It was a crisp spring Sunday morning when I left my house at Via Cagna 11.
It was 9 in the morning and I was already dressed for mass and the stadium.
The old Piazza Amsicora (since 2016 Piazza Scopigno) was a cul de sac between three main roads, a hundred metres from home, in front of the stadium curve.
I had put on my white Superga shoes. Rubber, high, canvas, I used them for basketball, but also for going to church or the stadium. The red-blue striped tubulars were my socks, for shorts I had worn the elegant ones, short, blue with pockets and a turn-up above the knee. The shirt was obviously red, the one with the collar neatly ironed by mom.
After a nice latte full of hard bread, before the 11 o'clock mass at San Pio X, I already wanted to go on an exploratory tour. Given the circumstances, I had forgotten about my homework. I crossed the crosswalk at the end of Via della Pineta, went onto Viale Diaz, being careful when crossing the tram tracks, and went to see if anyone was playing at the Vigili Urbani field. Then I went right back there, to Piazza Amsicora because it was already roglio. I stopped in front of the entrance to the West curve, in the divide between those going to the stands and the East curve from Via dei Salinieri and those going to the stands in the tree-lined avenue on the right.
At that time there were two stands, or rather three.
There was the “tree-lined grandstand” outside the fence, the one where the strongest climbers would soon climb the trees with a sandwich and a drink in their bag. They would secure their place on the solid branch and watch and suffer with us, being careful not to fall. There was the side grandstand, with the innocent pipes and wooden tables (like the two curves), where we Porcellas would go from 1965-66 with Dad, Uncle Nando and all the grandchildren commanded by Nonnu Porcella and his friends from Gonnos. And finally there was the valiant central grandstand, in concrete, with the TV tower on top, where journalists, radio and television commentators, managers, authorities, politicians and noble families from Cagliari would mingle.
The tender is now open, with sixty days to submit bids. Giulini: "This time, the future must become reality."
Mauro Madeddu
It's a celebration, that April 12th, fíara cuminzendi.
Authorized vendors began to set up tables in Piazza Amsicora.
At the terminus of the 5 the chants began while they moved that legendary green trolleybus with the electric antennas to the stop of the 6 in Via della Pineta so as not to disturb the flow of the many expected fans. On the rear bumper of those buses, it seems they had seen, over time, also young players from Cagliari or Amsicora hockey, hung out in free-ride, in addition to the usual gaggi-residents of Sant'Elia.
There in Piazza Amsicora on weekdays we would meet up to take the 5 and go to the boy scouts or to play basketball in the “A. Riva” courtyard behind Piazza Garibaldi, but there in Piazza Amsicora was also where on Sundays when Cagliari played it was a whole different story.
There were tables and flags there, red and blue padded cushions where you could rest your buttocks on the cold cement or wet wood, there you would stop to buy salted seeds, chickpeas and other things to nibble on during Cagliari matches.
And when things went well, so almost always in that second five-year period of the sixties, after the Cagliari match, Grandpa or Dad would always invite us with the usual phrase “I think we'll also have to have an ice cream at the bar in Gaviano”.
The excitement was palpable already around 10am between the rocks of Via Cagna and the dirt “parking lot” of Via Baccelli, the Casano and Ferrero palace on the corner of Via dei Salinieri.
The fans' cars began to arrive from the villages.
April 12, 1970 was a very special Sunday. Everything smelled of celebration. As if it were your birthday and Christmas day.
More, much more: Cagliari could have become champion of Italy! If they had beaten Bari and Juve had not won in Rome against Lazio) we would have mathematically become champions of Italy with two days to spare, understood? Champions of Italy, with two days to spare!
The dream was about to come true for us Sardinians in Sardinia and for those all over the world who followed that magnificent Cagliari. But it was also the dream of all the “continentals” who had started to support Cagliari because they were won over by that “sympathy” team led by that great philosopher called Manlio Scopigno and dragged by the greatest striker of all time of the Italian national team, Gigi Riva.
