A twenty-three-year-old youngster, the talk of the town.
Nicolussi Caviglia coming back before he’d even started.
Entrusted with the central role,
In the biggest game of the season so far.
A fulcrum,
Youth as the the edge and dictator of the frontier,
Between attack and defence:
Kids to determine how we’ll play.
Protests against femicide ahead of kick-off,
A solitary red flick of paint on everyone’s cheek,
Genetic disposition not isolated to Northern Italy.
Speeches met with consistent, determined applause.
Footballers as spokesmen –
Please follow the way,
What they say.
Chiesa, well-groomed and up for a scuffle tonight,
Driving, pulling and darting.
Cross pulled-back,
Shot lifts up,
And up,
And up.
Not to deter him,
Just warming up.
We’ll see him swish and sway from the left to the centre;
Like a washing line laden with wet clothes,
Whipping around with brutal efficiency.
Inter are calm and soft going forward.
They gently edge at their opponents:
Neat little attacks and a clean header from Martinez,
Easily held.
They are here and here to play.
Tidy and crisp in their movement and their passing:
Blue and black baubles rearranging themselves on the branches
of a transitioning Christmas tree.
Criss-crossed light’s burning thick and crushing the unseen ahead,
Angles and tinsel almost heaving and constricting;
They’ve brought their own excitement.
Inter’s press, oh no, they’ve pressed.
All the usual talk of a gegen-press that was popular
Nearly ten years ago.
Proven up, embarrassed, made to look juvenile.
It’s undone and Chiesa launches down the left,
It’s his space to plough through and it’s bare.
Vlahovic found in the middle,
Daggers the ball in the bottom corner.
It bounds and nestles low,
Like a hare escaping the clutches of a fox,
It hugs the back wall of its burrow when home,
Nothing will follow that.
Channel carved and furrowed,
From wide on the left,
To the bottom right of the goal.
1-0.
Near-symmetry just moments later:
Juventus overcommit,
Caused by their rapturous glee.
A high-defensive overload scythed and Thuram,
Clean through on the right,
Thundering forwards and finds Martinez.
Slotted perfectly into the lower-left;
A gambler casually pushing his chips into the middle of the table.
So easy, so clean and swift.
This game feels destined to be equal,
A sign of two excellent teams.
Goals from either side would destroy the perfect balance,
Holding the Universe in its flexible grasp.
Neither side letting up,
They continue to push with maniacal courage.
Half-time beckons and both sides let the slashing wind
Of the Ligurian Sea slap and sober them.
Half-press? Yes, half-press, only, lads.
Let’s go in equal and start again.
It could explode in the second half.
Something is building.
A fight, a four-four finish, a contentious call from the referee?
Ferocity remains but the aggression has been tampered.
Horses won’t bolt when they’ve been hobbled.
An Inter attack feels half-hearted, destined for nowhere.
Niggly fouls, lacklustre piledrivers.
Back down the tunnel, dew flicking off squeaking boots,
Covering up evidence of the early excitement.
Good to see Inter have learned a lesson.
A wild, stretching, fluid formation,
Has made way for a 4-3-3 which balances both defence and attack.
Often, they even attack in defence.
The push and the press is not petulant and performative,
They’re showing discipline and restraint.
Juventus not to be outdone, however,
Inspired when they defend:
A fizzing, fuzzing amoeba.
They shift their shape,
A grouping of black-and-white lymphocytes,
Break off from the body and destroy stray Inter bursts,
At the point of infection.
Their shirts, an erratic striping with a yellow fork line,
frosted fringes of mustard over their magpie stripes.
Do not adjust your television set:
The transmission is perfectly clear.
Less keen to attack than before half-time,
Although their resilience will embolden them on the front foot.
Glum faces, ashen and grey, watch on.
The assumption is that they are here for the home team.
Suited up, eyes rolling around at anything that may interest them.
Are they not watching? It’s not been too bad.
No smiles at all.
Normal fans or are their dad’s and uncle’s directors?
Perhaps they know something that we don’t.
The youngster makes way with thirty minutes to go.
Didn’t show himself up but perhaps he’s shown how green he is.
Some oomph and energy needed to fission in the middle of the pitch.
Juventus hoping to transplant a soul into the dying man,
Let’s see how successful this biological alchemy can be.
Maybe a slight change, positively;
Juve’s obstinance deepens.
Spiked in the middle of the pitch,
They funnel Inter down their own throats,
And then sick them up before they can cause any damage.
Keeping it away from danger,
Better out than in.
Cuadrado makes a return,
Hazed by the crowd.
Baying for him to be upturned in a fifty-fifty joust.
Welcome back, piacere.
He matches it,
Sending Kostic flying.
A yellow card fluttered his way by the referee.
Unfair.
The authorities sensing the souring atmosphere,
Bringing everyone to heel.
Justice is a concept the crowd cannot care for.
Kostic retaliates with cynicism.
A kick to the ankle when Cuadrado is in full flow,
Inter’s rebounding attack curtailed.
The Colombian winces,
Howling from the vindictive terraces.
Pallid faces,
Joyful revenge.
Attracting such strong emotions and physicality,
Cuadrado’s spindly frame,
Pivoting on the balls of his left foot,
Like a sublime ballerina in a jewellery box,
Launching the ball into both forward corners of the pitch;
Inter’s main threat,
Juventus acutely aware of his prowess.
Not much made in this second half, still.
A throw from the former-Juve darling,
Flicked on and collected by his ex-teammate.
Two animated managers,
Beautifully cut Italian suits,
Sown ready-to-wear,
Onto their gesticulating bodies.
A wooden-paneled, mirror-drenched crystalised cave of a
Tailor’s shop had them buttressed,
For the rigours of the Derby d’Italia.
Hopping like mad on the touchline.
What can one achieve?
Channeling Satan himself to the field.
Before the fires of hell can open up, though,
It’s over.
Stale, 1-1.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 