Imagine having a future is the drunkenness of the poor. An honest way of believing what you are not. The history of the Romanist is an anthology of drunken lyrics. Almost never authorized. Indeed, they were delusions more than anything else. It was enough. Perceiving competitive with Juventus Milan and Inter only because after two days you were up there on equal terms with them, but then find themselves in a hurry to chew hard bread in the same canteen with Oronzo Pugliese and Francesco Scaratti. Absolute modesty coupled with mythological names, almost always Latin-American, a hybrid that broke every time between iron feet and sweet lives.
Then came episodic geniuses, someone in pairs, Dino Viola and Liedholm . A wonderful, very romantic sample of ringworm arrived, Franco Sensi . Rome found itself great, without anyone promising that it would become. The fans got drunk this time of things and spells that happened under their crumpled eyes, but without daring to imagine that all this would have a future. Then the other episodic genius materialized, Francesco Totti and the Romanist fans, you will have understood as few dreamers, made it a divinity, imagining that he would have been eternal. Then the Americans arrived. Nine years ago. And with them began the era of the "future". With them, Rome is always that of tomorrow. All inexorably declined to what will be, the greatness that will come, the titles that will win, the top players who will remain for life. For the past nine years, Romani fans have been floating schizophrenic between Rome and Rome. They have become really "poor" since systematically condemned to imagine a future, while under their eyes the reality, the present, they say more, that the titles are not won, that Juve remains the other planet, and that the best, all, sooner or later, they often go to reinforce the presumed rivals.
Nine years of unfulfilled promises have turned the Giallorossi supporter, the one in the world that more often applies the prayer to the typhus, the dreamer by vocation, in the most disenchanted secular of unanswered prayers. Today's Roman fan is no longer hoping for the future, he fears it. He knows that it is forbidden to fall in love, the greatest disqualification for someone like him.
He sees the birth of exciting stories like that of Zaniolo but he knows he can not enjoy it. He stopped hoping. Despair. You do not ask if it will be the new Totti. It asks: when will they sell it? The Romanist fan lives in the absence, in the premonition mourning. It is already in the past, no longer able to drink the fable of the future.
The militants lined up body and soul with this leadership beat badly the ghirba of those who protest or complain: "But like, beggars who do not you are more, the Americans have given continuity at the summit of Rome … " Not having that minimum of fabric to understand that the fan inhibited to the possibility of loving (literally, the romance trigger that fills lives otherwise meaningless) is already this the absolute defeat, before any other second or third stretch out stretched in leagues never so bad.