It had taken me six weeks and the reluctant relinquishment of my social security number to finally purchase tickets to watch Fiorentina play. Walking overhead the train tracks, the vibrant vendors and smell of porchetta sandwiches grew stronger as I made my way to Stadio Artemio Franchi. I was fortunate enough to avoid the forecasted rain, with the sun now caressing the building’s ragged, concrete exterior. It was not easy finding my way around; the floods of people halted only by the occasional speeding taxi. The perimeter of the stadium was cloaked in an omnipresent green wrap; shielding its ongoing construction from curious eyes. Curious myself, I sidled up alongside a stray child. As he skillfully peeled back the fortifications, I was greeted unnaturally by the pitch itself; framed amongst piles of construction debris. Somewhat startled, I found myself drawn to this ‘untrue’ view.
Eager for more, I went looking for a way in. I approached a man in uniform, his face hardened with wrinkles. After gingerly piecing together my question, the man crushed his cigarette butt on the ground and returned an incoherent string of words that I could only interpret as a no. Understandable. I continued to circle the stadium until I reached the entrance to my seat and proceeded through the layers of security consisting of approximately three fences.
Upon entry, I once again found myself drawn to the field. The exposed belly of the stands caved in as I got closer, with the crackling paint overhead following suit. As I breached the shelter of the stands, I came across the away section. Tucked beside the Ultras, the glass box was smothered with an assortment of stickers; gifts from past visitors. The Ultras erupted with cries of Como Merda and I could not help but join in (I didn’t want to be throttled by a local). The game commenced and I was rooted to my seat.
As the deafening cheers of the crowd reached their apex, the anticipated shot sailed over the net into the field of debris I had previously discovered. Despite the final seconds dissipating, no player followed in pursuit; nor did any ball boy go to retrieve it. Instead, out waltzed the man in uniform, entertaining a fresh cigarette. Whether it was the man’s lack of urgency or simply the end of regulation, the final whistle blew to the dismay of the home crowd.
The slow stream of fans that followed gave way to a patchwork of ornaments. An assortment of colors, logos and phrases adorned the regulated seats below. I wondered if they’d simply be discarded or remain like the stickers, becoming a piece of history.
I was one of the last people to leave the stadium that night.
