Okay first of all I’m quite mad. And probably you will be too after reading this. Sorry but I thought you had to know, especially since you are also part of the volleyfamily and probably don’t understand enough Italian to understand what’s happening.
So the setting is the most obvious one: Modena-Trento match. And as you know it ended 3-0 for Trento.
So where is the problem?
(Please quick note on it: I didn’t follow the match and I just read about it on social media - twitter mostly - so I’m trying to summarize what happened — reading steampunk books was the best idea about how to spend my evening)
The problem is that now Modena’s fans are hating on Vettori.
They keep saying he did it on purpose because he’s already been bought by Trento. They are basically sending him to fuck off and complaining on how bad he played (anyway he did 16 points in the match, so the fuck???)
Of course not everyone is doing so, but the “oldest” fans are in particular giving this message.
At this point I don’t even know what to think. I mean Modena is basically destroying themselves. You can’t say Vetto is not good enough because he probably had a bad day and didn’t play like other times. You can’t just simply take away someone from the team just because they did bad once.
Similar thing happened with Piazza. He was sent away after Morena lost like three matches in a row. And apparently he had to take ghe fault, so *pouf+ bye bye Mr Piazza, welcome Mr Tubertini.
At this point I won’t be surprised if Vetto really decides to leave the team. I just hope they won’t divide the Becchi, because I like them too much and I would probably not be strong enough to see them play against each other.
I just hope he gets to play and do something he loves without being hated for doing bad once or twice in all the season.
to you or me he may not be; he may be all sunshine smiles and corngold hair and the biggest eyes this side of the galaxy, but imagine you’re Dagger (stormtroopers don’t get proper names), firing at a boy, only the bolts never hit. They sing to the side. You think that there’s something wrong with your blaster, maybe, but none of your friends can hit him either. Finest shots in the Empire, you are, but you can’t hit this boy. And he cuts you down. He wields a weapon whose name you’ve never learned and he cuts you down into smoking bloodless bodies and your friends die before you – only he leaves you. Knocks you out with a blow of the Force – and isn’t that a nightmare of its own, unseen hands blotting out your thoughts – leaves you there in the cooling blood of your squadmates.
Imagine that you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a dancer for the Hutt and you hate it, of course you do, but it is a living, a living, and this boy comes in, fresh-faced and young and he says surrender or be destroyed only he and you both know that the Hutt do not and never have surrendered and when he says destroy there’s this grin on his lips, thin and sharp, and he’s kind, of course he is, but –
so you’re Cara Ilhyre and you’re a native of tattooine and like many of your specis you are force-touched and you were a girl, once, a very little girl, and your mother told you tales of krayt dragons who slumbered beneath the sands and gentled their young to their pearl-heavy breasts. krayt dragons are tender mothers, she had said, and it was meant to teach you something of the duality of nature, or to fear those with young to protect, or something; but all you can think is this boy, how he smiles as kind as your mother did, once, but you’re convinced that if you were to cut him down the middle you would find dragon-pearls in his ribs and fire instead of a heart
the boy cuts downs jabba’s goons like they are nothing, nothing, and afterwards, afterwards, you sense his sorrow. and somehow that makes it worse.
because you say, later, to your mother’s ghost (maybe) or to the desert, he knows that killing people is hard and that weighs on him and he does it anyway and –
and, you say, it isn’t as simple as: he makes the hard choices. he knew the hutt would fight. he wanted to burn them down, oh he did, and that sister of his –