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By Root 355 0

that was fantastic. I still can’t see Virdis without smelling the coffee. Another time, just before a Roma–Juventus match, Brio emerged from the tunnel into the stadium. Yes, the famous Sergio Brio, aka Sergione (Big Sergio), but without a German shepherd’s teeth clamped into his butt cheek this time. Instead, he had Rui Barros right next to him. Brio was six foot three, Rui Barros was five foot four. They were a sight to behold. From the crowd, the voice of a modernist poet floated over the field. “Hey, Brio, ma che te sei portato? What’d you bring with you? Your lighter?” Followed by ninety-two minutes of laughter and applause.

I didn’t get any applause, though, when I got hurt the second time. It was worse than the first time, and now it was my left knee. In December 1983, champions of Italy, we were playing against Juventus in Turin. I jumped to head a long ball, Cabrini was behind me, and he put one hand on my shoulder, knocking me slightly off balance. I landed wrong on my left knee. Clock. What? Clock, again? That’s right, clock. Now my knee was talking to me, and the news wasn’t good. Once again, I couldn’t control the lower half of my leg, just like the first time. It was a bad feeling—all over again. Another operation, with surgery by Professor Perugia; more physical therapy, with Silio Musa. After six months, I still couldn’t extend my leg. Professor Perugia had found some adhesions: “I’m sorry about this, but we’re going to have to do another minor procedure. It’s called a ‘manipulation under anaesthesia.’ ” I didn’t like the sound of that; I got a shiver down my spine. “Maybe you should perform a manipulation under anesthesia on your sister, Professor.” Just to make sure that I felt as bad as possible, they gave me an appointment for a clinical visit the day after the final game of the Champions Cup, which we lost in Rome against Liverpool. What that meant, in practical terms, was that they saved the cost of the anesthesia, even though I’d only watched the match from the stands. I hobbled into Villa Bianca, and they all acted happy to see me: “Back again, Carletto? What a pleasure to have you here.” They were sincerely happy, too, but I told them all to go to hell just the same. They put my leg in a cast, fully extended, the foot twisted to one side. It hurt like crazy. In the end, though, I got better.

Around the same time, another player for Roma, Paolo Giovannelli, was injured. He was a friend. Unlike me, he had torn his posterior cruciate ligament. The same thing happened to him: after six months, he still wasn’t better, he still hadn’t regained complete freedom of movement in that leg. So he heard the doctor utter a phrase I knew all too well: “We’re going to have to do a manipulation under anaesthesia.” At that point, the ears of Professor Perugia’s sister must have started ringing, just as I was beginning to ask myself some questions: “So, if I had to be put in a cast with my leg extended in order to recover complete freedom of extension, what are they going to do to him so he can recover the ability to bend his leg?” Well, it was surprisingly simple. They trussed it up. They put him to sleep, manipulated the leg, wrapped it, and tied it. It looked like a giant salami. I took one look at it and heard my stomach rumble with hunger. My immediate impulse was to eat it, but my sense of friendship held me back. He was howling like a wild animal, so I just made fun of him: “Oh, you’re just a giant baby, there’s no such thing as pain.”

I wasn’t kidding, pain really doesn’t exist. It’s only a theory I have, but it seems to work. Knees are just enemies we have to fight; the war started years ago and continues today. I want to run, my head tells me I have to go, I go, my knee swells up, but I ignore it. It’s the knee that’s suffering, not me or my mind. It bothers the knee for me to run, there are no menisci anymore, so running is a lot harder on it, but I refuse to give up. My knees have made me suffer a lot over the years, now it’s my turn. So I punish them, often running through the woods, uphill and down.