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Azzurri: National treasures
In our lifetime we have been through highs and lows with the Italian national team. Giancarlo Rinaldi has been our man in the Italy camp for over a decade and has felt the joy and the pain



When I first started writing in earnest about the Azzurri it was nearly a decade since their last major trophy. Although it was fresh enough in my memory, it seemed everyone else had forgotten. Or if they remembered, it was only to tell me that Brazil had actually been the best team at Spain '82. I had seen, however, what Italy could do. They had defied all the odds and emerged from a true Group of Death with Argentina and Brazil to win that tournament. I had faith that they would do it again and I was not slow in telling anybody who would listen. Writing for Calcio Italia gave me an opportunity to inflict that view on many more people. Every time a significant competition came along, I offered the opinion that Italy had to be considered among the contenders. Over the years, however, I started to believe that putting such views in print might also be delivering the kiss of death to their chances. Consider the series of events. At USA '94, Arrigo Sacchi's Italy lose out on penalties in the Final. Two years later, his tinkering and a Gianfranco Zola spot-kick failure see them out of the European Championship. At the French World Cup it is a penalty defeat once more - this time to the eventual champions. Was I starting to get the message? Apparently not, but even if I was I chose to ignore it. So the Golden Goal put paid to Italy at Euro 2000 and one of the most truly awful referees in the world - the self-styled 'Justiciero' Byron Moreno - helped bundle us out to the host nation in South Korea. Then at Euro 2004 I watched the most widely-forecast 2-2 draw in football history between Denmark and Sweden make Antonio Cassano cry. I considered begging the Editor not to make me write about the national team any more. It was getting to the stage where following the Azzurri seemed the most masochistic of pastimes. The ratio of pain to pleasure was similar to that of grey hairs to black on Fabrizio Ravanelli's head. Then, last summer, it all became worthwhile. That strange mix of resilience, good fortune and great play from 1982 returned. Slowly but surely the World Cup in Germany opened up for Italy and they grew in stature with every passing game. Their defeat of the hosts was epic proof of what I had been rattling a keyboard about for nearly a decade and a half. The Final itself exorcised a lot of demons. Not again, I thought, as the clash with France went to penalties and yet, somewhere, I think I felt confident. There was something in the eyes of the Italian players that told me they would not fail me this time. When David Trezeguet stepped up to take his kick I was entirely convinced that the footballing Gods would make him miss. He hurt us at Euro 2000, it was his turn to feel that pain. In that Final shoot-out a million memories flooded back. Roberto Baggio threading a needle to strike against Nigeria, Francesco Toldo parrying countless penalties to defy the Dutch in their own backyard and Gianfranco Zola hitting the net to silence Wembley. Suddenly, all the past disappointments vanished and were replaced by the magical moments that only the Azzurri could provide. What a pleasure and an honour to have been allowed to attempt to chronicle them all.

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