Praising the Working Class

Parterre is the cheapest area of the stadium. This already makes a difference. Difference because there are people who has money to spend on football. But not that much. Parterre is ugly faces, not bad faces. It is lower instincts with a spark of lucidity. It’s no VIP, no crystal glasses and no facade of respectability. The seats are dirty with dust mixed with dirt, I’ve always wondered where this weird layer comes from. Every once in a while I find some feline footprints on the green of the plastic. Thank God I never found some brown. That, I see divided into small cylinders close to the glass that separates us from the field. A crop of shit that stays in the same places for a whole season.

Again, every now and then I check the progress of the molds until it all becomes one with the cement; if you think about it the thing can become comforting: time wins on the necessity of cleanliness. It is a biodegradable slovenliness. The Parterre has no literate characters but illiterate,  the stomach of the support which is not that heart that, for definition, is situated in the places behind the goal. The stomach. Often big, overflowing and never fancy. Parterre is the cheapest part of the stadium, we said that. But it’s worth repeating it. This because I really want to know how much poverty is actually respectable.

Then, we tell each other that health is more than enough, in the end… but is it? To sit here we weren’t deprived of our food, thank God. A kind of needy suburb in which you can feel, for a couple hours, part of that everything. Breath of the city, owners of colors. And to feel, without any rhetorics, less lonely. The Parterre is a life example, not the only one. It is modern; or better, it is contemporary. Damned contemporary. We hope with no big outbursts.


Francesco Costantino Ciampa