Chaos, Calcio, Culture: From Manchester to the Verona Curva

Destination Calcio feature by Luke Taylor

The Verona match wasn’t even on my radar when I raced through passport control in Milan, heart pounding. Two and a half hours to make the kickoff, and every second counted.

But days like these always seem to start innocuously. This one began in Altrincham on a summer evening kissed with a warmth so often compared to nights on the continent, where I met a friend for pizza and beers.

Our go-to pizza spot in Altrincham was an unspoken ritual: Neapolitan pies, fritto misto, and (always) too many Peronis. It had been months since we last met, but nights like this always unfolded the same way—starting with a quiet meal and spiralling into something much bigger.

Despite always telling ourselves we’re having a “quiet one”, it never goes to plan, and the chat progressed onto our previous trip to Como, where we watched Como-Palermo and Inter-Lazio.

“Shall we book another one?”, I jokingly asked. But jokingly doesn’t survive a night of pizza and beers, let’s be honest. From there, it was a quick check on Ryanair, and we had a £40 return flight to Verona to catch up with friends, with calcio wedged in the middle. Indeed, our Como trip also materialised similarly.

We didn’t plan for chaos this time, but the Lega certainly did. Hellas Verona-Inter was bumped up to Saturday at 3 pm—disastrous when you land in Milan at 12:30.

Two and a half hours to navigate passport control and the challenging autostrada to arrive in time for kickoff. It all seemed impossible.

After being first off the bus from the plane to the terminal and storming through passport control, we were strapped in and on the road with plenty of time to spare. Luckily for us, too, our amico Italiano had brought a plastic bag full of bottles of Ichnusa, probably third on my list of favourite Italian beers behind Peroni and Messina.

With the sun shining, we were flying down the autostrada in anticipation, where it became evident that we were nearing the city. As we got closer, the police presence increased, and the thundering sound of a police helicopter whirled above.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, we shimmied past the section of Inter supporters, which was fenced off from the home end (for obvious reasons). It was a complete setup, too, with a cart selling scarves, flags and much more in what I’d describe as a ‘compound’. Scattered with burger vans and bars, this was a long way from your typical ‘away pub’ you get in the English game.

The pre-match experience outside the Bentegodi indeed piqued interest. As we approached the bar outside, ‘Sarà perché ti amo’ by Ricchi e Poveri blasted out over a space filled with scarf vendors, food trucks and people standing and drinking on their chosen tipple.

For those who don’t know, a Verona fan’s typical drink of choice is a ‘Verdone’, something easily mistaken for Listerine. A mixture of mint vodka and Red Bull, this is a concoction that’d get you up for a game whilst smelling fresh at the same time. The taste of sharp mint clashing with the saccharine fizz of Red Bull wasn’t for me, though.

The teams came out to a special Veronese rendition of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ by John Denver, with the lyrics being changed simply to ‘Giallo Blu’, over and over again.

Borghettis, the typical coffee liqueur shot found at Italian football games, were open-ready. ‘Salute’, we shouted, necking them back and chucking the empty bottle off the edge of the stand. It was time for some calcio.

“Stop watching the game and sing”, one of the leaders sitting on the barrier screams at us in very aggressive Italian. I tap my friend on the shoulder and ask him to translate. Fully charged, I sing and jump to the hypnotic rhythm.

Surrounded by waving flags and roaring chants, I felt swallowed by the energy of the curva for the first time. Or at least one like this. At Como, it wasn’t quite the same despite the fireworks going off underneath us at the time.

Our friend’s tip was “try and follow along”, which proved somewhat challenging for two people not fluent in Italian.

Now, it’s probably best we circumvent the match itself. Inter were 0-5 up by half-time, but, as our lovely friend said earlier, the game was secondary.

Being in the stand means singing, chanting and ‘putting on a show’. The flags blocked my view of the game for the most part anyway. We drank more beers (the German kind), more Borghettis and sang some more, well aware we were most likely under the watchful eye of everyone outside of our little circle.

The three guys who sat on the fence in front of us seemed second in command to a guy further down, also sat on the fence, who appeared to be the current leader.

Every chant followed his command, quite often to the annoyance of our guy. Syncing up with those in the stands seems to be hard work, that’s for sure.

By 60 minutes, the game was well and truly gone. Regardless, I was arm-in-arm with a random guy, jumping high and low, randomly chanting in my best Italian.

Curiously, we collectively began celebrating imaginary goals, which I thought was exclusive to underperforming English teams. Trust me, I am a former season ticket holder at Newcastle United, so I would know.

Full-time finally came, and Verona were put out of their misery. 0-5 Inter, the uninspiring Verona continued their dismal season start. We regrouped after, eating panini and drinking Peroni outside. I avoided the Verdone pushers as much as I could.

Crowds dispersed, the sun dropped below the horizon, and night fell upon us. We ventured out into the city, drank wine and continued eating (while in Italia). Carbonara, panzerotti, pistachio gelato.

Under the incredible Verona night sky, I felt comfortable in the knowledge that Italian football (without sounding cliche) is much more than the match itself.

Calcio is a cultural phenomenon in all its imperfect, chaotic beauty.

For more football insights, follow Luke on X.