TIME AND SEASON

Some racist chanting directed at Tito picked up decibels in the second half, which was curious because Inter had a black player too, the Nigerian, Efosa. “They don't like you, amico.” “Huh?” Tito turned to see Russo towering next to him. “I mean your black monkey face.” Russo bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. “They don't like it, the fans.” He smiled jadedly up at Russo. If the big man thought a little racist ribbing would rile him, he was mistaken. He took racism for granted and expected it. In Nigeria, everyone took tribalism for granted and expected it. Every Nigerian tribe loathed the next, every little hamlet the other, so why would he get touchy if a white man hated a black man? “If I score,” he grinned impishly up at the big man. “They'll shut up.” “If you score,” Russo persevered with a low, ominous chuckle. “You might not leave the stadio alive.” At some point, the chanting got so bad that a disenchanted Mellini asked Ryder to get ready to go on in Tito's place. But with Valley defending deep in their half, Blair played a long ball out and Tito slipped ahead of Russo to shoot Valley into the lead. The crowd fell quiet for the first time since the beginning of the game and stayed that way until the end, which was just a few minutes afterwards. At the final whistle, Tito dashed half way across the field to the front row of one of the stands. During the game, he had seen a boy seated there, a young crippled Inter fan in a wheel chair. He had made a mental note of him even in the heat of the game. The boy had been cheering his side as vigorously as his condition allowed, waving a club pennant all the time. Now the game was over, his side had lost, and he was not waving it any more. He sat despondently and his eyes glazed over with imminent tears. His father was trying to comfort him, saying some words in his ear. “Please have this.” Tito handed the boy his boots and shirt and the boy's fallen face brightened with a smile of such profound gratitude. It was obvious he was never going to lace the boots but the on-looking Italian fans knew he was going to treasure it for the rest of his life and they applauded Tito. “That is so kind of you.” It was not the boy or his father but Franco Russo, who had materialized somehow at his side. He was not looking mean at all now but oddly restrained. “It's nothing.” “Thank you,” Russo said warmly. He walked with Tito to the changing rooms and was very polite and friendly. It seemed the infamous II Cannibale was probably a cordial fellow at heart and Tito was ironically disappointed. Somehow, it did not quite accord to the script. The next day, Tito, who had sent the Italian side out of the competition, was the unlikely toast of the local tabloids.