In a digital world, it’s easy to look upon social media as a bad thing. Anyone who watched Adolescence will be well aware of the pitfalls of the sort of dangerous content our children are being exposed to. What we never really see – unless you’re following The Calcio Blog – is the wonderful connectivity that Instagram and the likes can bring to the world.
Three weeks ago I put a simple message out on my socials asking for everyone’s advice on what I should be doing in Genoa on a weekend break. I put my phone on the passenger seat of my car and drove to work. By the time the 15 minute journey was completed I was inundated with comments. There was a mixture of English who had previously visited the city and Genovese keen to ensure I had a great time in their city. There were DMs from locals with their phone numbers, “let’s meet for a beer” being the main theme.
Of course, with The Calcio Blog and Gentleman Ultra in my mind, there was a lot of work to do on Friday when we stepped off the plane in Genoa. It wasn’t straight to the pub – honest. Fans of calcio will already be aware that the city of Genova is indelibly linked to England thanks to our seafaring nature. The Republic of Genoa used the St George’s Cross as their flag and during the Crusades, it’s said that Richard the Lionheart, seeking Genovese support, obtained permission to fly the flag for protection of English ships in the Mediterranean.
According to that legend, England was to pay tribute to the ruler of Genoa, and in 2018 the mayor of Genoa Marco Bucci wrote a light hearted letter to Queen Elizabeth II suggesting that England hadn’t been paying for 247 years now. The campaign was more of a marketing stunt for the city of Genoa and was “symbolic” rather than serious. However, the point stands, England and Genoa are tied together in history. And sport.
Yes, by now I’m sure you all know the story of James Richardson Spensley, the Genoa Cricket and Football Club and William Garbutt. Like a lot of coastal places in Italy, the city was constantly visited by British sailors in the Victorian era and it wasn’t long before football followed. Spensley was the first chairman, manager and goalkeeper of Genoa CFC and led them to dominance in the early 1900s.
With all of this knowledge desperate to explode in my brain, after our transfer into Genoa it was straight to work. There was filming to be done and there was local food to be eaten. A trip down to the docks was on the agenda and after a bit of filming we stopped for a slice of Torta Pasqualina, a sort of savoury cake with spinach, crumbly cheese and eggs. It was, naturally, magnificent. I always say I’m travelling to Italy for football and 99% of the time that’s true, but food is usually the real start of the show on the peninsula. Washed down with a red Peroni – my word! – we set off for the Genoa CFC Museum.
Now, at the age of 37 and travelling with a mate instead of family, museums weren’t really on my radar. However, the guys had reached out and suggested what they had would be right up our street and they weren’t wrong. It’s down by the docks, and you can easily miss it, there’s no discernible signage to let you know the history of the oldest active club in Italy is behind the door. When you’re inside however, it’s packed with information. The museum itself is small, probably three main halls with exhibitions and that’s it. But it’s all about quality here, not quantity.
The original charter signed by the English to form the club is proudly displayed, alongside the football used in the first Italian football championship of 1898 along with winners medals from that edition. Genoa CFC have a rich history, stuck on nine titles since 1924 and still without a star, they were the early dominant force in calcio and they pay homage to that beautifully in the museum. It’s well worth €6 of your money if you’re in town, if not to just see the Anglo-Italian Cup.
Anyway, that was enough with the museums, it was time for a few well earned pints. At this point we stumbled across the Duomo di San Lorenzo. Genoa’s old town is really where you want to be, the new town while clean is more functional than enjoyable. But in the old town, there’s endless winding alleys, all revealing a secret bar or restaurant and then you’ll suddenly open out into a piazza featuring a grand old church – you have to love Italy right?
After a few pints and Limoncellos (why aren’t they measuring spirits in Italy?) we staggered down to Meali Football on Via di Scurreria. All football fans should be rushing to this place by they way. What a treasure trove of Genovese football. The owners are Sampdoria fans and the two lads working there are Genoa fans and, as it turns out, Ultras. This is where the story starts to liven up.
