Faded, Chaotic and Beautiful:
Seeing a Game at Pisa SC in Serie B

Paul Gerald · Profile
Faded, Chaotic and Beautiful: <BR>Seeing a Game at Pisa SC in Serie B

I have this image of tourists who paid their 25 Euros to go up the Leaning Tower of Pisa and then, at the top, looked over and saw what looked like some kind of crowd in a stadium, with some flags waving and lots of color, and wondering to themselves, “Huh, I wonder what’s going on over there?”

The general answer is that they got a glimpse of the actual Pisa, in which actual people live.

It’s a city of just over 90,000 people, an old seaport with a pre-Roman history and a 12th-Century university, which is now a center of light industry and a railroad town. And yes, from the 12th to the 14th Centuries, they built a bell tower on soft ground; it now leans about four degrees, which they could probably fix but then, most likely, no tourists would come to town, and then Pisa would just be an ordinary riverside, light-industry railroad town with some old buildings and a school. And so it leans, not as much as you might think, nor is it as tall as you might think, and for me it belongs on the Mount Rushmore of Mount Rushmore-like places: You get there, look at it, and say to yourself, “Yep, that’s a leaning tower.” And then you move on – probably to Florence or Cinque Terre, if you’re a regular tourist.

I am not a regular tourist, nor am I here to encourage you to be one. I was over in the stadium with the flag-wavers.

The more specific answer to what you could see that day from the top of the tower was a 115-year-old football club leading the second division in Italy, trying to get back to the top tier for the first time in 30 years. A lot more interesting than an old tower that won’t stand up straight.

Approaching the stadium.

A Serie B Game at Pisa SC

As a perfect distillation of the charms of central Italy, a game at Pisa Sporting Club couldn’t be beat. Like so much of Italy, it is historic, colorful, passionate, chaotic, crude at times, seemingly on the verge of falling apart, and utterly fantastic.

It’s a short walk from the tower and cathedral, through a gate in an old city wall and along a commercial street where you can find the tiny club shop attached to a service station. Somehow, a pin badge with the club crest – normally about 3 pounds or Euros – here costs seven, so between that and getting the equivalent of $9 a gallon for gas, it must be a decent business over there.

The club shop.

I walked past bars and restaurants and social clubs and bakeries and apartment buildings and people sitting on steps drinking beers, and then I stopped in for pizza, because of course I did. Even crappy pizza in Italy is good. I ate it on the sidewalk while watching scooters and bicycles whizz by, and cars nearly kill people, and men greet each other in that “Oh, here he is!” way that men greet each other all over the world.

Pregaming.

And then I walked through faded arches reading “Arena Garibaldi” and over past the stand with all the scarves and shirts, and the burger truck, and then I glanced at my ticket to see which entrance I needed, and it said … nothing. No entrance listed.

Yeah, but where then?

Seemed sales were a little slow.

I guessed that in Italy’s Serie B, it is assumed that you know where you’re going, or – as I would soon find out – it doesn’t matter one bit where you think you’re going. They let me in, which is always reassuring, and then I walked across the empty, fenced-off parking lot in which young men were plowing down the remains of prosciutto sandwiches, to the one modern structure I would see all day: the turnstile, looking like a pod from a spaceship that landed in a construction zone.

At least this was modern.

I scanned in and started looking for sections – because, being old-fashioned and a rule follower, I thought I would sit in the actual seat for which I had paid. I searched the 100-year-old concrete walls for signs, but I saw only holes, chipped paint, and the occasional graffiti. I looked for somebody to ask but saw only shirtless men, packs of teenagers, retirees shuffling along and clusters of middle-aged randos, smoking cigarettes and, I would assume, discussing the meaning of life or the state of the current team, as if there’s a difference.

I’m sure it was glamorous when they built it!

