Write Robert Baggio's beautiful prose.

Remembering Baggio: Just for the indelible blue.

Silver pieces of paper are flying all over the sky, and gorgeous fireworks are blooming. Under the night sky in Berlin, Italy finally embroidered the fourth star on its chest. Although the protagonist of this game is Zidane, although France plays much better than their opponents and the Italian champion is disgraced, the Roman Empire, on this night in Germany, is still restored.

You'll have to pay it back sooner or later if you come out and fool around. France is paying its debts for the penalty shoot-out eight years ago; Trezeguet is paying debts for the Golden Ball six years ago; Zidane used his lifetime fame to pay for his years in Turin; Even Germany returned the gold cup from Rome 16 years ago to Italy in Berlin.

It is fate, it should be fate, the reincarnation of 12-year finalists and the reincarnation of 24-year champions; But if it is really fate, you can't win France in 28 years, and you can't win the penalty spell in 16 years. How can revenge eight years ago and six years ago be gone with the wind at this moment?

And if everyone wants to pay their own debts, then who will owe their own debts?

In the early morning of July 10, 2006, I sat in front of the TV and listened to the rain outside the window after midnight, while quietly accompanying Italy to finish the last leg of the World Cup in Germany. Looking at Cannavaro's smiling face holding the golden cup high, I didn't feel particularly excited. What haunts me is a touch of loss and melancholy. After all, this game has nothing to do with me, with the Italian team I remember, and finally, with him. He and I are a real audience tonight.

I think of him again, the person who has nothing to do with everything now, the person who has completely faded out of our sight. Like him, I have been waiting for this champion for 12 years, but now, when this moment finally comes true, he has disappeared and I am at a loss.

Your Highness, where are you at this moment?

At that time, the bright moon was there, and it had returned according to the colorful clouds.

I used to like Italian football very much, although many people say that Italy is nothing but beautiful uniforms and many handsome guys, although many people say that Italy plays conservatively and uglily, and although many people say that Italian scandals continue, I still like it because of a person's charm. I can't even tell whether I like him because of football or because of him.

16 years ago, Italy was 1990. I am 8 years old and he is 23.

I didn't know what football was at that time. I didn't see the amazing goal on the video until I grew up. I saw his figure as smart and elegant as a butterfly in the flowers, wandering in the encirclement of Czech defenders. Bailey even said that the Italians should fix this series of pictures with sculptures and keep them in the National Museum in Rome forever. At the age of 23, his delicate face is a little immature, his thin figure is a little weak, his slender ponytail flutters in the Mediterranean warm wind, and his black and white football flutters lightly on his toes.

That year, Baggio, who was almost a teenager, had no melancholy in his blue eyes, only a longing for the future;

That year, in his prime, he first appeared in the World Cup and fought for the glory he longed for for for the first time.

That year, when he scored a penalty, he never imagined that the twelve yards in front of the goal would become a lingering shadow in his life four years later.

That year, I was 8 years old and didn't know what football was.

Twelve years ago, 1994 America. I 12, he is 27.

It was the best time, it was the worst time; This is a year of wisdom, this is a year of ignorance; This is a period of faith, this is a period of doubt; This is a bright season, this is a dark season; It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of disappointment; We will all go straight to heaven, and we will all go straight to hell. ...

That hot summer, I spent every day relaxing and enjoying the last comfort before entering the junior high school gate.

That hot summer, he put on a blue jersey, and the number on his back changed from 15, a body double, to 10, a god.

From Wan Li to Rongji, the mountains are flying, the new moon is over Admiralty, and the cold light is ironclad.

On July 5, the eighth final, the 89th minute flew. The Italian prince is better than snow in white, but firm but gentle as frost;

On July 9, the quarter-finals, riding the savior alone in the 90 th minute. A blue shirt braved the wind and waves in the red ocean;

July 13, semi-final, within 25 minutes of opening, blood sealed, scored twice. Amid the overwhelming cheers, he finally cried like a child after the victory, bearing countless pressures.

……

Five golden and heavy goals, three 2: 1, two footballer titles, Italy's only savior, saved the day countless times. It was he who saved Italy, which should have fallen, again and again. He's like our son, every Italian says so. I saw him dragging his broken leg and running tirelessly on the court, dispelling the haze of failure again and again and bringing the light of hope again and again. The ponytail is still dancing in the wind, and the quiet blue eyes and golden sunshine complement each other.

