[ad_1]
by Fabrizio Gabrielli
I do not have a clear historical memory of Paolo Rossi, of Pablito, the kind that are formed by direct observation: I remember him as a faded thought is remembered, a not particularly memorable anecdote, in one of my first sticker albums, with a T-shirt that she would have learned over the years to recognize him as alien, out of context, the one from Verona. Because certain players, in the collective imagination, or rather in that type of imagination that ends up crystallizing, always wear the same shirt, the same number, have the same pose, are about to act. again, eternally, a gesture that will turn him into a daguerreotype.
Paolo Rossi in a black and white sweater with nine on his shoulder, Pablito dressed in blue with twenty: any other incarnation seems almost side. I don’t know if it had the same effect at the same time.
The AC Milan of the 1985-86 season is a mine of little stories, and ultimately the Polaroid of a team that would soon have lived a great decisive moment: in that season the shirts were provided by Gianni Rivera himself (already, technical sponsor) , the starting forwards were Pietro Paolo Virdis and Mark Hateley, President Giussy Farina, on the verge of bankruptcy, would have passed the baton to the only one who would have wanted to carry the debts with the intention of trying to live an experience view, Silvio Berlusconi.
Paolo Rossi, in that Milan, arrived after such an exciting cycle, at Juventus, that it took away his desire to continue. Championship, Recopa, European Super Cup, Champions Cup: despite the successes Pablito felt discouraged, emptied, victim of a plot for which if there was someone to replace, that someone was always him. Even Boniperti doesn’t feel any closer, that even at the end of the disqualification for Totonero he was the first to believe in him.
Pablito Rossi with Milan’s number 10 jersey, however, with the same jersey that he had been (and in fact now was) of Gianni Rivera (the last Italian, before him, to have won a Ballon d’Or), in the company chaired by its president at the time of Lanerossi, is a coherent development of the plot, not so alienating (not as it would have been to see Paolo Rossi in the Buffalo Stallions uniform, after all, it is strange even in a Eusebio, right?).
The goal I chose, and I chose it for a specific reason, is that of 2-2 in a derby sparking with emotions that he himself had opened, with a goal born of a more astute than lucky touch, a kick to the ground. , to make him bounce to climb over the legs of the Inter goalkeeper.
But, we said, 2-2. Milan have got back on their feet, now they are at a disadvantage: Mandorlini heads a ball back into the box, a parable in which, when you see Di Bartolomei approaching, in the way he runs towards the ball and coordinates Di Bartolomei, you already know that it is there to realize that cry that today crystallizes in a wall of the Tufello, “Do, drop the bomb.”
And it is here where a small Candyman evoked three times appears in front of the mirror, a small deus ex-machina, in that unique way it had of appearing, of appearing out of nowhere to materialize in the exact point where it was expected. that he was, as if he knew where the ball would go, after touching the last leather: Pablito. Whoever makes a technical gesture that we are not used to recognizing as his, that could not be his stylistic code: he makes a charming stop, the ball remains stuck to the foot as if it had velcro on the shoes; and then it turns, with a speed but above all a harmonic grace that today we would not even mention among the top ten characteristics of footballer Paolo Rossi: the discreet elegance of the touch.
Paolo Rossi knew Besides be a ten, in the less literal sense of the term of the Milanese contingency. The sensitivity and delicacy with which he teaches this ball, before making-el-Paolo-Rossi, is the same that I see in the touch with which in the ’78 World Cup (before making-el-Paolo-Rossi) he triangulates with Bettega, a precise, elegant touch, almost without looking, of a class so easily recognizable that it would have fallen in love with half of South America (did you know that Paolo Guerrero’s father wanted to baptize The predator come Paolorossi Warrior?).
Pablito was many Pablitos: the snapshot that we will keep will always be the same, but we must not forget, and perhaps it is the case of rediscovering, the multiple personifications of which he was capable on the pitch, even unusual: the prodigy of a footballer with the gift of a talent, and fortunate to have become an intimate national hero.
