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Rating: I often have difficulty watching games on Sky with my nephew.
Anyone who knows my story knows that my music career has always been accompanied by a strong passion for football, evidenced by numerous appearances in the Nazionale Cantanti, where I was an excellent player but especially a knowledgeable coach. It was 1981 when Mogol, upon the advice of our colleagues, decided to establish a charitable football counterpart composed of the greatest Italian artists of the time. When I received the call informing me about it, I was thrilled. Not just for my desire to step onto a football field, but for the joy of collaborating with great colleagues as well as friends like Umberto Tozzi, Pupo, Gianni Bella, and Pino D'Angiò, with whom I've maintained a great relationship of friendship and professionalism.
Today, since my age doesn't permit it, I prefer watching football rather than playing it. It often happens that my nephew, a huge sports fan but especially of the Premier League, invites me to watch matches with him and perhaps to receive a technical analysis from the great coach I once was.
'Come on, uncle, shall we watch Arsenal?' he asks me with a satisfied look because it's his favorite in Anglo-Saxon football. I start trembling, and a drop of sweat falls from my forehead as I whisper in a low, stuttering voice, 'y-y-yes, s-s-sure...'. And it's at that moment that people like Whitney Houston, Steve Jobs, Paul Walker, and Robin Williams flash before my eyes.
'And would these people be more famous than me?' I wonder as the announcer shares the lineup. And it's when he announces that name so beloved by my nephew that my heart races: Aaron Ramsey... 'Come on, uncle, do you really believe in this nonsense?' he asks me with an innocent air. 'Who, me?' I reply as I grip the armrest of the sofa tightly, soaking myself in sweat, the same hair that made so many fall in love during the good old days. 'But let's not joke...'
At that point, survival instinct takes over. I start following the game attentively, becoming a fan of West Bromwich, raising numerous doubts about my long-standing Genoa loyalty with my wife, who, not being a football enthusiast, is unaware of certain backstories.
'Stop that damn Welshman', I shout at the improbable defenders as that devil in the red jersey forcefully approaches the penalty area after about 50 minutes of idleness. He takes an impressive shot, and time stops... 'Please let it be Baglioni, please let it be Baglioni', I whisper to myself as the ball hits the post and goes for a corner. At that point, emotion takes over; I almost fall off the sofa, and my wig slips off my head, which I promptly reposition with a lightning move, leaving my nephew completely unaware.
'My credibility hair-wise is safe', I think to myself at the end of the match, releasing a sigh of relief... 'Well, my life too'. It's said by Manzoni in "The Betrothed" that those who are in default are in suspicion, and I wonder if it was worth being a great singer of the golden era, passionate about so many women's mothers who were fortunate enough to pass through my days, if every darned Sunday I have to lose a year of my life from fright. But when I think back to all the women who at the time lost their heads for me and who never changed their minds over the years, to the point of naming their son Sandro, I realize that perhaps it's worth taking the risk.
'Not this time either he got injured', I tell myself as I see an entire week ahead of me with me as the protagonist, alive and well. Emotion takes over, at least until my nephew dampens the enthusiasm: 'Uncle, don't be upset about the end of the game, because the midweek round is the day after tomorrow!'... 'Oh, screw it!'
Let it at least be Baglioni...
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