Letter from Naples: Magnificent mayhem as Napoli finally clinch Serie A title
CAMPIONES:Fans of Napoli celebrate at Stadio Diego Armando Maradona
This week in Naples was mayhem. Every week in Naples is mayhem. This was magnificent mayhem. The big house is on fire. 33 years of longing went up in flames on Thursday night.
Napoli last lifted Serie A in 1990. Such hunger is a gateway to madness. At times like this the city does not welcome you. It overwhelms you. Smothering and swarming. Clothes will reek of flare smoke for weeks and good luck getting your ears to stop ringing. From the moment the wheels touch the runway, every conversation, every sign on every street corner and laneway, every excitable sound orientates around one thing: a third Scudetto.
In the cobble streets and alleys of Quarter Spagnoli, endless bunting stretches across the sky. Over at Pallonetto by the seafront blue lights illuminate historic citadels. In Fuorigrotta near the stadium, flags form a blue and white guard of honour. It is omnipresent and constant. The fuse has been gathering momentum and was ready to detonate.
It could have been Sunday at the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona. They failed to beat Salernitana and the wait went on. The collective now utterly famished. And it showed.
On 10 May 1987 Italian anthropologist Amalia Signorelli went for a walk on a sunny day. Then a Maradona-inspired Napoli needed a draw against Fiorentina to win their first title. “The world has changed,” she wrote, “the noisiest, most crowded and most chaotic city in Europe was deserted.”
It felt like that Wednesday. The second opportunity to kickstart celebrations. If their closest rivals Lazio did not win, Napoli were champions. They crowded around outdoor televisions and assembled on corners. Hushed in their homes.
Smouldered as Sassuolo coughed up a sloppy goal early on and swore when Lazio doubled their lead in the final minutes. Toma Bašić’s first career goal sent natives streaming back into the street and Naples got going once again.
In his press conference this week, the man who masterminded this triumph made a passing observation. Manager Luciano Spalletti is from Certaldo, near Florence, in the north. Since Roma in 2001, no club south of the country’s traditional football capitals, Milan and Turin, has won the league.
Naples right now. pic.twitter.com/VwTgYPE8Jy
— Maurice Brosnan (@m_brosnan) May 4, 2023
“The Neapolitans know well that Naples is beautiful, but just how beautiful it really is can be said better by those like me who are guests of it,” said Spalletti. “Those who have always had it in front of their eyes cannot be struck by what appears in front of them.”
Far be it for me to disagree with the local hero, but it is hard to believe anyone could underestimate this place. It is continuously shifting and demanding and proudly alive. How do you comprehend a marvel?
A moped nearly crashes with bus-like routine. Buses rush around as if they are mopeds. Sure, slowly a rhythm does emerge from the haze. Those relentless shrill beeps do have a purpose.
They are a warning to anyone or anything that is lurking around an adjacent corner. ‘We are coming,’ they squall. It is nowhere near sufficient. Every turn has the exuberant capability to surprise. Surely not even a lifetime is enough experience to take it for granted.
Neapolitans memorialise their particularity because for so long no one else did.
“Even the dogs run too, the Neopolitans are coming.
“Sick with cholera. Victims of the earthquake.
“You never wash with soap. You are the shame of Italy.
“Neopolitan, work hard because for Maradona you’ll have to sell your ass too!”
The Juventus chant is from in the late 1980s, brilliantly evoked by the 2019 Diego Maradona personal archive documentary. The Argentinean came from Barcelona after back-to-back disappointing seasons. In disarming voiceovers, he retrospectively explained in that film that there were no other options. The unwanted city and an unwanted hero. A match.
“I felt as though I represented a part of Italy which counted for nothing,” he explained as that Juventus chant blared, still scarcely able to disguise his disgust. Some scars never heal. On Friday, Naples was not just celebrating their success.
They toasted Juventus’ failure. 17 points adrift and mired in an ongoing financial scandal, mock coffins bore The Old Lady team photo on the lid. Inside was a picture of Massimiliano Allegri surrounded by black and white stuffed bags. Buckets on ropes drop from balconies to hoist up banners reinforcing the message: “Juventus Merda.”
Thursday was a trip to Udinese. At the third time of asking, a single point would do. Napoli have always done good business with Udinese. Goalkeeper Alex Meret is one of several successful transfers.
