The memories of days, anecdotes and shared moments resurface slowly and clearly. They forcefully come back to the surface, almost as if they wanted to remember the mark left by a person on their existence. And one certainty: it should never all end so soon, because you are never ready for a friend to disappear. At the departure of those who have managed to fit perhaps even a small piece into the jagged mosaic of joys and moments that remain within. Death doesn’t take away memory, it’s true, but it certainly deals a terrifying blow to one’s certainties and digs a little more furrow in the weak area of our heart and our soul. Because we realize that nothing really lasts forever, that this concept is not just a phrase said to sweeten dark moments.
Sad and curious is the fate that on the day of your last farewell, of your arrival among the flags and smoke bombs and of your passing in front of that house where so many of us have left memories, a life lived and endless laughter, he wanted to play a game of your Leone at the Olimpico. More fierce for warsays the motto printed on the municipal banner of Frosinone. More ferocious in fighting. And you were until the end, in a battle that, alas, was much more difficult and tougher than any match and any goal to be achieved on the pitch or in the stadium. I know that tonight you would have been there in that sector and you would have sung until the end, beyond the result. You, who had seen the yellow and blues among the amateurs and in anonymous championships of the third and fourth divisions, attending those dusty and hot fields, which characterized the groups of Southern Italy. Maybe you would have said, proudly, that today’s Olimpico was a beautiful catwalk, where however it was necessary to preserve that combative and tignomous spirit that the Ciociaro fans had tempered over years of pitched battles. Your fellow citizens, your brothers with the scarf around their neck, tried. But before even trying they honored you, with a banner and a choir that echoed loud and clear for a good part of the Capitoline stadium.
The big regret is not having greeted you properly. Of having bowed to the frenetic rhythms of life and perhaps having procrastinated too much, swallowed up by my existence. But know, dear Marco, that it was precisely because of people like you that I was able to start traveling around Italy and delving not only into the depths of life on the curve, but also into the entire social context that surrounds it. Over ten years ago I embarked on a path more casually than deliberately. Crossing over into the Italian province and starting to appreciate its customs and habits, as well as the traditions of organized cheering. The Aunt it was one of the first “gyms” – as a banner displayed in that Frosinone-Crotone match which sanctioned the first, historic, promotion to Serie A – and obviously you were the narrator of a story that started from afar, from your family. Sitting on your veranda you told me several times about your grandfather, as well as the old man Municipal he worked there as a warehouseman and caretaker and that he could not help but convey to you a rare, profound passion, rooted in the city’s identity, even before being sporting. We often mentioned that stadium, even and especially after the move to Benito Stirpe. In emphasizing how well this company had worked and was at the forefront nationally, you always remembered how the old one Aunt it was a trap from another time. To another geological era. And you knew well how much the soul of the Ciociaria fans was attached and imprisoned to it. In dreams, those people who looked out from the buildings in the year of the first Serie A come back alive, those climbing on the buildings behind the away section and those let in pell-mell among the forest of controls that never managed to be effective in such a system. For me the Aunt It’s Marco Gatto. And viceversa. Two essential entities that marked the rhythm and memories of a community.
I really have many anecdotes to tell, but I think it’s right that some things remain closed in the intimacy of those who experienced them. Although in recent years I have often had the opportunity to narrate nuances and facets that I was able to know and intuit, aided by a host of characters known thanks to Marco and the other guys who always helped me in my research of local habits and customs. From restaurants lost in the countryside and with ancient tastes to ditties sung and recited in dialect. From the Open Cellars to the Radeca Festival. The latter is an event that until a few years ago we almost always experienced together, starting with Shrove Thursday. In front of the classic plate of fine dishes, exchanging light-hearted chatter at those tables that smacked of authenticity and humanity. I, who have always lived well in the province and have almost always found comfort there, coming from the frenzy of the metropolis and its often inanimate way of living everyday life. The passion for those mountains, for those small villages in the province and for the most remote ravines became so great that I managed to pass it on – in turn – to the people who were closest to me.
Someone said yesterday that without you life will be less beautiful. And, without wanting to use the rhetoric that we often fall into in these moments, I cannot blame him. Because while traveling around our shabby Italy, when I come across icons parallel to those of Marco, in popular consciences, I am always enchanted and I try to get the most out of them, to enrich myself and to have an additional point of view. In these cases it is said, perhaps too lightly, that a good person has passed away. A good one. Yet in your case I would really struggle to use other words. You were someone with whom you didn’t have to jump through who knows what hoops to attract his attention and have his friendship. I remember a very hot summer morning and that car journey to the Sanctuary of the Santissima, in Vallepietra. You asked me if I wanted to go on this “outing” together and obviously I didn’t miss the opportunity to spend that day together, listening to stories about your city, your Ciociaria, enjoying beer and a sandwich with Erzinio ham (another gem that over the years I reused it properly!) and talking – needless to say – at length about ultras and movement. And then the stop in Guarcino, on the way back, with the typical amaretti biscuits bought and devoured on the spot and the teasing towards the “Roman” who didn’t know they existed. Because then, those who knew you know well, irony and sarcasm were the basis of any verbal confrontation. Yet, I realize now, when it is too late, the moments spent with people you respect and of whom you have a good image are always few and never enough.
My heart sank when I saw that your latest post on Facebook is a sharing of one of my speeches on television. I, who am always shy about appearing and, even worse, boasting about it, felt honoured. Because I knew the respect you had for me and I know how much we shared certain ideas about the stadium and its context. I will miss your classic joke about the “rustichelle” brought by the Autogrill representatives involved in the Observatory sessions. Just as I will miss your ironic comments on any post regarding the ultras movement. But we will also miss those laughs that we shared together at rallies and meetings, carefree and sincerely beautiful moments, which perhaps I was waiting for even more than the matches to experience the word “aggregation” in its broadest sense in freedom and fun. You were a bridge capable of uniting where there was a desire to divide and a mind anchored to those principles with which the world of curves was born and wrote memorable pages in our country. In you I have always seen that “ignorant”, angular and biting square that I had known as a boy, in the days of Serie C. But behind that apparently gruff air there was a noble heart, always ready to reach out.
I like to think that Heroes don’t die. And you, old man Heroes of the Station, you know it better than anyone. I thank the guys who introduced us to each other (whom I still consider friends today. Beyond every colour, curve and city) and I thank you for everything you have given me. I know that I will see you again in many facets at the stadium, but I will also see you in various moments of everyday life. I will remember one of your phrases, one of your jokes and one of your pieces of advice. I like to remember you smiling and behind the banners in that improvised procession on May 16, 2015, a few minutes after arriving in the top division. The apotheosis for those who had dedicated a life and a good part of their feelings to the yellow and blue colors and to his city. In the hope that in the stadium as in everyday life, other Marco Gattos will be born, capable of transmitting emotions and having clean, beautiful and passionate thoughts. Both in curves and in life.
Hi Ultras. Hello Old Lion. Hi my friend!
Simone Meloni
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2023-12-30 12:22:18
#LazioFrosinone #Marco #Gatto #Fiercer #Battle
