I was sitting in the Olympic Stadium with my son watching the Roma-Manchester United Champions League quarterfinal game. The target of the man’s hate was Cristiano Ronaldo, the English team’s star winger, considered the greatest footballer in the world today. The young Portuguese player was running rings around Roma’s defenders. Okay, you might say, nothing unusual about that; isn’t that what he's supposed to do?
But what was driving this particular fan insane was Ronaldo’s blinding speed, his skill, his pure talent, his trickery – the stepovers, the feints, the body twists. And he wasn't alone. All the Roma fans, the Roma team, and midfielder David Pizarro in particular, considered Ronaldo's teasing tactics disrespectful and unsportsmanlike. Later, Pizarro said that when the two teams meet again in Manchester next Wednesday to play the return game, he will have something to say to the arrogant Ronaldo. A word of advice, David? Concentrate on improving your own game. Ronaldo is a great entertainer - the crowds love him, and wish there were more like him in today's game.
Now I am pretty sure my twelve year old son has heard swear words before, but I will bet Rome to a brick he hadn’t heard anything like this before. But the man beside me was nothing compared to the woman sitting a couple of rows behind us. I began to feel sorry for the United players because their masculinity, their birth, their mothers, their everything was being questioned by this woman. The referee fared only a fraction better. She strung together a series of expletives that was pure poetry, way beyond anything I could dream up. I won’t attempt to quote her, not for fear of offending anyone who might read this, but because there is no possible way I could do her justice, not without having recorded her. It was nonstop. Pure gutter Shakespeare. And my son heard every word of it. Oh, well.
In fact, it was her ‘poetry’ that prompted him, an ardent Roma fan, to whisper: “Daddy, don’t speak English!” Being surrounded by hostile Romans, he feared for my life. “Speak Italian,” he warned.
“With my awful accent?” I questioned.
He hadn’t thought of that. A moment’s deliberation and then: “If anyone asks, say you’re Italo-Australian.” He looked so serious, I almost laughed.
Then Ronaldo scored to put United ahead, the goal cause for a fresher, louder barrage of vitriol, the young player too busy lying on the ground catching his breath and being congratulated by his teammates to care. However, it must be very intimidating to have seventy thousand souls roar at you, over and over again: "Devi morire! Devi morire. Devi morire..." 'You have to die...'
But what really set the cat among the pigeons was the United supporter who - realizing he was on TV, his face appearing on the giant screens at either end of the stadium – raised seven fingers to remind the Roma fans of the score of last season's United-Roma quarterfinal: 7-1.
The lady shot to her feet to scream abuse at the giant screens. “M…. …. ……. .. … ….. …!!!”
The lady shot to her feet to scream abuse at the giant screens. “M…. …. ……. .. … ….. …!!!”
☂ ☂ ☂ ☂ ☂
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