Bruno Pizzul left us: he would have celebrated 87 years in a few days and I will not repeat what you will read everywhere with and without the help of crocodiles and artificial intelligence. All those who love football at least a little and sport know who he was and what he represented for dozens, hundreds of people who somehow followed his example and for thousands that would have liked to do it and they did not succeed. He told hundreds of matches, four world championships, five Europeans closing his career in 2002 to devote himself to pension and few events.

A friend

I have a small story to tell about him. May 29, 1985. I was twenty years old, I was already the commentator. I worked for a small television network in Genoa, my city. I was not working in Marassi: but in Borzoli, and the highlight was the Sestrese-Sampierdarenese derby. Amateur football. Genoa and Sampdoria would have arrived a few years later. I was literally conquered by a profession that was not yet a job simply because they didn’t pay me. But I hoped it became it. I listened to everything that passed on TV and I tried to learn with limited means, which are certainly not those of today. I loved to connect to the long wave radio to listen to the British radiocronache. And my point of reference were four Italian voices more than any other. Three of which radio: Nando Martellini, The authoritativeness and the grace of a gentleman; Alfredo Provenzali, the histrionic and irrepressible narrator who always knew how to make the most boring and useless game interesting; Sandro Ciotti, an persuasive and sometimes frenetic rhythm with his paper and irrepressible voice. And then he, Bruno Pizzul. My favorite television voice. Pizzul had a way of setting himself against the public who remembered that of a friend who had had the ticket in your place and told you everything precisely, colorful, brilliant, never banal and above all elegant. Simple, understandable words, a sober style, in a pure Italian and without unnecessary excesses. A care in the search for words worthy of a linguist, a passion for the sporting fact that made him absolute guarantor of impartiality and authority. With some impetus of absolute quality.

The Champions League final at Heysel

May 29, 1985, I said, Champions League final at Heysel. I follow the game with my dad on the armchair in the living room in front of the Saba in color that looked like a wardrobe. What the images show is dramatic. And what Pizzul tells is always solid, authoritative, journalistically unassailable. “No, sorry, I understand that it is shocking but I have to do my job and this thing I have to say: there are 36 deaths”. Shortly thereafter he confirms: “I have the UEFA delegate next to me which confirms that there were 36 deaths and that, which leaves me baffled, the game will be played”. Pizzul will tell that game – the first champions cup won by Juve – in a surreal climate and with the voice of those who would like to be on the other side. He takes note of Platini’s game goal on penalty without any enthusiasm. Striglia the Juve fans who exhibit the Reds Animals banner saying “… this could save it”. Books and numerous degree theses were written on his story of a dramatic night. A demonstration of professionalism that represents one of the highest moments of the sporting information of our country and perhaps of the world.

“You are that of Genoa”

January 29, 1995. In Marassi there is Genoa-Milan. From the study obtained under the roof of the Ferraris tribune in connection with Antenna 13, I find myself telling one of the most tragic and upsetting Sundays to which he has ever witnessed. In a fight outside the stadium, some Milan fans attacked a group of Genoans. It ends with stab wounds. A boy remains on the ground. He will die shortly after at San Martino stabbed to the chest: it was called by winning Spanish ‘Claudio’. Genoa fans do not accept that the game play and do everything to suspend it. Outside the stadium, very serious and dramatic clashes explode: devastated parking, charges of the police and fans who continue for almost five hours. After the first half the teams are not included. Inside the stadium – closed in the curve at the corner of the South – there are Milan fans. Among them there is also the killer of the killed fan. The rest of the Ferraris is deserted. The only one who remains on the air, connected live, filming what is happening, it’s me. The live broadcast continues for almost four hours: I am the only one who transmits and documents everything. Someone has the nice idea of ​​warning my mother at home, that if I continue my connections I am a dead journalist. At 18 they make us detach everything. I take my motorcycle, integrate between machines given to the flames, and I go to the studio for another direct. I go home thinking if this really is the job I should do. A few months later, in Milan for a press conference and a convivial meeting meeting him, Bruno Pizzul. A massive man, very high with a good -natured and welcoming smile just like his commentary. They present us. Hear it say … “Ah, you are that of Genoa, you have been good and courageous” with his vocation – for me – still today is worth as much as a 110 and honors. We chat for half an hour in front of a glass of red and a tasting of risotto. The affection half salami and ask him for advice. He says to me: “The right speaks, he says what you see. The commentator is like the referee. It does not make the protagonist and is never the center of attention. Have fun, but not too much ”. I signed me a book that I had with me and that I still keep jealously writing ‘good job, Bruno’.

A football that we regret

From these lines that I realize I am not enough to understand the greatness of the character who made the history of our country’s football fiction, I hope you understand how human, brilliant, ironic, fun has been Bruno Pizzul. Despite being also extremely serious, scrupulous and competent. A man who at least a couple of generations of sports commentators rightly called the master. Without rhetoric, without effect phrases, only with the weight of the right words. In the era of social networks and seeming that weighs more than being such a man remains an example of extraordinary greatness. Especially today, in a football dominated by dozens of press officers and by an ignorant and invasive communication, between influencers, agents and friends of …, where the simple narrative of a football match should the only thing that matters and no one calculates it. Here is the football we regret, together with the human and cultural greatness of a few people whose example we would like to bring back to the center of the scene. Much above those who make many chatter and do not even have the badge. Because he doesn’t know what to say. Nor how.