The lake of Fire.
Fires burn brightly, the flames licking higher and already slightly bored predsmertnoe-August sky. This is not a witch hunt, this is the start of the new season of Serie A. “See” has already scored, and then life goes on. And that’s the start of the Series And the best football tournament in the history of mankind, this text is dedicated. And Yes, this is the best football tournament in the history of mankind, the best, and don’t argue, just the history of the suffering humanity.
But at the start of the season one person for whom I’d climbed the fire that blazed even brighter, blazed like burning now under the Windows stupid, well, well, well, not stupid, let it be – careless, Rafa Benitez. The Spaniard will be executed at sunset, Naples does not forgive betrayal and cowardice. Fuck Rafay, now a different story.
In the forthcoming season there is a man for whom I will root separately and soul. Why? And hell knows, the laws of the spiritual aspirations of modern humanity is unknown (I’m telling you, he’s got a shitty story). I so want, want and that’s it. So feels my soul.
And let his head instead of a hockey stick, let them! Even if he is foot hockey stick! And if a family Pazzini ever will be the family coat of arms, and there is not without sticks. He let himself out of the tree, let the tree POPs and discards the branches season after season, so be it. But hell, nobody in the world knows how effectively to substitute for the backache and transmission, under canopies and bounce all your numerous clubs. What can Pazzini, the only thing he knows how, for what was born into this world – to score goals.
So let this season happen only what should happen, let pazzo burst, let it drown in the blood assists the whole Italian championship, let him go insane everyone who believed in him, those who didn’t care about and especially those who were buried alive. Let something as crazy and beautiful as the dirty guitar sound, emerged from the garages and doorways, and turned the blond boy into the idol of millions.
In football, sometimes a lot pure sound, precise melodies, traitorousness, the affectation, the desire to the elegant ideal of his tactical beliefs. I’d like to come, someone casually unshaven, picked up an old, barely alive, unsettled guitar and… pounded her about everything that has managed to reach. Pazzo is the one who is lacking. It’s grunge, clean, dirty that is, to the ideal, outright aggressive sound. The lawlessness. Something coming from within, from the dark, mesmerizing his opacity, the depths of the soul. What kind of animal. Aggression and madness. There is the most accurate word ” instincts.
Yes, pazzo didn’t go Milan’s career, stripe blue, stripe red – one hell. A lot of injuries, strange, sometimes inexplicable coaching decisions. Him and sold him as ridiculous, as if surreptitiously, as if afraid to look in the eye. And yet he continued to do what he can and invested in it himself. First, because you no longer know anything. Secondly, because this is enough. There’s claims to pazzo? Shove them up your ass! If you do not know how to use it – well, you know, there’s more about the ass…
Looking at his game, in his football, I want to swear. It’s also from the heart, from the murky, opaque depths. About the same feeling when you swear the indescribable beauty of the sunset (maybe not aloud, maybe to herself, but did so each). And here is pazzo. The beauty of football in its shining simplicity. Nothing more, not a drop of grace. Step, another step, another, jump, touch, kick, kick, kovyrok, Yes, even spitting, just then there was a long-awaited goal.
And who said football should be aesthetically beautiful? Who, in the end, you need a polished and perfectly manicured Lobo… sorry… football some Ronaldo? Let they will choke in the butter Kingdom, and it does not have, on the contrary, this is pride. Football is cruel, dirty, smelly and unsightly, unless, of course, to look at the field and not at the posters and the look in slow-motion replays halo over the head of Messi.
The football is different, there is a place for everyone. Just wish there were more like pazzo, those on the drum all except for goal scored, in addition to the score, but the game. And everything must come together, because Pippo is the same, exactly the same flame in his eyes, tickled his heel tabs of the same madness that is God-given and is called scoring instinct. All that makes sense – a goal, the rest is secondary, everything else, everything, even yourself – the background, only on the first goal. There’s something so sincere, than you can safely descend into the opaque depths of the human soul, finding what hides from us our own consciousness in his creepy basement, something that was always with us, but from what we have renounced, and perhaps still not ready to accept.
So let the fires burn brighter! May heaven colored in the colors of madness, and night will be a brighter day! Let the new season of the best football tournament in the history of mankind! And let lucky this year glorious soldier named Giampaolo! He crushes out his crumpled machine gun all those who fall in sight, let him give trouble and misery, let him be tripping all around, let the madness happen! After all, to be insane = not to be indifferent!
And let in shots as often as you can is born the coolest celebration of a goal scored in football Italy! Nobody do not care, what does this gesture all sure what the thing means. And don’t care that it’s not, don’t care about anything. Wants a simple, sincere and straightforward, as the ideology of all the youth subcultures, as the sound of grunge, as that same feeling that twists the screw of Vienna, when the ball crosses the goal line. I want goals to Giampaolo Pazzini.
Good Luck, Pazza! I am the first who will dance with you on gnawed bones.
PS during the writing of the text of pazzo managed to break in training, the first tour without him… Now just need to fill in all fires with gasoline, let this season turn into the lake of fire! Get well soon Giampaolo, time to kill!
With or without you our passion will live on. “Napoli” and his Benitez