I was looking forward to the big party and couldn't wait, like every Sunday for the last five years, to go to the Amsicora, to the side stand, entering held by my dad's hand.
It was a tradition for us boys every Sunday when Cagliari played at home. We went to Amsicora in a gang: brothers, uncles and cousins under the direction of Nonnu Porcella and his circle of friends. I was usually in charge of bringing the bag of blood oranges from Villacidro and Gonnosfanadiga that we then ate during the game alternating them with the pumpkin seeds that grandpa bought us outside the stadium, there under the tree-lined stand. That break an hour before the game was a preparatory ritual before entering our little theater. Just as by tradition there were the jokes that Nonnu Porcella told between the first and second half standing in the center of the group at the first entrance of the side stand.
I didn't know yet that that historic Sunday would have unique and disproportionate emotions even for an 11-year-old boy like me.
During the mass, which I followed with impatience because I was already thinking about the imminent “trip” to Amsicora, I was distracted by an unmistakable roll of drums. The band of Marius, the super fan of Cagliari, had arrived!
Mom and Dad were two rows ahead in the classroom and I hoped they wouldn't notice me.
During the Our Father I slipped out of the pew and went out of the church, approaching the band that had positioned itself on the corner of Via dei Salinieri and had already begun the saraband. I watched with amusement the bass drum, the trumpet, the drums and the solo singers.
I got close enough to almost touch the ringleader.
“Mr. Marius, I am the son of Prof. Porcella, the philosophy professor at Siotto who comes to get coffee at your bar every day,” I told him impudently.
Marius strokes my head smiling before starting the new rhythm.
Ta-ta-tatarara-tatatatatatarara ta ta tarara-ta beautiful titta who carries or zeraacca ta beautiful titta… Come on Ca-glia-ri come-za-ca-glia-ri
It was just after midday, I had to quickly get home to grab a bite to eat because at one o'clock I had an appointment downstairs with Nonnu Porcella.
At home at the table I was a boring cricket jumping from one side to another. My mother gave me a stern look to calm me down.
“Pietrino, I didn’t see you take communion today. Where were you?”
“Um…I had to pee and I went out behind the church for a moment,” I replied, lying naively.
“What? You left the mass before the blessing? Then the mass is not valid for you, you have to come back tonight at 7:30. Did you finish your homework?”
“Eeeh…I’ll do them tonight…”
“No, that’s enough, no stadium, this time you’re punished.”
My incredulous reaction was discomposed.
“No mom you can't do this to me then you're bad.”
“No, I’m sorry my son, this time you’re punished otherwise you’ll never learn.”
Dad was already downstairs and Mom signaled him from the window that he could go and not wait for me because I was being punished.
2.25am. Still in disbelief at the punishment, held hostage in the kitchen I could hear the Amsicora loudspeakers, crackling, ringing out the formations:
The roar entered my ears. I was in disbelief, thinking that there, 200 meters from home, the dream was coming true and I, for the first time in the last four championships, was losing the most important match.
Half an hour passed, I was between the open window and the kitchen table, with my homework notebook and dad's little radio on, ready for the connection that would be made at the end of the first half with "all the football minute by minute", when a roar made the kitchen window shake.
“Gooool” that roar was unmistakable, we had scored. I looked out to understand better and a boy who had followed the mouth-to-mouth that started from those waiting outside the curve, shouted running: “GiggiRRiva scored…with his head… !!”
I cheered… but I couldn’t resist any longer and I looked to see where Mom was in the kitchen ready to try to escape. She suddenly came back from the kitchenette where she was washing the dishes and asked: “What happened?”
I looked at her with pleading eyes, maybe I rubbed them first to make a tear come out and I begged her:
“Mom, Cagliari scored, we are about to win the championship, but don't you understand? It's the tricolor scudetto!”
She looked at me with tenderness and finally said: “Okay, go, but come back right away. Don't stop by people or ask for autographs because it could be dangerous. If dad comes back and you're not there, you know he'll get angry”.
