To the rest of Europe, football is the beautiful game. In Italy, it is still an excuse for vicious tribal violence. Peter Popham talks to die-hard fans about the cancer that threatens the future of the sport
It's the everyday scenery of Italian football which has now become a nightmare the nation can no longer live with. High up in the stands, the "Ultras", banded tightly together, sway back and forth, bellowing songs. Siamo i tifosi della Roma, siamo del commando ultra forza Roma: "We are the fans of Rome, we are the commando ultra force of Rome".
The scene oscillates wildly between the dramatically beautiful and the desperately dangerous: clouds of confetti descend on the players as they emerge from the tunnel, the songs are loud and sonorous - but as the game unfolds the confetti from the more extreme Ultras can turn to showers of coins, directed at the enemy goalie, the "bent ref", the home club star who dived once too often.
There are clouds of smoke, blinding distress flares coloured blue, green and scarlet, and rockets tossed among the crowd like toffee papers. There are Nazi salutes, monkey grunts, racist chants, and the sudden dash to attack any enemy caught in the wrong place.
The sense of danger, of being on the verge of extreme violence, that's the thrill that drives the Italian Ultras, and when push comes to shove, when the police overplay their hand or the tear-gas clouds start to billow, you've no idea what it may lead to: smashed cars and motorcycles, ransacked shops, streets paved with broken glass, fans garbed like guerrillas levering up the cobbles and hurling them at the hated sbirri (police).
At the centre of Italy's anguished debate about football are the Ultras. After the violence at Catania on Friday, 2 February, took the life of a policeman, the Ultras went to ground; but when football comes back to life again on Sunday they will be in the front row again, dominating the stands across the country.
They are not insatiable drunkards like their British equivalent, though some may guzzle beer, sniff glue or smoke joints. They are all tightly organised in their own clubs and gangs, each under their own capo or chief. They unroll huge banners within the grounds, often with neo-fascist or racist slogans, and cluster around. Some will expect, invite and provoke violence, especially at the explosive derby games like Catania-Palermo or Roma-Lazio, but also at other matches (Roma-Verona, Roma-Brescia, for example) where there are old scores and long-running vendettas to be perpetuated.
Sobriety (relatively speaking), solidarity, hierarchy, a veneration of violence that has a strong fascist odour about it, these are the distinguishing features of the young men who have brought Italian football to an unprecedented crisis. But then there is also the intimacy with the teams: the way players run to the curva (stands) when they have scored, the way the Ultras are cosseted and privileged by club managers, given free tickets, free flights on team planes - privileges that the emergency law bans.
Club bosses treasure the passionate support, but also fear the reaction when the team falters, when players take to diving, when the coach loses one game too many. It may be love, but it is not unconditional, and some Ultras have no compunction about lying in wait for players they have taken against and beating them.
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"The basic reason you get trouble at all derby matches is because of the worsening of the relationship between the fans and the people who run the game," said Maurizio Rosi, a lifelong tifoso (fan) of Roma. "The fans don't trust these institutions. They treat us arrogantly, they abuse their powers."
Much of the problem in Catania, they say, was a result of the decision to keep the visiting Palermo fans bottled up in coaches throughout the first half of the game, only letting them in 20 minutes into the second half, whereupon an explosive clash between the rivals was instantaneous.
"Sometimes we go to an away game by train," said Rosi, "and they keep us on the train until the game's over and then send us all home again. If you lodge a complaint about your treatment they give you the run around. They change the times of the games without notice, which means that you can only come to the game by missing a shift at work. So people get furious. If they smash up cars when they come out of the ground after a game, it's understandable."
The authorities are perceived as spiteful, prejudiced and malicious, and this goads the fans to take revenge. But they are also seen as incompetent - enabling the violent fans to do their worst. "They tell you you can't come into the ground with rockets," said Rosi, "but it's easy. One person goes in clean, then goes to the wall in another part of the ground and his mates throw them over."
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In the general atmosphere of corruption and permissiveness, the Ultras have not only managed to survive, dominating the curva in stadiums up and down the country, but to prosper. "I've thrown fists, I've got involved in scraps when Roma is playing the enemy," said Mantini, "clubs like Verona, Brescia, AC Milan. But the 17- and 18 year-olds today don't understand." And, according to fans in Rome this week, they also get hard cash from extremist political parties. "The Ultras are paid by the extremist political parties to hang out their banners at the ground," claimed Rosi.
"We in this club never start riots," said Mantini, "because we are there to watch the game. But many of the Ultra groups belong to the far right or left parties - this is a big mistake. I've seen banners at Rome games saying 'The Jews should have been finished off in the ovens'. That's not on. They shouldn't let politics into the game, it's got nothing to do with football."
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"The game's changed a hell of a lot in the 40 years that I've been following Roma," said Angelo Vari, 52, a decorator and a regular in the Garbatella club. "Back then the great thing was meeting the supporters of other teams, we'd have laughs together. Even ten years ago you'd bring kids, women - but not today because there's no knowing what might happen.
"Why have things got worse? Because the system doesn't work," said Vari. "The bastards who are running politics are the worst people in the country, we're gradually slipping down to the level of a Third World country. The kids have no jobs, they're getting hooked on drugs ... It's worse today because there are more police and stewards ... They don't know how to manage things.
"At the grounds there are police everywhere with helmets and batons and guns - if you want to go and take a leak they make you wait, they make everything difficult. And in a crowd it just takes a spark to set things off."
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