Now, to finish off Meali first, this store is full of their own designs of retro shirts for both teams, or clever t-shirts featuring legends of each club and finishes with a sprinkling of the big Serie A teams. I think I managed to part with €60 there, with my friend doing closer to €100. In fact, we were so impressed we decided to do a video in the shop so that future English visitors are well aware of it. And now it’s in the blog too. So what’s your excuse for not going?
On the way out of the store, chatting with one of the guys who worked there about the match the following day, we discussed where we were sat and he immediately hit me with, “no, I think we can take you to the Gradinata Nord”. This is the hallowed ground for foreign visitors to Italian football, the Curva. I don’t have to tell you, reading the Gentleman Ultra, that this is the experience you come for.
Curvas aren’t always a pain to access, sometimes in the much larger stadiums there are tickets available for resale from those who can’t attend. Sometimes they go to general sale anyway. But the Luigi Ferraris had stumped us. We couldn’t find a way in. Maybe it wasn’t all lost yet. We exchanged numbers and agreed he would contact me later in the evening to let me know what the plan was. My pal and I headed out into the night and I won’t tell you what happened because for the most part, I don’t remember. I just know it was fun.
Saturday morning seemed to come a bit too quickly after Friday night, and it started with a slight headache, but we kick on. After a shower and a quick debrief over a cappuccino Minty and I head into town for a little mooch about. We have an appointment this morning with another Instagram connection, Fabio, who suggest we meet at a bar around 11. It’s already quarter to by the time the cappuccino and croissant are gone and we head over for our rendezvous. Hair of the dog despatched and Fabio arrives with his wife and settles our bill: “you’re my guest and you don’t pay”. This was to become a theme!
Truthfully I could’ve done without all the walking the way I was feeling, but Fabio had so much to show us of “my city”. Again, this theme of the locals wanting us to enjoy their city as much as they did would serve us well. Now, when we flew into Genoa, it was clear this city was built on the side of a mountain. The Alps give way to the Mediterranean and Genoa is plonked right on the coast, and the approach in a Ryanair 737 is downright terrifying. But it isn’t as terrifying as exploring the city hungover. Luckily, Fabio reveals the great secret of Genoa… the lifts. Randomly located in buildings on the hills, the lifts take you up from one street to the next, and are literally lifts, they’re not cable cars or funiculars.
The one we take reveals a beautiful panorama of the city as we walk out. The sun’s shining but it isn’t warm. Suddenly I feel a bit more alive. It’s matchday, conditions are perfect. Let’s go! We head back down the city by foot – going downhill is easier – and partake in some more local food, specifically pesto pasta. It’s the perfect stomach liner and we wish Fabio and his wife well, they don’t reciprocate being Sampdoria fans.
My friend from Meali has been in touch and we have, indeed, secured entrance into Gradinata Nord. Safe to say we’re buzzing. On the bus from the city centre to the stadium we receive an update: “Roxy Bar, beers are waiting”. Great! Upon arrival, we see the bar is clearly the “Ultras Pub”. People are spilling out into the street, all dressed head to toe in black, the chatter is lively and the air hangs heavy with the smell of weed (not the worst thing going on there!).
Instantly we are greeted with a mix of fascination, back slapping joy and suspicion. Who are these English guys? Why are they here? The questions – and answers – both satisfy and increase suspicion. This is what we came for though. We’re introduced around, beers are thrust into our hands, sometimes cigarettes. Our friend from Meali takes us under his wing, and our new friend, Jack, has a lot to share with us, but we have some pals and before long we’re told, “we must go to the game now”.
On the short walk across the road we’re given the brief on our entrance to the stadium. I will get in using a photograph of someone’s season ticket who couldn’t make it. My friend will simply walk in and security will allow him to enter. It sounds far fetched but the first hurdle is passed when my photo of a QR code grants me entrance. Minty, however, is stopped by police, “you don’t have a ticket”. Our new friend assures us this is normal and walks off to chat to his friend, the head of security.
