The sight of European hooligans fearlessly, even proudly hurling racial epithets at Black soccer stars gets my goat! But it is seeing pain etched on the faces of Kevin Prince Boateng and Boatelli as they confront the Nazi gnats in the stands that fills me with primal rage.
I have tried to suppress the bile rising in me to understand why it is suddenly fashionable to brandish swastikas and call Blacks monkeys- I come up with naught. I have tried to understand why the referees, coaches or FIFA do not adapt a more stringent stand against the racist groups that hijack stands and shred the reputation of the beautiful game called soccer…
These racist incidents are prevalent in Italy where the economy has tanked and unemployment is widespread. So perhaps the hate that is unleashed during soccer matches is the only release the angry youth can muster against a country that is slipping from their control. However, the current debacle that Italy is in has more to do with myopic government policies and nothing to do with the Black players exhibiting their talent on a green turf.
I have wanted to get into the locus of this issue to understand what is fueling the rise of hate in football but a senior writer at ESPN beat me to the punch. In the article below, Wright Thompson skillfully peels back the layers of Mussolini’s influence, the desperation of youth and the threat of immigration to expose Italy’s shame.
When The Beautiful Game Turns Ugly
Right up until he started quoting Hitler and dropping N-bombs, my new friend was a great dude. I’ll call him The Hooligan. A more generous host would be hard to find. Soon after we met, he made sure we stopped at the one place in town that served Campari correctly. He speaks eight languages, and seemed nothing like the Hellas Verona fans I’d read about, the neo-fascist, neo-Nazi, racist thugs. The Hooligan insisted the Veronese just have a dark sense of humor and refuse to wear the yoke of modern political correctness.
Now we are headed toward the terraces of the stadium. Soon I’ll be packed in with the hard-core fans, three people for every seat, chest to back, eyes burning from smoke bombs. Near the entrance to the stands, I ask The Hooligan to translate any chants hurled down at the players. He is an old-school soccer thug, not on a first-name basis with impulse control. His eyes are slate blue, and his face has darkened with intensity as kickoff approaches. His voice is a sharp blade.
This story is about a red motorcycle.
The ghost of Mussolini rides through the swampland he turned into farms, the sound of his bike’s engine going tom-tom-tom in the dark. Some locals swear it’s real. A famous Italian novelist, Antonio Pennacchi, saw the ghost when he was a child. Many still love Mussolini in Latina, one of the towns the dictator built south of Rome after draining the marshes. The old cab driver remembers not having to lock your door when Il Duce ran the country. The municipal building is still shaped like an M, in his honor, a reminder of a past that cannot be seen unless you fly high over the confusion below.
Pennacchi lectures me that American democracy is not morally superior. What Mussolini did in Africa, we did to the Indians. What Mussolini did to the Jews, we did to the African-Americans. He barks when I ask him to put the nostalgia for fascism in context with the epidemic of racist chants in soccer stadiums, especially the slurs against black AC Milan stars Kevin-Prince Boateng and Mario Balotelli.
”You are simplifying!” he says.
He stands up, imitating the way Balotelli appeals for a foul to the officials, moving around like he’s been shot, the curse words flying in Italian.
”Balotelli is an asshole,” he says. “No matter his color, he’s an asshole.”
The steam runs out.
”We are all assholes,” he says. “Man is a beast.”
Pennacchi goes outside and sinks into a plastic chair, lighting a Marlboro. He exhales a big cloud of smoke, inhaling back through his nose, quoting a philosopher I don’t know.
”The Hitler inside every one of us,” he says. “The good and the bad are mixed inside.”
He ashes his cigarette.
”The road to civilization is very long,” he says.
”How about, ‘You’re a f—ing n—–’?” he says, and we walk inside.
DISPATCH FROM THE MADNESS
I’ve given up hope of ever fully understanding the fractured things I saw while chasing the Serie A soccer circus around Italy. Let me be honest. I got sent to write about racism, which I found in staggering amounts. But Italy isn’t like America, and racism there is tied into a thousand years of feuds, and hatred of anyone different, even if they’re from only a few miles away, and fascism, and the recent wave of immigration. That’s all in here, but it’s unfair to hide my predicament, which became clear after only a day or two. I’d fallen into a parallel universe of contradictions.
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