Destination Calcio feature by Calcio England

On 22 April 2012, Genoa played host to one of the darkest episodes in Italian football – a day when the veiled power of the ultras spilled into plain sight.

What should have been a tense relegation scrap against Siena spiralled into a surreal act of collective surrender, played out under the watchful eyes of furious ultras and a nation aghast.

Storm clouds had been gathering for weeks in the port city. Once sitting comfortably in mid-table, Genoa’s season had capitulated into despair. Winless in 11 matches, unable to defeat any of the three sides below them, they now clung to safety by just two points. The visit of fellow strugglers Siena was not just important – it was existential.

The tension inside the Stadio Luigi Ferraris was palpable, almost combustible. Spurred on by the defiant chants of the Gradinata Nord, Genoa flew out of the blocks. Rodrigo Palacio, Cesare Bovo, and Davide Biondini all went close in the opening acts. But for all their intensity, they lacked incision.

Siena, battle-hardened and opportunistic, absorbed the early pressure and then delivered a brutal counterpunch. The mercurial Franco Brienza opened the scoring with an arcing free-kick in the 17th minute. Within seconds of the restart, Genoa conceded again. The belief visibly ebbed away from the limbs of the Rossoblu players.

Brienza added a third for the Tuscans before half-time. A stunned silence descended. Then came the fury.

The chorus of the Gradinata Nord turned into vitriolic roars of disgust. As the shell-shocked players trudged off at the break, they looked not just beaten but condemned.

Any faint hopes of a second-half revival were promptly extinguished when Siena made it 4-0. Enraged, the commanders of the Gradinata Nord had seen enough.

A group of a hundred or so members of the notorious Brigata Speloncia forced their way from their position behind the goal towards the tunnel area along the side of the
pitch. As the ultras scaled the barriers and smoke bombs rained on to the playing field, the referee hurriedly called a halt to proceedings.

The bewildered players stood frozen in the centre circle. Hostages to the events, they were caught between their failing performance and the wrath of their own supporters.

The Siena players and match officials – not the target of Genoani disdain – were allowed to return to the sanctuary of the changing rooms, a concession that amplified the humiliation of the Genoa players left behind.

It was not the first time Genoa’s ultras had taken matters into their own hands. Just three months earlier, they stormed the training ground in violent protest.

But this was different. This time, it was on live television. This time, the world was watching.

Genoa captain Marco Rossi, flanked by poliziotti, warily made his way to the tunnel to mediate with the protagonists. The conversation was inaudible amidst the fetid
atmosphere, but the balance of power was plain for all to see. The ultras were demanding the shirts from the players’ backs.

The implication was clear; they were not worthy of wearing them.

In an image that remains etched into Italian football’s psyche, Rossi turned back toward his team-mates and began collecting jerseys. Some players hesitated, insulted, confused. But one by one, they complied.

World Cup winner Alberto Gilardino, and seasoned professionals such as Sebastien Frey and Giandomenico Mesto, stripped of their identities under the watchful eyes of the ultras. Mesto, unable to hide his emotion, cried.

With a bundle of red and blue jerseys under his arm, Rossi prepared to return to the captors to make the symbolic sacrifice.

Then, suddenly, the ritual humiliation was interrupted. Giuseppe Sculli refused. The attacking midfielder marched toward the ultras, his demeanour far more confrontational than Rossi’s.

There was defiance in his stride, in the way he scaled the perspex barrier to negotiate with the ringleader perched on the tunnel roof: Piermarco “Cobra” Pelizzari.

In an intense exchange, the two men gripped on to one another in a manner that blurred the line between familiarity and confrontation.

Sculli’s assertiveness wasn’t born solely from footballing pride. There was a darker context – an undercurrent of reputation, background, and connections. He was the
grandson of Giuseppe Morabito, a high-ranking boss in the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta.

Though Sculli himself had no convictions, his name had long been associated with scandal. He had served an eight-month ban for match-fixing, he fraternised with members of the Roman underworld and his name had surfaced in investigations ranging from drug trafficking to attempted murder. Nothing ever stuck, but the shadows were always there.

Wiretaps would later reveal that Sculli had been in frequent contact with Genoa’s ultras in the weeks leading up to these events. He wasn’t just an impromptu negotiator on the day, he had been their mouthpiece in the dressing room.

Following the tunnel-top exchange, an uneasy truce was reached. The jerseys were returned.

After almost an hour of anarchy, the match resumed, and Genoa clawed back a consolation goal. More importantly, they earned just enough points in their remaining fixtures to preserve their Serie A status.

But nothing could undo the damage.

The events of that afternoon were an indictment not only of Genoa but of the structural failings in Italian football. Club officials, powerless. Players, humiliated. Ultras, unchecked. The Gradinata Nord had staged a theatrical coup – and they had won.

Club President Enrico Preziosi was unrepentant in his outrage. “I expect these people to go to jail,” he said. “These ‘patriots’ in the Gradinata Nord don’t scare me… I expect a precise response from the police.”

Sanctions followed as the authorities sought to make an example of those involved. Legal proceedings were launched against the ultras. Fines were handed down to Genoa players and staff for complying with the ultras’ demands. Sculli, singled out for his deeper involvement, received a month-long ban.

This episode was not just an isolated incident but a symptom of something more endemic in Italian football; a sobering illustration of the power wielded by the curva.

It happened in Genoa. But it could have happened anywhere.