Marco Tardelli
L'urlo

It's not related to the more famous one by Munch, although a good percentage of pseudo-connoisseurs remember only that desolate figure of poor Edvard, which expresses something disturbing from an anonymous and icy bridge. They might recognize it as "Munch's Scream" and that's all, ignoring that Munch is the name of the author and that he painted other things too. "The Scream" by Marco Tardelli, even if it hasn't been framed for exhibition in any gallery, possesses the fundamental factors to be counted among works of art. Without taking anything away from the Nordic artist, it might be that in the footballer's scream one can sense a hint of patriotism. Personally, I manage to find there are sensations enhanced by the contribution of moving images that result in being more effective, to the point of preferring it for emotional charge and moral strength.

In 1982, historically, Italy was trying, with difficulty, to re-emerge, part from the sea and another from the rubble of the Bologna station. Two years earlier, too many innocents had disappeared without a reason and the still burning wounds awaited a minimum of redemption. Football-wise, the national team was instead trying to forget the stunning defeats in the semifinals against Cruijff's Netherlands and in the bronze and grass final against Brazil. The World Cup stained by Jorge Videla's brutal dictatorship was won by Argentina. Obviously, right?

Italy's path in the Spanish World Cup wasn't, at least initially, among the most memorable. We must thank someone in the high heavens if we managed to snatch the qualification to the round of 16 after a decidedly uphill stumbling run. Back then I was a little four and a half year old with a little sister in the playpen, but I have a clear and affectionate memory of the sacred anticipation in front of the dear, old 14-inch Magnadyne, in red plastic and transistors, strictly black and white that with some interference announced the descent in the Bernabeu arena through the unforgettable voice of Nando Martellini.

Going over the World Cup path of the Azzurri that year is a must. Three ignoble draws with Poland, Cameroon, and Peru characterized the qualification to the quarter-finals hoping to reach them with the Atollo K or the Amatrician Republic. No way. Instead, we ended up arm in arm cheerfully with Argentina and Brazil. The first opponent to curse, the reigning champion blue and white. It would end 2 - 1 thanks to Tardelli and Cabrini, despite some breathless minutes for Passarella's goal. Against Brazil of Zico, Falcao, Socrates, and Junior, Italy, "anema e core" gave us an anthology match. A hat-trick by Paolo Rossi that halted two dangerous attacks by Socrates and Falcao. A regular goal by Antognoni was disallowed and Brazil went home with a torn shirt. Semifinal against Poland which would be eliminated thanks to a brace by the usual Paolo Rossi.

July 11, 1982, Madrid. Santiago Bernabeu Stadium. We're playing against West Germany, who won over France in a match dramatized by Schumacher's criminal exit on Battiston. Three teeth knocked out and a concussion. France beaten on penalties. Against the national team of Stielike, Littbarski, Rummenigge, Briegel, dear "seleccionador" Enzo Bearzot fields a team that I proudly emphasize as "half Juventus." Zoff, Gentile, Scirea, Collovati, Bergomi, Cabrini, Oriali, Tardelli, Conti, Graziani, Rossi. In the stands, King Juan Carlos and the wonderful President Pertini. Italy uphill with a missed penalty by Cabrini and Graziani stretching his muscle being replaced by Altobelli. A spot-on move. After a quiet first half, Rossi awakens hopes at 57' but it's at 69' that this story is written. From midfield, Rummenigge passes to Breitner who loses the ball taken by Rossi. The latter, flanked by the much-missed Scirea, gallops to the opponent's area. Some ball exchanges until Scirea senses Tardelli's shooting chance. A through ball that ends on the right foot of the latter. Juggling, short run-up, and a stealthy left-footed shot from the area's semicircle that lands in the bottom left corner of Schumacher.

Who can forget that burst, that, forgive the oxymoron, stupefied, incredulous rage? Tardelli barely has time to grasp the feat when with eyes wide open from wild happiness, he shakes his head, opens his arms, and with clenched fists charges the diaphragm to break the sound barrier with a scream long crushed inside his body. The explosive charge spreads into his legs for a proud and fiery run that is vainly blocked by his jubilant teammates. Goooool, goooooool, goooooool. A brute force, powerful, an electric shock in those nervous muscles. Tardelli's scream which maybe still echoes in the Bernabeu stands.

The seal would be set by Altobelli. Goal of the flag by the fearsome Breitner. Then, when referee Coelho picks up the ball with both hands to show it to the sky, Martellini shouts his "World Champions!" to the cube and brands a historic match with fire.

How beautiful were those Italian flags I saw fluttering from the fogged-up windows of my bedroom. The joyful shouts, the honking of cars in jubilation, and the souped-up roars of overloaded Vespas. The glares of the fires entering the room illuminating my Cuddles stuffed toy...