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  1. #1
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    May 2000
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    Default SOMEHOW - THIS MAKES THE OVERPAID JESTERS TAKING A KNEE LOOK LIKE PUSSIES



    Gabe Suarez

    Turning Lambs into Lions Since 1995

    Suarez International USA Headquarters

  2. #2
    Join Date
    Aug 2014
    Posts
    2,018
    At 2:19 or so:

    "A bit more violent than what we see in normal football..."

    Just slightly.
    Warrior for the working day.

    Es una cosa muy seria. --Robert Capa

    "...I ride the range in a Ford V8...Yippy Yi Yo Ki Yay." --Johnny Mercer

    "Can I move?...I'm better when I move."

    2, 2, 9. And a wakeup.

  3. #3
    Join Date
    Mar 2009
    Posts
    781
    Now THAT makes me proud of my heritage.

  4. #4
    Join Date
    Sep 2009
    Posts
    7,736
    I would do it......

  5. #5
    At 4:42 in the first video:

    "The final victory is not important. It's the pride of being Florentine, and the pride of being in a free and true republic."

    I am in awe of these people.
    James 1:5 - "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."

  6. #6
    Join Date
    Sep 2013
    Location
    Kally-four-nee-ya
    Posts
    196
    Been to this a few times. My dad was born and raised in Florence, and his home parish was San Frediano, the “Bianchi” or “Whites” team. (Shirt color, not skin for any lurking snowflakes... Not that there are any here.) San Frediano was the “other side of the tracks.” The poor kids, the thugs. He came to the U.S. at 28 y/o in 1968. Became a cop in 1972.

    First time we went was in 1986. I was a high school teenager. My dad wanted to sit with “his people” in the Bianchi end zone. The end zones were where the soccer hooligans wearing all team colors were put. His “Bianchi” were playing the Azzuri, or the “Blues.”

    Anyway, I noticed lots of thick-necked guys with crew-cuts/shaved heads, crooked noses, and scarred/curled lips/eyebrows in the stands with us. Their girlfriend’s weren’t much better. (A clue...)

    Halfway through the game, there was a palpable buzz in the stands around us. My Dad was talking Italian with people around us, in the old neighborhood dialect, and he told me, “Be ready. There’s a bunch of guys down front wearing white that nobody here recognizes.”

    A few minutes later, the strangers ripped off their white t-shirts and they were wearing blue tank tops. There were maybe 15-20 of them. The fight erupted. Guys, girls, everyone was fighting in the stands below us. The fight started to spread around us as more Blue infiltrators unmasked.

    Being 1986, my Dad was carrying a full-sized VHS camera we lugged all over Europe. As the punches started flying around us, my Dad started yelling at me, “Fight!” He hit a Blue-shirt over the head with his camera. I punched some Blue-shirt in the face. He fell/slipped in the makeshift metal bleachers we were in and was out of my fight. His girlfriend (I think) got up in my face. Being an American teenager I hesitated. Being an Italian soccer hooligan, she didn’t. She punched me upside the head with a half hook/half haymaker. I was so pissed! I tried to grab her but some guy in a white T-shirt blasted her in the face and she went down. I still remember him smiling a bloody smile at me before he dived down into the main fight a few rows below us.

    I remember feeling that weird part panic/part ecstasy that happens when a big fight is still a “new” experience. We were fighting our way to the back/top of the stands, punching at everything Blue we saw. I was getting hit but it felt numb. I remember seeing my Dad doing the old “three from the ring” with his giant video camera on a couple of blue shirts. It. Was. Awesome!

    Right when we get to the back of the stands, a bunch of Italian cops ran into the fight at the bottom of the stands. We were pretty much out of the fight and had a good view of their crowd control “Tactics.” They were giving the wood-shampoo to everyone in front of them as they made their way into the stands. Everyone. They were a few K9’s that were just biting anyone they could reach. They would get a bite or two, release, get a bite or two on the next body in front of them, and so on. For a few minutes it was so surreal, watching these dogs just biting all these people and obviously enjoying the hell out of. (Italian K9’s. They obviously love Italian food.)

    Then I remember more panic and less ecstasy as it looked like the cops and their land-sharks were working their way all the way up the stands. Towards us. We ended up climbing down the back scaffolding of the bleachers, to the street, and making a bit of a “jog for it.” Camera was pretty much destroyed.

    On the walk back to the hotel, my Dad was grinning ear to ear. Said that's pretty much how he remembered it. Said I did well. We stopped at a little Trattoria for a plate of pasta and a glass of wine. As we were leaving, he looked at me with that powerful, deadly-serious Dad look...

    “Don’t tell your mother.”
    Last edited by OmegaDS; 07-12-2018 at 10:26 PM. Reason: Grammar/Punctuation
    VIRES HONOR VIRTUS FIDES

  7. #7
    Join Date
    Sep 2013
    Location
    Kally-four-nee-ya
    Posts
    196
    "The final victory is not important. It's the pride of being Florentine, and the pride of being in a free and true republic."

    This is so true... Today my Dad at 78 years old would still fight to the death over the honor of his heritage as a Florentine, under the banner of the “Marzocco.” (The symbol of the old Florentine Republic, from back in the Renaissance city-state days.) And he pounded the idea of the righteous, good fight into me.

    When I became a cop in 1994, we worked together at the same Department. (He pinned his old Patrolman’s badge on me on my Academy graduation.) We actually worked a couple of shift rotations together, with him as my Sergeant.

    We got in chases and fights together all the time. Best part part of my entire career.