Exciting Irish prospect Festy Ebosele comes on for the home side. He went from Bray Wanderers to the Derby academy to Italy. His father is a fabricator in Enniscorthy. When he joined the Bianconeri outfit, Festus senior brought his son around the factory floor. Imagine his joy as his son lined out against the victors in waiting.
That’s sport. The ever-ready flagpole upon which we long to hoist our colours and watch them soar high. Fans feed on it to sustain and embolden their pride and Naples is a particularly gluttonous example. “Anti-Italian football,” is how Frankfurt coach Oliver Gasner described them in the Champions League. He meant how they play, front foot and aggressive counter pressing yet still in an orchestrated manner. That is what and who they are.
This club has a soft spot for charismatic foreigners. Not just Maradona. From Attila Sallustro to Luis Vincio to Jose Altafini to today’s version, Georgian sensation Khvicha Kvaratskhelia. Heroes for how they make them feel.
Pay tribute. Before kick-off, the Maradona mural is thronged. They sing, a hymn rather than a chant. It is almost peaceful. The calm before the... SANDI!
Goal, Sandi Luvric. Udinese 1, Napoli 0.
A sell-out at the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona slump back. Of course, it sold out. The minute they announced there would be a watch party in the ground with 11 different screens and all proceeds going to charity everyone expected it to sell out. 70,000 turned up for the Serie B relegation decider in 2004 and the same number were there a year later for the Serie C playoff.
Champions. pic.twitter.com/36wWenc9vW
— Maurice Brosnan (@m_brosnan) May 4, 2023
Udinese’s early goal sucks the oxygen from the rising stands. That wasn’t in the script. Every flare, every single one, seems to quench. A few moments later there are some half-hearted cries for a penalty. A son to our left turns to his father for reassurance. The gaze back issues a wounded plea; soon. Hopefully.
How much longer can this go on? Napoli, please.
At half-time they regather. This side have gone through hell several times throughout their history and they keep going. Beep the horn, let them know we are coming. Revive the flares. Bring the noise and boom.
Nigerian talisman Victor Osimhen saw the ball ping ponging around the box after a corner and had enough. Evenly, ever so evenly, he slotted in and Naples exploded. That was Osimhen’s 26th goal of the season, by far the sweetest.
His face is the front page of Tuttosport in the morning. The caption is simple: “Hai vista, Maradona?” At the mural, his face is painted on wall adorned with a superhero mask. Written underneath is ‘make love.’ The stadium ascends to euphoria.
The final whistle goes and now the son is comforting his overcome dad. Suddenly we are surrounded by smart phones, but this is different. Few are trying to record this moment. It is about sharing it. Faces fill the screens as they surrender to the urge to mark this moment with somebody somewhere.
Club president Aurelio De Laurentiis takes the mic and extends his arms to those above him. “Grazie. Grazie. Grazie. Grazie.” Time now to give thanks and embrace. And to party.
Outside is bedlam. “Wash them, wash them. Wash them with fire. Oh Vesuvio,” jeered rival fans in that documentary. A wish granted. The night sky turns red and no tightly wrapped scarf or joisted up jumper is enough resistance to this level of smoke.
How does a city that already never sleeps rejoice? Take whatever it is that makes it special and double the dose. More. Always more. Dance for hours, days, weeks, months. Bikes boot around moronically, overcome with a completely understandable impulse to keep moving.
Walk along and make your way across Mappatella beach and towards the city centre. A scooter with enough people to field a five aside team flies past. A man climbs up on a chip van and watches on. He belongs on that chip van. Was that a boat doing laps of a roundabout? Fireworks rain up, down and sideways. Keep walking. Every scene is different. Every scene is the same.
In the morning we find a Fiat outside our accommodation. It is near totalled, missing a large portion of its bumper and driver door. A black bag is draped over the side with messy masking tape strung across the bonnet and windshield. Both airbags are ejected. The car is parked faultlessly, square to the footpath and inside all four white lines. Their chaos always has order.
The carousal keeps going all night long. Staying at a such an inexorable level that it becomes a simple challenge to articulate it. How can anyone?
Back in 1987 after they won their first crown, locals flocked to a Neapolitan cemetery. Today those with loved ones beyond the reach of Facetime will opt for the same visit. When they arrived then they were surprised to find graffiti daubed on the walls.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” it read.
Perfect.
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