Then, it is July 17, the final. Gold versus navy, Brazil versus Italian, romario versus Robert? Baggio

Straighten the football. Stand up. Step back. Stand still. Take a deep breath. Run and shoot. I guessed the beginning, but not the end.

When the black-and-white football roared into the sky of the rose bowl, Tavrell knelt down, raised his hands to the sky and laughed. And he, standing alone in the sunset, nodded silently, and his eyes as blue as the Mediterranean reflected endless gloom and sadness, just like Hamlet was thinking about "to be or not to be". Romario cheered for the victory, Bei Beituo shook the cradle, and old baresi didn't know where he was ... After many years, these memories have faded, only the lonely figure, the indelible blue, was engraved in my mind and in my heart.

From hero to sinner, from heaven to hell, from glory to shame, life and death are only in this line, and he finally lost to fate. From then on, in the eyes of countless people, he will always be the little prince who did not grow up in that beautiful fairy tale.

The Brazilian said: It was the soul of Senna who lifted his parabola to the sky.

It turns out that not every fairy tale has an ending, and the prince and princess can live happily together.

That year, Baggio, who was in the golden age, passed it at the moment closest to the World Cup.

That year, he was only twelve yards away from being crowned king of the ball;

That year, he lost the championship, but won the sympathy and tears of the whole world;

That year, I was 12 years old, and I burst into tears for a stranger for the first time. I was crazy about football and Italy for the first time because of my back and blue eyes.

Eight years ago, France was in 1998. I am 16, and he is 3 1.

After three years in high school, I always cut it off from my memory without hesitation when I occasionally look back. In my eyes, that era, which teachers and adults ridiculously named flower season, is just an orderly prison, far away from childhood, happiness and dreams, just like his life after the World Cup in the United States.

In the vast Yuan Ye of Apennine, for the glory of the past and the dream of four years ago, Buddhists cut off the once elegant ponytail, sealed all the memories about the past with earrings, and embarked on a journey of self-redemption.

Old Maldini told him that if you can do your best, I will take you to the World Cup. I wonder if it's a joke. But just because this sentence can't be completely taken seriously, he really created a miracle again with his tenacity.

Four years later, at dusk after the rain in Bordeaux, he scored a penalty again and saved Italy. When the whole world was cheering, although he raised his index finger to his mouth indifferently, his blue eyes still gushed with endless sadness and melancholy. He should be recalling the penalty four years ago. He made many free throws. He always scores goals in his sleep, in the corridor of his hometown and even on TV. However, after waking up, the face is still heavy night.

This penalty at the moment can finally make some compensation for the regret four years ago. At that time, I wondered if he could draw a circle in this World Cup with the half-time ending four years ago.

That year, Baggio, who was full of vicissitudes, changed from 10 to 18, and became a substitute for Piero;

That year, he scored a penalty again in the penalty shootout, but failed to become the savior again;

That year, Italy still stopped in front of 12 yards, and the opponent was the host at that time, the later champion, and now the opponent, France, who missed the penalty.

That year, I was 16 years old, and I was worried every day whether I could study in two years' time or not.

Four years ago, South Korea in 2002. I am 20 and he is 35.

Finally, I was admitted to the university, just like Italy, and I stumbled from the group stage every time; After I was admitted, I wasted my time in depression and boredom like countless peers, just like Italy, which retreated to its own half every time after 1: 0 led.

Baggio is old, and I can see that his sideburns are faintly silvery white. I saw that his leg was still bandaged. A ponytail is long and cut, but it is still running on the court, still struggling in the city called Brescia, and still trying to catch the last bus of the World Cup.

"Take me to the World Cup, I am willing to carry luggage for all my teammates ..." How can you not make people feel sad from the heart? Who would have thought that the heroes of the past now have to bow their proud heads and beg for the last chance to realize their dreams? However, in the cry of "taking Baggio" all over the world, the stubborn coach still turned him away.

Although it was the first time that the World Cup came to Asia, although it was the first time that the China team appeared in the World Cup, and although it was the first time that I didn't have to stay up late to watch the ball, the legend was disillusioned and the myth ended.

Fortunately, the ridiculous game, the hateful referee and the despicable opponent finally diluted a trace of sadness. Looking at Maldini's lonely face, my heart was filled with faint joy. I really can't bear to see Baggio working hard for his dream for so long, and finally he fell under the despicable black hand.

The sky is still clear and the golden cup is still shining. Our prince left, calm and relieved, without complaining or complaining, quietly disappeared into everyone's field of vision, bid farewell to four years of hard work, eight years of nightmares, 12 dreams, and bid farewell to those who loved him and hated him.

