The ball according to Dino

Dino Zoff – a great goalkeeper and a great man, a world champion of humility, wisdom, seriousness, and consistency – described in his autobiography a few years ago what football was like in his early years, the 1960s: "We had very little vacation. We were only free on Mondays after matches, sometimes even on Tuesdays, but that wasn't a given. The rules were strict: we had to be in the house at eleven o'clock at night with the doors closed. No parties, no clubs, no nightlife. Now things have changed a lot: just show up for training and they can't say anything to you, even if you stayed out late and are out of shape. At most, it's your problem and your agent's. Back then, however, you couldn't cheat; the club would call your home, your landline – that was the only one – and if you didn't answer, there was trouble. (...) That rigidity of relationships simplified everything. Even with your teammates, life was governed by precise rituals and rules. I've never slipped up, not even once.

Nostalgia for a past that won't return? Yes, also, why not? In times of dictatorship, looking back a little is healthy. But not just nostalgia, regret, and memory. Football—like life—has changed so much. Rich champions wear tattoos, flaunt opulence, lend their face and muscles to lucrative advertising, often burning away talent, glory, and money in just a few years.

What can Dino Zoff say to his colleagues today? Perhaps nothing, clinging as they are to the few years they must spend quickly, without embarrassment or any worries. But it's still beautiful to listen to him again and reread him, because his football smells of lost feelings and regrets, of authentic and noble gestures, of solid values ​​(how overused that word is!). Every now and then, to accept the present of football and life, it's necessary to think back to yesterday and the day before yesterday, to find reasons for hope beyond the memory.

And so savor these words of the old champion: "I took home all the money I earned. But it was really very little. My first real salary arrived in 1962: 30,000 lire. It was the prize for the victory with Juventus. I took it home like a relic. With a joy and satisfaction I couldn't contain. I knew no one would tell me I was well done. They never told me that; it was right like this, I had done what I had to do, nothing more. But I was very happy anyway."


Renzo Agasso
NP June/July 2025