Milan Restore Balance of World Football.

When I was ten I played for a football team called Pirates, and we were rubbish. Not ordinary Blackburn rubbish, but hammered-ten-nil-every-week crap. Our coach was a Neanderthal called Steve who could’ve easily made a decent living as a Grant Mitchell lookalike. Memories of my first competitive forays on the football pitch are dominated by Steve barking orders on the sidelines beside his long-suffering wife, whose job it was to cut the half-time oranges and stop Steve smashing the shit out of opposition managers. One evening at training, Steve bounded over to where we were assembled with the excitement of a kid who had just found a shiny of his favourite club in a packet of Panini. “We’ve got a new player!” he beamed, leaving a dramatic pause before adding “and he’s Italian! PROPER Italian!” We all looked at each other, suddenly understanding Steve’s exuberance. Italian? Wow!

This was 1990 and Italian football held an almost mythical status among us kids. We knew it was where the greatest players from across the globe (and Ray Wilkins) plied their trade. The mystique was enhanced by the fact that, contrary to today’s plethora, there was little European/UEFA/Cup-Winners cup coverage on TV as English teams were still affected by the ban imposed by UEFA following the Heysel disaster. What we did know was that Arrigo Saatchi’s great Milan side were Kings of Europe, having lifted the continent’s top prize the previous season. For me, Milan represented the best of the best – club football’s Brazil – a super-team packed with the era’s Galacticos.  It’s home-grown heroes, Baresi, Donadoni, Albertini and Costacurta, along with the Dutchman Frank Rijkaard formed the core of the team. But for me, there were three that stood above all. First and foremost was the steely-eyed, elegant and down-right beautiful Paulo Maldini , Milan’s left-back who could’ve been mistaken for a young Italian nobleman  stepped straight out of a Canaletto crowd scene. Next, Marco Van Basten, who exuded a nonchalant, understated arrogance combined with the cold detachment and ruthlessness of Edward Fox’s assassin in The Day of the Jackal. It wouldn't surprise me if Van Basten's pre match ritual was to buy a melon, duab it with a likeness of that weekend's opposition goalkeeper, drive out to the countryside and shoot it to bits with a high-powered sniper rifle. And, of course, there was the wonderfully versatile Ruud Gullit, at home in any position on the pitch (and in the bedroom if Johan Cruyff’s daughter is to be believed), who came to epitomise “sexy football” despite looking a bit like one of the geezers from Aswad.  These players personified the grace, style and swagger that were unattainable to English football. Italian football, encapsulated by Milan, had it all.

Since those glory days, much has been made of the demise of Italian football, as the world’s best gradually started upping sticks to follow the money to the nouveau riche clubs of England and Spain. While some have welcomed the shift of power away from what they see as a league that advocates negative, unexciting football, being a child of the 80s I have always believed that Italy is where the world’s best players and teams belong. Despite being English, I feel like the new money that’s poured into our league has somehow upset football’s cosmic natural balance and our clubs have become like gangsters who rock up to the Estate Agent in the posh part of town and pay for their mansions in used notes.

So it was with great satisfaction and a warm nostalgic buzz that I enjoyed Milan outclass and clinically despatch my behated Arsenal last Wednesday night. Right from the off I felt that I was about to witness something very special. As the game kicked off the San Siro was pulsating with energy. Goodness knows what it was like playing there, but at home the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. The atmosphere in the big Italian stadiums is different gear; no delusional chants about *INSERT NAME HERE* being the greatest team the world has ever seen or infantile ditties about Shaun Wright-Phillip’s mum, just pure, undiluted intimidation. A perfect example was Milan’s call-and-response chant of, er… something in Italian (it doesn’t matter anyway). The call part, presumably shouted by only a handful of supporters, was inaudible on the telly and made the booming response – from about 70,000 mouths – sound completely spontaneous. It was enough to make Russell Crowe piss his tunic. Like the bit in Jaws where some poor sod’s bitten-off loaf pops out of a hole in a boat, it made me jump every time, even though I knew it was coming.

Arsenal were like timid kittens that had been chucked into a pit of black and red striped tigers. It was all a bit too much for the North Londoners. Despite having decent possession they looked about as threatening as a machete made of wafer. Milan on the other hand looked happy to let them have the ball before winning it back – by saying “boo” really loudly – and attacking at will. Kevin-Prince Boateng’s blazing opener set the San Siro on fire – an absolute screamer that was straight out of a kid’s computer game. I half expected to see the ball ignite in blue flame and evaporate the net on impact. Professional unit Phillipe Mexes patrolled the back line like an uncompromising, belligerent bouncer, Robinho looked like he was having the time of his life and even the mercurial Zlatan Ibrahimovic broke the habit of a lifetime and stuck in a performance against an English side, showing us for once EXACTLY what all the fuss is about.  The performance was a glorious reminder of why I grew up loving Milan and Italian football, and after the game I felt like the equilibrium of world football had been restored.

With the likes of Baggio and Maldini stirring our young imaginations it was obvious in hindsight that Giuseppe wasn’t going to live up to our childish expectations. Steve wasn’t lying – he was proper Italian. As in didn’t-speak-a-word –of-English Italian. We first saw him trotting along beside his father, a tall and sophisticated Roman, who was talking to his antithesis Steve (who had, by this time, been reduced to a squealing Japanese schoolgirl) with a look of polite bemusement on his tanned face as the Englishman desperately tried to establish a rapport with a man with whom he would clearly never have anything on common (“my nan was Italian y’know!”). Giuseppe was a lovely kid, but an awful footballer who, not being accustomed to the climate, tended to cry during games when the weather got colder. I guess it was on those frozen Saturday mornings that Italian football started to waver on its plinth, and despite our new import we remained rooted to the bottom of the division for the duration of the season. And the champions of the Tolworth Primary Boys Football League that year? None other than the great A3 Milan.