Walking into Arena Garibaldi itself is quite literally like going back to the 1970s, when professional sports possessed an edge of … not quite filth, but certainly no great effort at tidiness or gentrification. The lower rows are all standing, above that is plastic seats bolted to concrete, and a big glass barrier separated us from the pitch. Off to my left most of the stadium’s end was closed and had a kind of condemned look to it, and much of the available spaces – the panels above the entrances, the fence along the top of the stand, the barriers between us and the ultras – was covered in signs. There didn’t appear to be a scoreboard. It was a sunny September day, and much flesh was on display from males of all ages.

The food was exactly what you might think.

Teams in front of the possibly civilized side.

We’re not in Yorkshire anymore.

I randomly selected a seat up in the corner, with a good view of the traveling lot from Brescia. They sat fourth in the table, Pisa first, and I didn’t think it was a rivalry until the Brescia fans began to sing something that immediately set the Pisa people into a full rage. At least, it seemed “full rage” to me, like it was spurred by some ancient hatred fueled by a 14th-Century battle or a recent midfielder switching teams – but it could have been the Italian version of “Oh, shut the hell up.” Whatever: It would not be the last time I would wonder about this.

Today’s guests: Note the tower in the background.

The game was intense, hard-fought, and lightning-fast. Maybe it was the sun, and the stakes, but it seemed smoother and more stylish than what you would see in, say, the Championship back in England. And then Pisa scored, and madness ensued. There was jumping, shouting, hugging, and the usual rush to taunt the visiting fans. But in this, there was something I had not seen: people making a motion which, at first, looked like the one players do to encourage fans to yell louder, ie throwing both arms in the air. But I soon realized the motion started with the arms raised, then dropped to the crotch – a way of saying … well, basically, “Suck on this, losers.” Brescia fans responded with a chant of “Pisa Vaffanculo,” or “Fuck off Pisa.” So I guess it is a lot like England.

An Italian greeting for today’s visitors.

For the second half, I decided to try the standing section. The usual cast was there: the teenagers mostly watching each other, the old farts working on their “concerned” faces, the thinkers with their arms folded, a loud American behind me trying to hard to sound knowledgeable, a number of pacers who looked like they might not be able to stand the emotionality of it all, and one guy who I came to think of as the alpha walrus. He was a big dude, barrel-chested, with sandals and tiny cutoff jeans, tan everywhere, and not even in possession of a shirt. He would sing along with the ultras behind the goal, especially the parts that were just “oh” sounds, and occasionally would turn on the rest of us because we weren’t making enough noise. The alpha walrus’s job is to maintain the group’s barking level so the orcas don’t get us.

It’s nothing if not colorful.

Down in the standing section.

Brescia got one back, their fans went crazy and set off a blue flare or two – which they would have thrown onto the pitch, I’m sure, had the stand not been about 100 yards away from it. The Pisa fans got nervous and quiet, focusing their energies between the referees (always terrible), their players (currently terrible) and the away fans (beyond terrible). I think one or two of the pacers left.

Brescia threatened a few more times, but the tide turned and Pisa took over. It seemed a matter of time before they scored, and when they did – a laser through a crowd – there was again more hugging and running to the fence to make the “suck on this” gesture. And I should stress: Kids were doing this!

Pisa held on for a 2-1 win, and as I write this, they still sit atop Serie B. And I am here to tell you that if they make it up to Serie A – hell, even if they don’t – you should see a game at Pisa. It’s gritty, it’s emotional, it’s profane, it’s chippy, it’s 1974. And I loved every minute of it.

People often tell us they want to sit with the “real” fans, not with the other tourists. There appears to be nothing but real fans at Arena Garibaldi. Well, other than me, I guess. But at least I wasn’t up in the tower, wondering what was going on over there in the stadium.

 

Written By Paul Gerald
Paul Gerald, Owner and Founder of Groundhopper Soccer Guides · Profile
Paul started Groundhopper Soccer Guides as EnglishSoccerGuide.com in 2014. He has been to more than 250 games around the UK and Europe, and he currently lives in Madrid.

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