Vialli, champion in his own way. The editorial of the director Stefano Barigelli

There is no way to accept a loss, even when it is announced. Who hasn’t rooted for Gianluca Vialli in recent years? We all embraced it on the night of Wembley, a second after a group of blue boys underdogs and booed for over one hundred and twenty minutes had incinerated the English presumption. It seemed he had come to terms with the disease, as he had come to terms with a European Championship that we shouldn’t have won and instead we had won. But it wasn’t like that, even if he fought, with all the strength he had left, a terrible tumor to snatch it until the last possible minute.

Vialli has never resigned to life, at least not to what life offered him. He could choose a middle-class, tranquil existence, in the ease of a well-to-do provincial family. Instead he chose football, his passion. He chose not to live the dreams of others. Talented disheveled in Cremona, pampered genius at Sampdoria, champion at the service of the common cause at Juve. He was a modern striker, capable of transforming himself into an ever-changing player during his career, because what he was most horrified by was the convention. Intelligent to the point of being loved more by their presidents than by the coaches: Luzzara in Cremona, then Mantovani in Genoa, finally Boniperti in Turin. All conquered by his attitude, by his shrewdness, all convinced that they are not dealing with the usual player with only the contract and the guarantee of a starting position in mind.

For twenty years he has crossed the world of football in his own way, without ever getting bored and without ever getting bored. A glittering twenty years, populated by foreign phenomena in which it was not easy to make your way, let alone win. Today it can happen to half a player to win a Scudetto, in the 80s and 90s it was much more difficult. He put his stamp on Sampdoria’s first and only Italian flag and on Juve’s last Champions League. Non-negligible results, to which he contributed decisively. He has never lived on an income, dangling as many champions do between a television triviality, a dance in the disco and an appearance at the stadium. Ahead of his time he chose London as the land of choice, realizing before many that the Premier League would be the promised land. In England he fell in love, there he had two daughters, there he chose to take care of himself, there he ended his days. He has remained true to himself and to his founding principles: not caring about clichés, keeping friends close. Mancini first of all.

The history of our football was made more duels than friendships. A world too rich not to be governed by hypocrisy rather than sincerity. Perhaps even this awareness of being out of the ordinary has ended up keeping them together all this time, despite the different characters, the different choices, the lives that have gradually become different. Gianluca at Wembley was happy for Roberto and Roberto was happy for Gianluca. They won that European Championship together, because Vialli was much more than an accompanying manager. Always without taking the scene, because that was up to Mancini. The best way to keep a friend is to be one for him.

In recent years, the years of his illness, he has been more loved than when he was on the field. The same happened to Mihajlovic. When a champion dies with an important piece of life still ahead, there is always a collective sense of bewilderment, which hurts more than pain. We would like them to stay young forever. And we with them.