Dear Daniele De Rossi, I'm sorry

Because its destruction lies in the construction of the myth.

With an open heart before anything happens. I'm sorry, because it's going to happen. You have chosen to follow your dream, you have chosen to embody the myth, to become a symbol. Further according to the legend. You know it well, we (the multitude of fans, ultras and occasional sofa and pub fans) know it even better. The construction of The myth carries with it the possibility of its own destruction. The art historian David Freedberg said this in be The fear of art: How censorship becomes iconoclasm about iconoclasm, not as a form of destruction, but as an inevitability.

Freedberg wrote this text in 2016, exactly ten years after you clinched a World Cup victory after putting a penalty into the top corner. We, the people, the common people, the semi-citizens, Wannabe popular, we are not an icon. We die from the need and desire for it symbol, only to then tear it to pieces. Spit on it. Here, Daniele, captain of a future that is always waiting and that is now materializing with the immanence of a slap in the face, sorry.

excuse us Because the first game you lose, we'll turn our noses up and say you weren't ready. Excuse us because the first game you win we'll say we always knew this was your path.

I'm sorry that we sometimes twist your words in the press conference, interpreting them like the worst Freudians in history and seeing your original guilt in killing or replacing your father (Totti). It is a my mistake infinite, just as historical cycles are infinite. You can win like an unpredictable Brian Clough or lose like a banal Inzaghi (Filippo), the moment will always come when we trample on you. There is no other ending.

So before the storm comes and hits me too, I want to tell you that I didn't want this. I was forced by this whirlwind of emotions that make up our stupid and amazed lives as fans. We get on your T-Max and dig your grave at the same time. We will be fiery and then suddenly cold to icy. We count the changes you make and note every single tactical variant. Because you have chosen incarnation and we cannot help but go crazy when faced with this choice. You are risking your career and your reputation. For what? Faith, love, devotion. Folly. We are citizens of blood and dungat a certain point we will no longer understand the value of sacrifice.

As if that wasn't enough, De Rossi comes after a holy monster (and acquired Roma fan) like Mourinho and after a sacking that didn't go down well with much of the Giallorossi world

You are Tele Tubbies and tattooed slip danger, Villages in Suburra if I had been a series, you are Barcelona's own goal and goal, you are Manchester's 1 in 7, you are the Ceres and the Radios. Some teams you scored against have disappeared or gone far, far from the spotlight, like Chievo, Reggina, Catania and Siena. The goals with number 4 are in front of us fall in love with a number like 16, which only your Irish alter ego Roy Keane has elevated to a special number. I remember when I played for the Primavalle freshmen and they gave me the number 16, I always thought: “Shit, I'm on the bench this time too.”

Then you arrived and I anachronistically reclaimed my numerical youth by saying with childlike pride – exactly – “I played with… De Rossi's 16“.

Nowadays (it's a relative today, of course), where celebrations have become diagrams, GIFs and models of FIFA, the “GOOL” is said silently because of the writing printed on it and then because there are a thousand other things that demand our attention tie up. For this reason – and other reasons – you see many players cheering in silence in the playback. If you don't cover your mouth with your hand, you'll be happy about LIS (Italian Sign Language). You, on the other hand, burst the vein in your neck, you ate the wolf on your chest, you tore your shirt or they tore it (Cassano) because you exploded. Because everything exploded and you were the fuse.

I don't know why I'm so melancholic. Maybe I'm afraid that with your eventual failure, a part of me will die, the one that took courage from youthful exclusion by rereading everything in the light of your strength. Perhaps it would be healthier and more mature to accept the reality of the facts. Accept grief. Daniele has grown up and is now a trainer. I'm not saying, “Maybe it won't happen,” because it will happen. Maybe not now, I certainly hope so for you, but it will still happen. So Daniel, my patron saint, patron saint of the jugular seething with anger, forgive us sinners because we have not believed enough.

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