He hadn't finished speaking when I had already flown down the stairs. I walked the hundred meters of Via Cagna that separated me from the Mennea stadium.
The escape to the West curve, where I knew the gates would open at the end of the first half, lasted less than two minutes. The crowd was crazy. At least thirty rows of people had crowded under the curve. I couldn't see anything in front of me. I looked up and saw the grandstand of innocent tubes packed and vibrating.
Push and push, I gained positions, I had to get in front of that sea of people to see something and then invade the pitch. I, small and skinny (maybe five feet three at 11 years old) slipped between one person and another, sneaking before they blocked me. I couldn't see anything but I could hear the noises and roars of the crowd.
I had to get there, I had to get to the front of the line to be at the head of the invasion. I finally got there, there were six minutes to go and I was stuck to the border fence.
Gori, Gori goal, 2-0, it's done! I took advantage of the opportunity to climb the net and place myself on top of the post that held it. The referee's final whistle.
I jump down and start the crazy joyful run on the Amsicora pitch. I stop for a moment on the half field to tear a piece of Amsicora grass that I will keep among my memorabilia... and then I continue to run happily, ecstatic as if I were on the counterattack chasing the players who were coming back joyfully towards the locker rooms trying not to be undressed by the delirious crowd.
But I didn't want to stop and I also headed towards the underpass.
However, there was a cordon of carabinieri in black uniforms with a white band that blocked the passage and acted as protection for the players, journalists, referees, linesmen and managers authorised to go down to the locker rooms for the celebration.
“Who cares, I’ll try it,” I thought. I dove low under the arms of two carabinieri who couldn’t let go of their grip to grab me, at the risk of breaking the cordon between the pressing crowd.
They don't grab me, I get up and go down the underpass taking three steps at a time and heading towards that Cagliari locker room that I knew well because I always went there to get autographs after training. In front of the locker room there was a howling crowd of managers, politicians, journalists, photographers, friends of the players who were pushing to come in and celebrate that incredible championship too.
I was pressed next to a big man shouting. It was Walter Chiari, the famous actor, a friend of Domenghini, who as soon as a side door opens the masseur Domenico Duri pulls him in…. with me attached to the pocket of his jacket.
Incredible, I was also in the locker room with Riva, Gori, Domenghini already half naked in the shower with a bottle of champagne…
In front of me was Nenè who was undressing to reach the embrace of his companions.
“Nenè, Nenè….the T-shirt…”, I shouted at him.
He looks at me smiling, throwing the shirt back into the bag and replies, “I’ll keep this as a souvenir. Look over there, Gigi Riva’s sock,” pointing to a soaked sock on the floor.
I grabbed it on the fly before I got 'bogato' to son'e' corru.
I exited exultantly from the iron door of Via dei Salinieri overflowing with people, naively shouting “Gigi Rivaaaa’s sock!”. Immediately two or three hands grabbed it trying to tear it away from me.
I had to bite her furiously to get her to let go and with my heart in my throat I ran home to hide my precious heirloom.
I went into my room, took the autograph case and added the tuft of Amsicora grass, then I lay down on the bed dreaming, putting on my left leg that GiggiRriva sock that reached above my knee.
Mom came into the room to make sure I was back and everything was okay. She already knew everything even though she wasn't a sportswoman. She saw me lying there with that dirty sock happily worn.
He smiled at me, caressing me and stretching out his hand as if to take it off: “Come on, give it to me so I can wash it for you…
“But…no, leave it to me, leave it like this, it’s the sweat of the championship”.
The sweat of the scudetto.
It had been a unique and special championship for Cagliari, for Sardinia, for Sardinians around the world, for all the lovers, in Italy and abroad, of that great provincial team-sympathy. A team with champions and workers that shone for unity, harmony and sportsmanship. The first to win the Italian title against the great powers of the metropolitan cities.
And he had done it with the sole strength of mind of his players, his managers and the enthusiasm of his people.