That year, he was an out-and-out spectator of the World Cup;

That year, Italy died in the host's plot and bid farewell to the World Cup again with an almost humiliating gesture;

That year, it was only two years since he scored 200 goals in Serie A and retired at the San Siro Stadium.

That year, I finally came to sunny Italy, but I didn't find any trace of him. I finally had to buy a blue jersey with his name on it in Pisa. The fat old man who sold my jersey gave me a thumbs-up and told me in broken English: "roberto baggio is a great player, forever."

Today, Germany in 2006. I am 24 and he is 39.

I am used to the days without Baggio, Italy and football. Accustomed to forgetting childhood dreams; Accustomed to being indifferent to everything. After all, I have my job, I have to support myself, and people always have to eat first. The world cup in full swing has no effect on me. Colleagues around me are talking happily about last night's game every day. Strange names popped up from their mouths: Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, Dolsky, Messi, Ribelli ... I couldn't get a word in, so I just listened quietly and was at a loss. My memory of the World Cup is still in the United States in 1994: Diego Maradona, romario, Klinsmann, Stoichkov, Valderrama. ...

Of course, there is the indelible blue in front of the goal of the Rose Bowl.

Where are all these numbers that once made me excited, ecstatic and sad?

It's gone. It's all gone.

A hero who has left. The lost time. Those memories that have passed away.

Twelve years, Baggio grew old year by year, and I grew up year by year. He is working hard to return to the World Cup and win it again, while I am following my own life track step by step: middle school, university, graduation, job search and work; He pursued his dream year after year, and I stayed away from it year after year; In the end, none of us got what we wanted. We ran counter to each other, but in the end we reached an agreement.

In another 12 years, I will be 36 and he will be 5 1. What will happen to me? What will happen to him? How many people will remember the rose bowl 24 years ago?

Let me go back to the past, even for a moment. I said to myself. Finally, at two o'clock in the morning, I sat in front of the TV on time, only for the memories of twelve years ago, only for the indelible blue.

Pagliuca was replaced by Buffon, Maldini by Grosso, baresi by Cannavaro, albertini by Gattuso and Zola by Tony. Thousands of people came here, staged and performed, got or didn't get what they deserved, and then took a curtain call and left. Time is between the entrance and the exit, and it circulates all the year round. I tried again and again to find Baggio's replacement, but in the end it was all in vain. Totti is not, and neither is Pirlo. Italy's original lineup was incomplete because of his absence, and the number nine and a half was still blank.

Materazzi, 33 years old, Totti, 365,438+0, Nesta, 30 years old, Grosso, 29 years old ... These veterans who have been in football for nearly ten years have not a familiar face. The only thing that can evoke a little memory is Piero, who has been replaced and is no longer young. Ten years ago, he was regarded as Baggio's successor; Ten years have passed, and I am still doing nothing in the years.

You are old, Alessandro.

As if it was a lifetime ago, I suddenly thought of him again, and scenes flashed before my eyes: red and white Vicenza's youthful frivolity, purple Florence's emergence, the rule of black and white Juventus, the indifference of the world of red and black Milan, the resurgence of red and blue Bologna, the old horse of blue and white Brescia ... colorful colors flashed, danced and blurred before my eyes, and that touch of blue never faded.

1990 bright smile, 1994 dim tears, 1998 unyielding figure, the eyes trying to watch in 2002. ...

Finally, I waited for the penalty shoot-out. When Grosso scored the winning goal, was Baggio possessed by his soul? Did Baggio borrow Grosso's hand to draw a full stop that should have been drawn twelve years ago? I don't know, but I prefer to believe that at that time, he was not alone, he was not alone.

Cannavaro raised the golden cup, all Italians were laughing and frolicking, silver pieces of paper were flying all over the sky in the Olympic Stadium, and gorgeous fireworks were blooming in the night sky in Berlin./Kloc-The song "Summer in Italy" 0/6 years ago resounded through the sky. ...

Italian power.

Your Highness, where are you at this moment?

Did you see the moment when your descendants raised the golden cup?

Have you heard the song "Summer in Italy"?

What are you thinking about?

Are you happy?

Are you disappointed?

……

I don't know when the screen began to blur in front of my eyes.

If Italy wins the championship again according to fate, it should be 2030. If so, 24 years later, when I see Italy win the championship again, I will still think of the indelible blue color of the rose bowl 36 years ago.