the shocking confession of Insigne, the fake news of ADL, the blitz of Ibra and the great injustice Meret

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(by Arturo Minervini) – Zero defenders on the bench. It is the night of precarious balance, dancing like Joker on tiptoe on the edge of madness, risking in many cases the ruinous fall on a world that observes you from below with the gun pointed. The Austrian night takes on the traits of the enterprise, with the most crowded infirmary of a shopping center on Saturday afternoon, with its heart too harbored by too many thoughts that risk turning into fear. Motivations that season this victory with a different flavor, draw a new path, a new courage, a different awareness on the pages of history. Dirty hands and sweat give you a lighter sleep, a different satisfaction. Mattresses and pillows are our consciences.

One the number that virtually carries on the back. Because now in Italy there is no one among the poles is better than Alex Meret, predestined faithful to his destiny, respectful of a talent washed down with sweat and work. A black hole capable of eliminating the space-time concept, closing gaps that seemed to be leveled to the glory of the adversaries up to an instant before. When the big hands get up to order the stop, it's like listening to a sentence. It is Jules Winnfield in Pulp Fiction who pronounces his sentence: Ezekiel 25:17. We asked this group to put their faces together. Meret took delivery to the letter, even with that. FenomenALEX.

Two goals, 6 in total in 3 Champions League matches, already 20 in the season in 13 appearances. Impressive numbers, which, however, give way to an even clearer feeling of being in front of a force of nature. Erling Braut Håland is a child of the new millennium but already seems to have, to put it to Stanley Kubrick, the irresistible call of shining, a glimmer that seems to have something supernatural in it. On the day in which De Laurentiis winks at Ibrahimovic, it seems almost like reviewing Zlatan's technical and physical power in the movements of this Norwegian giant. Freak of nature call them in the States, wonderful jokes of nature.

Three years later. It was from 6 December 2016 that Napoli did not win a trip to the Champions League, when Maurizio was still on the bench (he later became Sarri when he made different choices). Given that he does not lie, he tells, that he sings the contours of a sweet night. Like the union of many thoughts that converge in the same direction. We can pretend to break away from you, but in the end it's you that takes sleep. When you lose, when you make us angry. When you win and you make us dream. United you can do better things. Perhaps the lesson was received after Salzburg.

Four to a tacky carelessness, as showy as a spot of mud on a white dress. The first technical and then mental blackout of Malcuit on the rigor given to the Salzburg it risks to collapse a building that at times already wavered. Yet another demonstration of how every second in football can trace destinies with a completely different outcome. Kevin leaves the Viennese bar without paying the bill, but he must thank only his companions. At certain levels, certain scenes are not acceptable.

Five assists in 11 appearances. The essence, the pure essence of Callejon, in these numbers. A compass that shows the way, the polar star to follow in the nights tormented by doubt. With the head, as in assistance for the inseparable friend Ciro. A red carpet that leaves the others' flashes to photographers, who bear all the obscure work on the rump, the heavy steps to bear, without stealing the show. Every year, in Hollywood, they should take the envelope where the name of the winner is written for the best supporting actor and write in. Jose Callejon. Without even making other nominations. Scottie Pippen of the ball, a support cast able to improve everything around him.

You're at De Laurentiis's hoax. Just Aurelio, who played buffaloes on the market in the summer, gives the great fake news, the great bluff that sends everyone off the road. "Tonight Milik will definitely play " says the patron, perhaps sending a signal to Ancelotti who already has experience in the field having lived for years with Berlusconi's attempts at interference. In the end Carlo made different choices and, given the result, he was right. All happy and content.

Seven points in three races, winning the two most difficult races. Normality does not belong to this team, with the Mad Hatter syndrome of Alice in Wonderland. Seems to scream "I have a disease called fantasy: it almost leads to heresy is considered madness …" this Naples, so fascinating when it brings out that instinct that borders on the instability that soon becomes emotion, shining frame of madness. They don't like simple things in this group, which turns like a werewolf on full moon nights. "I'll tell you a secret: all the best are crazy."

Eight minutes, actually 8 and a half. As a masterpiece by Fellini, Insigne joined in 65 'and at 73 and a few seconds was Marcello Mastroianni, alias Guido Anselmi, who shouted to the world: "But what is this flash of happiness that makes me tremble, restores my strength, my life? How right it is to accept you, to love us. And how simple it is! Carlo, I feel liberated: everything looks good, everything makes sense, everything is true ". There is a new life, a new life in the race that is an act of great repentance, in the almost shocking outing with the admission of guilt. There is a redemption that starts from the bowels, in the steps that sink ravenous on the pitch: first to sign the net that weighs like a boulder, then to go and look for that spiritual guide to which you too often turned your back. Lorenzo and Carlo, Carlo and Lorenzo. The secret of happiness in a rediscovery, within a last desperate appeal that smacks of weakness and strength at the same time: "Accept me as I am, if you can. It's the only way to try to find us ". Ciak, we are shooting a new movie from now on.

Nine to the right words. To such impervious research, to an inexplicable pleasure. How do you tell a story like this? How do your hands not tremble by rewinding the tape with a pencil, like you did with the old cassette tapes? You say Dries, think Ciro. You think Ciro, see Dries. And viceversa. A mixture of emotions, sounds, colors, smiles that suffocate you. Like those emotions that you can't manage, that overcome every control. A Belgian sunset hunter, one who chases the sun when he sets and tries to peek into his second life. A primitive curiosity that allowed him, day after day, to identify with a city, a sweater, a color that he brought with a spontaneous lightness, like a precious gift. The greatest gift is not the 116 nets, but that smile, that urchin's pride. Like Lucio Dalla: "If there were an intramuscular syringe with all the Neapolitan and cost 200 thousand euros I would do it to think and talk like the Neapolitans". Thanks Ciro.

Ten to the wild pile, a lift inside the heart and the beats from 0 to 100 at the speed of a Lamborghini Murcielago. In the crazy night at the Red Bull Arena, the wings sprout at the Napoli that holds the blow, it resists to the bumps, it is dented a little bit but in the end it brings the contest home. On the ringside there is him, the lord of the nights with the jingle that makes the soul vibrate, who has received shots and has given them. The Salzburg has the pissed off face of Ivan Drago in the northern features of Håland, the Naples has the cunning all made in Naples in Rocky Balboa style. A match with no holds barred, where sagacity prevails, the taste of waiting, the cult of calm applied to the ball. Ancelotti of games has won so many, yet in that face that is shaken by Lorenzo's emotional earthquake that runs towards him there is still the thrill of the first time. There is a mad desire to give something to this city. A night that opens dreamy European scenarios. Now we all breathe together, after a wonderful apnea.

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