Salve ragazzi, volevo proporvi un brano molto simpatico tratto dal romanzo di Elizabeth Gilbert “Eat, Pray, Love”. Qui l’autrice, che a quel tempo viveva a Roma, assiste al derby Roma vs Lazio allo stadio Olimpico e descrive, un pò incredula ma divertita, sia l’attaccamento dei tifosi alla loro squadra, sia l’atmosfera generale della partita e si concentra in particolare sulle espressioni di un tifoso e prova a darne una sua traduzione. Buona lettura..
“Yesterday afternoon I went to the soccer game with Luca and his friends. We were there to watch Lazio play.There are two soccer teams in Rome – Lazio and Roma. The rivalry between the teams and their fans is immense, and can divide otherwise happy families and peaceful neighborhoods into civil war zones. It’s important that you choose early in life whether you are a Lazio fan or a Roma fan, because this will determine, to a large part, whom you hang out with every Sunday afternoon for the rest of time.
Luca has a group of about ten close friends who all love each other like brothers. Except that half of them are Lazio fans and half of them are Roma fans. They can’t really help it; they were all born into families where the loyalty was already established. Luca’s grandfather gave him his first sky-blue Lazio jersey when the boy was just a toddler. Luca, likewise, will be a Lazio fan until he dies. “We can change our wives”, he said. “ We can change our jobs, our nationalities and even our religion, but we can never change our team”.
By the way, the word for “fan” in Italian is tifoso. Derived from the word for typhus. In other words: one who is mightily fevered.
My first soccer game with Luca was, for me, a delirious banquet of Italian language. I learned all sorts of new and interesting words in that stadium which they don’t teach you in school. There was an old man sitting behind me, stringing together such a gorgeous flower-chain of curses as he screamed down at the players on the field. I don’t know all that much about soccer, but I sure didn’t waste any time asking Luca inane questions about what was going on in the game. All I kept demanding was, “Luca, what did the guy behind me just say? What does cafone mean?” And Luca, never taking his eyes from the field, would reply, “Asshole. It means asshole.”
I would write it down, then shut my eyes and listen to some more of the old man’s rant, which went something like:
“Dai, dai, Albertini…va bene, va bene, ragazzo mio, perfetto, bravo…Dai! Dai! Via! Via! Nella porta! Eccola, eccola… AAhh, Cafone! Traditore! Madonna..Ah, Dio mio, perché, perché, questo è stupido, è una vergogna…Che casino, che bordello… NON HAI UN CUORE ALBERTINI! FAI FINTA! Guarda, non è successo niente…Dai, dai, ah… Molto meglio, Albertini, molto meglio, si, si, eccola, bello, bravo, anima mia, ah, ottimo, eccola adesso…nella porta, nella porta, nell–Vaff….oo!!”
Which I can attempt to translate as:
“ Come on, come on, Albertini…Ok, Ok, my boy, perfect, brilliant…Come on! Come on! Go! Go! In the goal! There it is, there it is….AAhh! Asshole! Traitor!…Mother of God…Oh my God, why, why, this is stupid, this is shameful, the shame of it…What a mess, what a frigging mess… YOU DON’T HAVE A HEART, ALBERTINI! YOU’RE A FAKER! Look, nothing happened…Come on, come on, hey, yes…Much better, Albertini, much better, yes yes, there it is, beautiful, brilliant, oh, excellent, there it is now…in the goal, in the goal, in the—Fuck Youuu!!”
Oh, it was such an exquisite and lucky moment in my life to be sitting right in front of this man. I loved every word out of his mouth. I wanted to lean my head back into his old lap and let him pour his eloquent curses into my ears forever.
