Snak

Enig !

Man skal vel heller ikke undervurdere man har fået en træner der kan underholde, og en der samtidig kender italiensk fodbold som sin egen bukselomme, og det fik Inters novice at føle igår.

Hvis det arter sig som det plejer, så står den nok på nederlag til Bologna i næste kamp.

Moratti er godt nok en idiot:

This is a very young team, with a lot of new players and they´re still finding their feet. Obviously there are high hopes for this group of players, but these things can happen.

Inters yngste mand var Ranocchia på 24 år, hvilket i øvrigt var Romas gennemsnitsalder. Romas bænk var også markant yngre.

Bliver spændende at følge holdet. Grækeren og Florenzi imponerer helt vildt i går og Castan ligner en mur.

At Piris havde det svært skal man ikke lægge så meget i. Alle Inters offensive våben er vant til at trække mod venstre, hvilket skaber et naturligt overload i hans side.

... Der er En ting at sige om den kamp i går:

Da jeg for nylig blev 34 år blev jeg træt og deprimeret... Men så så jeg 35-årige Totti mod Inter.

Nu har det meget bedre. tak, Totti! :-P

Anyways: Rigtig gode præstationer i går bortset fra slutningen af 1. halveg. Og Piris...
Så godt synes jeg faktisk ikke vi spillede sidste år.. overhovedet. Vi kan selvfølgelig falde i niveau igen. Men uha, det var svært ikke at være glad efter i går.

PS: Er dog godt nok ved at være træt af Æslets fuldstændig stupide opførsel, der igen koster manden to gule kort. Jeg håber satme, at Zeman følger dræberblikket mod Osvaldo efter udvisningen op med en kammeratlig samtale!

Tillykke med sejren i går. Fuldt fortjent og smukt. Selv som Napolifan kan jeg ikke undgå at knuselske Totti.

Smiler stadig. Det skal nok forsvinde igen, når man kender Roma. Men det bliver en fed sæson, håber jeg.

Florenzi bryder lønbudgettet med €30.000

...om året.

Fyr ham !

Haha, det laver Frank Totti på 2 dage. Well, han er ved at få en kontrakt.

http://football-italia.n…t-roma-deal

Romersk syge som vi kan lide det ! Haha, ret velskrevet.

I don´t care about you. I really don´t.

I don´t care about your rationality, your logic, your objective eye. I don´t care about your patience, your pragmatism, your emotional equilibrium. I don´t care what the calendar says. I don´t care what the table says. I don´t care what he says. Hell, I don´t even care what she says. I don´t care about any of it. Not today, not tomorrow, not this year. I don´t, and I won´t.

This year will be full of hyperbole. It will be full of unapologetic knee-jerk reactions. It will be full of glasses tinted part yellow, part red, never taken off. It will be full of emotional swings, of mindless opinions with no hurried backpedaling days later, and of things one doesn´t want stored deep within the catacombs of the internet stored deep within the catacombs of the internet. There may be tears, and there will certainly be yelling, but there will be no apologies, because he offers none. Neither will we.

This year belongs to a man whose working philosophy centers upon placing one hand on the heart and one hand on the balls, with nothing left to cradle the mind. That´s fine. Then we will too.

What we´re witnessing is not football; it´s the ultimate concretisation of one man´s reflection in a cracked mirror which has formed his life´s work, forged his identity. It is the embodiment, the totality, of his gifts to a sport, but it is not Zemanlandia, no. Zemanlandia is not some place, some abstraction, some state of being. It is a torch - a nigh magical torch. A torch which spawned of a tuft of smoke lit from the end of a ashed cigarette years long ago and has, with patience, maniacal scheming and loads of not giving a damn what anybody else thinks, bellowed into a roaring flame, part yellow, part red, all Roman. All who bear this torch then assume it as their identity. He is not Zemanlandia; they are Zemanlandia. All it serves to do is maximize the attributes, the characteristics within and exploit them for the sake of the masses.

And they´re just messing around better than anyone else right now, because what we witnessed was not some endpoint; it was the beginning stages of twenty-plus men, many of them boys, eyes gazing toward the heavens, palms pushing high, dancing en pointe, leaping with all their might in an attempt to find their ceiling. This, this match against Inter at the San Siro, was one of those leaps in their quest to touch, to feel, to grasp that ceiling.

And they haven´t. Not yet. That paean of magnificence they called football was not their ceiling. The search has only just begun.

It is now the third of September. Start watching the table, because in ninety minutes, they offered a city the chance to dream a dream no one dared in the morning: they just might win this thing.

And I really don´t give a damn what you think, because neither does he, and neither do they.