idol, thank him for these 59 very intense minutes of pure passion, he comes out with his arms raised like Rocky Balboa in “Rocky I”, I stare devastated at the screen while Saheed enters the tunnel followed by his coach and disappears forever into the locker room.
I think, “I’ll never see him again.” And then, “Damn, what a breakfast…”
The Olympic Games.