Don’t Wait For Me, Argentina!
As every year, there is a longish Christmas pause in Italian football. This pause is, like every year, used by South American footballers to go back to countries like Chile, Uruguay, Brazil or, well, Argentina.
They stay there more or less quiet for a couple of weeks; try not to eat too much; greet all parents and relatives; and in January, when the time has come, reluctantly or very reluctantly board the plane to Italy. Some take every excuse to come back later, in fact, causing some Lío behind the very heavy desks of their employers.
It seems to me that another Argentinian could have done the same. Let the vescovo vicario, or whoever it is the protocol calls for, celebrate all the masses for you.
Stun the world.
Fly to Argentina.
Spend Christmas in the slum, among the dirt and the rats. Sleep in a barrack. Dance the tango with the local prostitutes. Call all the TV stations to immortalise the Great Event.
Come on. Beats a wheelchair every day. So populist-christmasy. Unto us a hero is born. The First Castroite. Deck the Halls With Bags Of Dope….
Personally, I would not want anyone to think it's easy to get accustomed to the humble luxury of … an entire hotel floor. L'albergo e' grande, la gente mormora…. (you should learn Italian… no: you really should…).
Again, just my humble opinion. A lost occasion, I think, for first-class, ground-breaking, media-shattering Attention Whoring. Albeit, it must be said, at the cost of substituting the Humble Hotel Floor for the rats and the dirt for a couple of weeks, day and night.
Which, perhaps, it's all there is to say about the matter.