When I tell you this man couldn’t look any less like a steward that you’re used to in England, I can’t emphasize that enough. Impossibly good looking, slicked back hair, shades, cigarette, immaculate clothing and just a hi-viz to identify him as a club employee. He strolls over and waves my pal through, the police step aside and we’re in. It really pays to know someone.
From the outside, the Marassi isn’t a hugely impressive spectacle, but walking in it truly takes your breath away. I don’t know if it’s built down into the ground, but it feels so much bigger inside than out. Built like an English stadium with big square blocks sat on top of the playing surface, it feels a bit like Villa Park inside. The large banner across the Sud declaring “You’ll Never Walk Alone” really brings you home. Jack takes us straight through the absolute maze of concourses to secure more beers and show us his favourite toilet, obviously. There’s still 20 minutes until kick off and the noise out in the stand is deafening, we take a place at the back of the bottom tier and just enjoy the absolute chaos unfolding in front of us.
I’ve truly never heard a noise like it in a stadium. It’s not a small stadium, but it’s not the San Siro either, but the atmosphere is on another level. Constant moving, swaying, jumping, singing, clapping. Drums banging, capos screaming. How do they ever lose a match here? The answer comes a few minutes in, the defending leaves a lot to be desired and Verona tuck in the opener to silence: Hellas fans are banned from travelling thanks to a few run ins this season.
Genoa kick off and the atmosphere comes with it. They manage an equaliser just before half time and go in as the better team in a poor game. Both sides languish near the bottom and it’s clear why. Genoa look the better side but lack confidence. We laugh at half time as we grab a beer, the view from the back of the concourse overlooks a prison, one person comments, “they are incarcerated, but we fans of Genoa are the real prisoners”.
Walking back to the stand for the second half, I stumble across a Genoa fan I was speaking to pre-match. He doubted our ability to make it to the Gradinata Nord, so when I walk past him he greets me like an old friend. “Where are you standing?” I point to the back, “No, come with me” and he hauls me down to the very centre of the chaos. Right underneath the capos for the second half, the atmosphere becomes exhausting. I am moved around by the swaying of the crowd. There’s clearly no fire regulations here, everyone is congregated on the stairs, in the entrances, no seats are reserved.
The Genoa winner comes with 30 minutes left on the clock. I would love to describe it for you, but I simply couldn’t see it. The ball was out wide, then suddenly I saw the net bulge and an avalanche of bodies overcomes me. You read a lot in England about goal celebrations being “absolute limbs”. I never want to hear that again. What I saw in Genoa for that winner was proper limbs, legs tumbling over heads, random arms extruding from a pile of bodies. I am writing this article six days later and I’m still covered in bruises, and it was so worth it.
The last part of the game seemed to fly by and the celebrations at the final whistle were akin to a promotion party. Dancing, hugging, singing. On the way out of the ground there was so much back slapping, hugging, cheek kissing, we couldn’t keep up. I’ve no doubt that we love football in England. It’s how I came to love the game. It’s our national game, our national obsession. But these guys simply lived the game. I dread to think what would’ve happened if Genoa lost that match.
A lot of hi-fiving later and we bid farewell to our Genovan hosts and headed for the city centre and some lads from Manchester who had reached out via Instagram. We congregated in a bar to watch the Juventus-Cagliari match, starting a few chants of “Juve Merda” which was well received by the Genoa fans hanging around. The night gets a bit hazy from hereon in, I know we met a few other Samp fans in town before finally turning in.
Our flight out the next day was early afternoon, or at least was meant to be – thanks Ryanair – and as we boarded the airport bus I was greeted by a familiar face. My pal who took me down to the middle of the Curva was heading back to the Netherlands and what I’d hoped to be a quiet day turned into another day of pints at the airport. When the time was come to head to the gate, we exchanged social media information, shook hands and headed in separate directions.
Sat on the plane I reflected on the trip, we’d spend around 48 hours in Genoa and I was gutted to be leaving the place. Everyone had taken us in as one of the locals. We’d had the red carpet laid out for us, tours, beers, football tickets all provided by locals who were delighted by our curiosity in their town. Social Media gets a bad rep in most news reports, but it truly made this weekend incredible for us.