On May 16, 2004, Il Codino played the last match of his career. It had debuted twenty years earlier, in the province. It was a closing circle
We all saw it for the last time: the 28,472 paying spectators at San Siro, plus those who watched it on TV, and those who went to watch it later, on a delayed basis, so they could cry a little. Sunday 16 May 2004, minute 84 of Milan-Brescia. Gianni De Biasi signals to the fourth official, Nicola Rizzoli. Cafu puts the ball out, Rizzoli raises the slate, the referee blows the whistle, and Robybaggio understands immediately. He removes the band from his arm, the one with Buddhist symbols, the blue of compassion and the spirit of peace, the yellow of the right middle path and the pink of spiritual practice and meditation. He heads quickly towards the exit. Paolo Maldini runs towards him to hold him in his arms and keep him on the pitch a little longer: they had entered together, one next to the other, with pennants in hand, they had shaken hands in front of the referee Giannoccaro di Lecce, and Roby had chosen heads, instead he had come out with tails, and Maldini had signaled that Milan in the first half would defend themselves under the curve, entirely covered by the choreography for the seventeenth scudetto. More of a celebration than a match, with Ancelotti’s team having already won the championship two weeks ago and Brescia having largely survived. And then there was that ritual that the twenty-eight-odd thousand of San Siro had been waiting for since Robybaggio had stepped out onto the grass for the last time, wearing the shirt of a provincial team like when he started, his curly pigtail streaked with grey, his eyes narrowed in a sort of smile. He had looked up towards the stands, looking for his world. There were his children: Valentina, born immediately after Italia ’90, and Mattia, who came into the world four years later, in the year of the American World Cup. Andreina, his wife, whom he met at 15, when he was leaving for his first training camp with Vicenza. He spent his whole life closing that door. He had breathed, swallowed a little air so as not to feel that lump of emotion. Then the referee blew the whistle, and Robybaggio didn’t think about it anymore. Or at least not all the time. He trotted in the middle of the field, it was too hot to run, he knew how to illuminate the game even when he was standing still, a flash was enough, the people were there to party. Trotting they had reached the thirty-ninth minute of the second half, and De Biasi had signaled to the fourth official.