Two years ago, for Spalletti’s Scudetto, the New York Times was bothered. La Grande Bellezza was the title for that team that won in the name of aesthetics, in the name of the beautiful game that so little belongs to the Italian school – catenaccio, don’t take them, counterattack, nastiness, cynicism, sacrifice. That Napoli honored the aesthetics of an Oscar-winning Neapolitan director, even though the protagonist was Rome, and Partenope (even before the film of the same name) was a Proustian obsession with lost time, youthful love.
But not only the tribute to Sorrentino, the Financial Times was disturbed by that Scudetto, soccer as business and growth of a city’s reputation. Branding, standing, tourism. This of Conte, on the other hand, is a Scudetto without the delirium of aesthetic enthusiasm, let it be said without controversy, even without great champions on the field. No Olympians but I would say Marxist teamwork. Lukaku backs to the goal, a Scotsman who came almost from nowhere (McTominay) who scores and amazes and runs and defends too, goals from one with the line carved in the crystal rather than on his head, one who should have been sold in January, one who was no longer in the project, Raspadori.
It is the Scudetto that is the result of many mistakes, especially the strongest ones, those of Inter who threw themselves away again and again, especially in the 90th minute of the penultimate day’s game with Lazio. But history is written by the winners, Conte said, and he is right. Engraved on the Cup it says Napoli, in the almanac and in the anthology of soccer it says Napoli. The city, the most ball-loving city in the world, partied last night and last night, inside and outside the Maradona, with him looking down from above, moved and perhaps still nostalgic, even from up there, for the things he did on that lawn that smelled like spring yesterday.
It was a beautiful and well-deserved celebration. The images from above of the immense but orderly crowd in Piazza del Plebiscito tell of how these people have entered modernity by breaking down the historical and anthropological prejudices that have always condemned them to grotesque excess to the point of violence. It is the Scudetto of a great leader, the iron-willed coach, the true and only top player, Conte. But it is also the victory of a president, difficult and very good, De Laurentis. Long years at a high level and two tricolors in three seasons. He wins but with accounts in order, in a system dancing in a dangerous bubble of debt and hyperbole. He does not need the Arab or American money, the books are in order and now come the dindini, lots of them, from the Champions League.
De Luca says Campania today is the true north and maybe the president can be a testimonial for him. Between Narcisi, however, there is little love for each other; the briefest embrace on the field yesterday, with the Gulf sea that had become one of tears and strong feelings, was with Conte. Will he stay, won’t he stay? Who knows … if he wants to, Welcome – says the cool managerial Aurelio who trained in Hollywood. And as a symbol of victory he had a giant shield made with the tricolor flag, the words Again and a play on the 4 (fourth shield) . English, the globalized language. Tu vo fa ‘americano, Carosone would have told him. But a revived Humphrey Bogart would have answered him: it’s marketing, beauty!
The article Scudetto Again comes from TheNewyorker.
