He said it clearly to the microphones of televisions around the world: “Piranhas contra truchas”. Carnivorous fish against wood chips scattered in the water. He has not yet recovered from the shock of defeat when he says these words. He and his team have just lost the final of an Olympics played at home, at BarcelonaHe is Manuel Estiartethe Maradona of water polo. His infinite class, however, was not enough, against the prodigious Italy of Rakto Rudic, the Croatian sergeant who arrived to squeeze the most out of a talented team that tends to lose its way on special occasions.
Last day of the Spanish Olympics. A sultry Sunday in 1992, the ninth of August. The scene of the decisive clash is the Bernat Picornell swimming pool. Catalonia dreams of independence and tries to recognize itself in the triumph of a city, rather than a national team. Italy, however, shakes its head. It is not ready to lay down its arms, having reached this point. It does not matter if the arena is a incandescent basin painted red. Not even the imperious figure of the King of Spain, Juan Carlos, who has come to celebrate the success of his team, can undermine the acquired certainties.
Rudic has taught an overly moody team to turn off disturbing feelings. He wants it to resemble his Yugoslavia: united and ruthless. To achieve this, he has practically come to quarrel with some of his players. The manners are brusque, the patience non-existent, the demands unprecedented. The biggest challenge, for the “Belgrade walrus”, is to overcome resistance to change. In the minds of his boys he instills a granite concept: talent must be armed with a total dedication.
Listening to his beliefs, since 1990, people gather a little perplexed. those of the Settebelloa miraculous expression coined by Nicolò Carosio many years earlier. In the meantime, however, today they are in the final, in the presence of the prodigious Spain dragged into the water by Estiarte, a Catalan from Manresa, a large predator released into an aquarium. Only that the fish of that day decide to sharpen their teeth all together and begin to bite off the success. In the pool go Francesco Attolico, Marco D’Altrui, Sandro Bovo, Pino Porzio, Sandro Campagna, Paolo Caldarella, Mario Fiorillo, Franco Porzio, Amedeo Pomilio, Ferdinando Gandolfi, Massimiliano Ferretti, Carlo Silipo, Gianni Averaimo. Here they are, our heroes.
Yes, they play in the water, but it immediately seems clear to everyone that it looks much more like a pool of incandescent lava. The Spanish attack. The Italians respond. They fight inch by inch. Span by span. Neither team can tame the other. The two teams are equal, generating tons of anxiety for those watching the game from the stands and those standing in front of the TV, at home, sweating even if they have never seen water polo before.
The general climate becomes so torrid that, at a certain point, Rudic risks coming to blows with his Spanish colleague. The competitive trance is total. The result is glued to parity. It goes to extra time. Italy is visited for a moment by all the ghosts of previous defeats, when they had been a hand’s breadth away from success and then saw it slip through their fingers. This time, however, they chase them all away.
“If you want to win, don’t think about winning,” Rakto mantrically repeats, addressing his men. The emotional swings are off. Nerves like steel and we dive back into the water.
From these slimy streams rises the miraculous hand of Ferdinand Gandolfi: arched back, right push, ball in the net. The Azzurri win 9-8. Olympic gold. Spain and Catalonia are silent. The King too. That gruff guy from Yugoslavia throws himself among his own. Diving, he sends the Spanish shavings to the edges.