On the 30th anniversary of Italia ’90, there’s nothing I would enjoy more than waxing poetic about Diego dividing Italy, Milla and the corner flag skank, even Caio, that Italian futurist fever dream of a mascot (design geeks rejoice). But I’m not going to, sorry.
The truth is in 1990 I was 8 and more interested in Lego than whatever the World Cup was, I wouldn’t get into football—REALLY into it—for a few years. “Write what you know” is the adage. I didn’t experience Italia ’90, so I have to write what I know.
“My work consists of two parts: of one which is here, and of everything I have not written.
And precisely this second part is the important one.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein
Wait what? Admittedly, Wittgenstein was a wild guy, some interesting theories about color that make me wonder how he’d have fared as a referee. But I digress; maybe he was onto something. Maybe memory too, is about the importance of what one hasn’t experienced, what it might conjure.
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Swiping through an Italia ’90 post I’d glossed over a couple times already, I froze on a photo of Toto Schillaci, defender closing in, head emerging from blue waves of an Azzurri shirt, turning on the ball like a working-class Nuryev. Zooming in on the badge I realized it was the old U.S. National Team badge. More importantly for me, the defender was black. I’d always assumed Cobi Jones and Ernie Stewart were the trailblazers .
I grew up in Philadelphia, shadowed by the “War on Drugs”, amid concerns about “welfare queens”, freebasing and teens murdered over Nikes, seemingly a world away from the Stadio San Paolo. In fifth grade I actually found myself a world away, at a lauded Philly private school, whose mind and body philosophy meant sports were mandatory. I found a spot on the middle school C team, the lowest rung of schoolboy football. Yes, we were SO shit (shout out Pat, who scored the squad's lone goal all season). No matter, seventh heaven.
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The bubble burst that summer, inquiring about playing football at a sports camp a full paycheck cheaper than the soccer camp I was hoping for. “He think he white! What niggas YOU know play SOCCER?!” It wasn’t being made fun of, more that these were black kids too and I knew they were wrong, the fault didn’t lie with them. Unfortunately, my peers were far too used to the outside world pre-determining their possibilities.
It is the reason Andy Cole was my first football hero. He is the reason my first football shirt was a ‘94-‘95 United home shirt. I support City now and have no problem saying that. Good football is impartial, think Old Trafford applauding [Big] Ronaldo. Good football is raceless, genderless, without color or creed, only favoring grace, passion, power and cunning. Good football is one of the most breathtaking things I have ever witnessed. So, to see black people, beautifully playing a game I was told wasn’t for me, was powerful. It was a revolution, one that has given me indescribable joy.
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I’ve reached a place in my life where I am engaging with football on my terms. There, I am thinking about its endless intersections with culture; and more simply, how it has made my life richer, given me community and focused my purpose. That wouldn’t have been possible had I let others define, limit or silence me, but I couldn’t. Football transforms into art fluidly and holistically in a way that is unique to the game, maybe all of sports—it strikes a specific cord. But why analyze? We all know that feeling, ambiguous as the time it takes a ball to cross the goal line; a vague premonition that an equalizer lies at the end of this counterattack, as unifying as the crescendo of ecstasy from 5,000 traveling supporters.
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What I am saying is that there is a place in the game for all, but it is up to us to cherish and nurture that space for each other. The only way out is through.