The Charm of Siria B

Whilst in Sicily this weekend i went to the second Siria B game of my life... Catania Vs. Triestino (1-1)

I first saw a Siria B game about three years ago when me and two friends decided to watch Venezia whilst in Venice. The game stood out for two reasons; firstly it was really quite poor- the gulf in class between Siria A and B makes the Championship look sexy by comparison. Secondly it was the scene of perhaps my greatest footballing faux pas. Having grown a centurianesque strap of facial hair for the occasion, I suplemented my unmistakeable Italianness by buying a replica Venezia top...No 9: Stefan Schwoch. I couldn't lose. But I did.

A brief glance down the team sheet revealed that Mr Schwoch had recently been transferred to the visiting team Vicenza, and proceeded to score the two goals that beat Venezia on the day 2-1. Needless to say the offending item was sheepishly removed poste haste. Schowch is pictured above in Vicenza colours.

The Catania-Triestino game was similarly shite, but again was made stroy-worth by a series of heart-warming moments. I hadn't actually planned to go to the game and at 2pm i was on a train an hour outside of Catania on the slopes of Etna. Normally when I'm away i will try to catch a local game, but recently introduced anti-violence legislation has made doing this in Italy a bit of a hassle- each ticket has to be pre-bought and personalised.

I met a guy on the train in Catania colours (red and white) who proceeded to talk to me for an hour about how Catania was his life before passing me onto an old man who i was told would take me to the stadium. I was quite confused by the whole thing, i tried explaining that i didn't have a ticket but this didn't seem to matter. I was even more confused, and then touched, when the first guy bid me fairwell with a kiss on each cheek- it seems even Italian football hooligans roll like this.

The walk to the stadium with the old man was brilliant. I said things like 'Del Piero..magnifico!' and he said things like 'Rooney...eeeeeeh', and so on. The international language of football my friends. When we got there the old man started talking to a grizzled dodgy-looking type and then asked me for 20 euros, which for some reason i gave him. For a moment i thought it was going to be one of those stories, but sure enough a ticket for the curva nord was thrust in my hand...in the name of one Salvatore Costentino.

I had three minutes to become Salvatore, and having adjusted my walk slightly i was amazed that the security man asked to see some ID. At this stage my little old man launched into a tirade of defence, justiculating in frenzied animation. Within seconds I was in the ground, with the old amn slapping me on the back smuggly reoeating 'mo problemo, no problemo'. My hero. When in Sicily I guess...

As with all Italian games, there was really two show going on: the Ultras conducting the crowd with loudspeakers (v interesting) and the game itself (less so). It always amazes me that almost two hours before Italian games the Ultras are already arriving unravelling their flags. The guys with the loudspeakers don't even watch the game. Nutters. Anyway...Forza Catania, Palermo Merda!

P.s. if you ver find yourself football-starve in Italy on a Sunday, head to a betting shop, one of the few establishments that do not abide by the Catholic tradition of shutting everything on Sundays (pretty mean considering Pope John Paul II was apparantly a mean goalie in his youth). The shops show English, Italian and Spanish football all day, through a haze of cigarette smoke and local banter.