The other night, a group of teenagers thought it would be a good idea to gather at the house of one of the kid's recently deceased grandfather, right in front of my bedroom window, to have the ultimate all-nighter for fantasy football, with auctions (one of them bought Icardi for a boatload of money). But then around 4 a.m., in perfect unison, at yet another collective shout, I threw a bucket of water at them while the neighbor was yelling at them in a very thick Barese dialect (it's quite unusual to hear Barese curses in my town). But then fantasy football is won with the Lapadulas of the moment, the Hubners and the Ganzs of times gone by, and this Polish guy from Chievo who doesn’t seem bad at all. Then I felt sorry for them, these kids with soft mustaches, dejected, mortified, and a couple of them soaked. The truth is I'm getting older and I was envious of their life ahead of them. But they also annoyed the hell out of me, especially because if I were in their place, I would have been searching for gold and postal savings books at the late grandfather's house.
Adolescenti A Colloquio. Improvvisamente, Tremoto