    I remember being in one of my first Use of Force IA’s, along with my Old Man. He told me, (in his still thick Italian accent) “If you are truly right, truly justified... Then you fight. It don’t matter if they are some asshole in the street, or if they have stripes on their sleeve or stars on their collar. If you know you are right, you stand up and fight.”


    Maestro Suarez: Grazie Mille for posting this. Brought back many wonderful memories.
    VIRES HONOR VIRTUS FIDES

  8. #8
    Join Date
    Aug 2014
    Posts
    2,018
    Now that's what I call a family vacation.
    Warrior for the working day.

    Es una cosa muy seria. --Robert Capa

    "...I ride the range in a Ford V8...Yippy Yi Yo Ki Yay." --Johnny Mercer

    "Can I move?...I'm better when I move."

    2, 2, 9. And a wakeup.

  9. #9
    Join Date
    Jun 2007
    Location
    Washington State
    Posts
    1,544

    Default SOMEHOW - THIS MAKES THE OVERPAID JESTERS TAKING A KNEE LOOK LIKE PUSSIES

    Quote Originally Posted by OmegaDS View Post
    Been to this a few times. My dad was born and raised in Florence, and his home parish was San Frediano, the “Bianchi” or “Whites” team. (Shirt color, not skin for any lurking snowflakes... Not that there are any here.) San Frediano was the “other side of the tracks.” The poor kids, the thugs. He came to the U.S. at 28 y/o in 1968. Became a cop in 1972.

    First time we went was in 1986. I was a high school teenager. My dad wanted to sit with “his people” in the Bianchi end zone. The end zones were where the soccer hooligans wearing all team colors were put. His “Bianchi” were playing the Azzuri, or the “Blues.”

    Anyway, I noticed lots of thick-necked guys with crew-cuts/shaved heads, crooked noses, and scarred/curled lips/eyebrows in the stands with us. Their girlfriend’s weren’t much better. (A clue...)

    Halfway through the game, there was a palpable buzz in the stands around us. My Dad was talking Italian with people around us, in the old neighborhood dialect, and he told me, “Be ready. There’s a bunch of guys down front wearing white that nobody here recognizes.”

    A few minutes later, the strangers ripped off their white t-shirts and they were wearing blue tank tops. There were maybe 15-20 of them. The fight erupted. Guys, girls, everyone was fighting in the stands below us. The fight started to spread around us as more Blue infiltrators unmasked.

    Being 1986, my Dad was carrying a full-sized VHS camera we lugged all over Europe. As the punches started flying around us, my Dad started yelling at me, “Fight!” He hit a Blue-shirt over the head with his camera. I punched some Blue-shirt in the face. He fell/slipped in the makeshift metal bleachers we were in and was out of my fight. His girlfriend (I think) got up in my face. Being an American teenager I hesitated. Being an Italian soccer hooligan, she didn’t. She punched me upside the head with a half hook/half haymaker. I was so pissed! I tried to grab her but some guy in a white T-shirt blasted her in the face and she went down. I still remember him smiling a bloody smile at me before he dived down into the main fight a few rows below us.

    I remember feeling that weird part panic/part ecstasy that happens when a big fight is still a “new” experience. We were fighting our way to the back/top of the stands, punching at everything Blue we saw. I was getting hit but it felt numb. I remember seeing my Dad doing the old “three from the ring” with his giant video camera on a couple of blue shirts. It. Was. Awesome!

    Right when we get to the back of the stands, a bunch of Italian cops ran into the fight at the bottom of the stands. We were pretty much out of the fight and had a good view of their crowd control “Tactics.” They were giving the wood-shampoo to everyone in front of them as they made their way into the stands. Everyone. They were a few K9’s that were just biting anyone they could reach. They would get a bite or two, release, get a bite or two on the next body in front of them, and so on. For a few minutes it was so surreal, watching these dogs just biting all these people and obviously enjoying the hell out of. (Italian K9’s. They obviously love Italian food.)

    Then I remember more panic and less ecstasy as it looked like the cops and their land-sharks were working their way all the way up the stands. Towards us. We ended up climbing down the back scaffolding of the bleachers, to the street, and making a bit of a “jog for it.” Camera was pretty much destroyed.

    On the walk back to the hotel, my Dad was grinning ear to ear. Said that's pretty much how he remembered it. Said I did well. We stopped at a little Trattoria for a plate of pasta and a glass of wine. As we were leaving, he looked at me with that powerful, deadly-serious Dad look...

    “Don’t tell your mother.”
    Great fuckin’ post!! Snorted dark roast TWICE! Grazie!
    Ted Demosthenes
    Suarez International Staff Instructor


    From Murphy: "Incoming has the right-of-way" (so, GTFOTX!!)

  10. #10
    Join Date
    Sep 2013
    Location
    Kally-four-nee-ya
    Posts
    196
    By the time we got back to the hotel, we had devised a story for the ripped shirts, scrapes and such that were clearly visible...

    We got caught in the tale end of a “soccer riot” and got bumped up climbing over barricades and such...

    We went to see Bianchi play a few more times over the years, but they were not quite as eventful as this first one.

    I remember in the days following that first one; going to the big celebratory street dinners in San Frediano with my Dad’s old friends, watching the fireworks on the day of the Festa, my Dad talking about how overall that particular Calcio season was not too bad. They were no reports of any getting hurt too badly, no one got shot outside of any rival parish bars, only a couple of cars getting torched, etc.

    “Ale, ale ale ale... Bianchi! Bianchi!”

    FORZA VIOLA!
    VIRES HONOR VIRTUS FIDES

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