Beautiful Day

Sunday 10th May 1987: Never had a night passed so agonizingly slow for Neapolitans. Finally as a blazing sun rose on the far horizon, illuminating fishing boats lost only seconds before on a black sea, the most beautiful morning dawned in Naples to begin a day unlike any in the history of this most put upon, vilified, but always-charismatic city. In churches and cathedrals, services began early with Priests rushing through sermons, knowing well the hearts and minds of normally subservient congregations lay for once elsewhere. Outside sacred walls the noise and furor of Napoli tifosi bellowed loudly, forcing devoted men of the cloth into shouting out the word of God over Naples own earth bound savior. Maradona.

Hiding their precious blue Napoli shirts beneath angelic white flowing gowns, pensive alter boys glanced nervously at watches as the mass rumbled eternally on. Spluttered coughs from a clearly agitated audience shuffling uneasily with prayer books made it apparent that the urge to pray was overtaken by the overwhelming desire to indulge in more earthly pleasures. Sometimes even the Almighty had to be put in his place. SSC Napoli were calling, it was time to head for the San Paolo, as for once the harvest had responded well and not reaped a bitter crop.

There would be music, dancing, song and wine as every Neapolitan was handed the indeniable right to go crazy for a day. That they did so with such gusto and energy surprised few as the city partied like it was the end of the world. Bakers set up stalls under lemon groves to shelter from the sun. They gave away spaghetti allo Scudetto! White and green pasta with red sauce. The back streets of Naples were awash with expectation, her ancient monuments, statues, crumbling tenements and churches festooned with swaggering displays of Napoli colours draped proudly.

Naples narrow, poverty stricken sunless alleys splashed with joyful masses of light blue bunting and flags as the city prepared to self-explode. Every building anointed, nothing was missed, for this was a carnival the likes of Naples had never before experienced. Sixty-one torturous years of being pilloried, laughed at, cheated, abused and mocked. The festival rolled and revenge was sweet on those who had indulged so whole-heartedly in Napoli's misery. Riotous scenes of unheralded revelry descended upon a people whose spontaneity, passion and happy go lucky approach to life had helped them survive the despairing hardships of their every waking hour.

The time came to unlock the chains and go mad!

Of the chasing pack only Inter Milan were left to offer a challenge, though even they clung by the most slender of threads. Inter trailed by three points with only two games remaining. It would have taken a catastrophe of biblical proportions for the Neapolitans to be dragged back into sight. A single point was all Napoli needed against Fiorentina to take the title. No one in the city dared doubt that the most momentous time in their history was just a few hours away. To even hint all would not be well was viewed as treacherous talk by locals who refused to consider such a dreadful, dark scenario.

Napoli's trials and tribulations, her despair, joy and aspirations touched with heart felt emotions every, house, doorway, window and laundry strewn balcony of the city. The Neapolitans all-enduring, romantic attachment with their football club had finally reached its rainbow's end. A love affair unconsummated, until now. Unbeaten all season at the San Paolo there appeared little reason to worry, but woe betides Ottavio Bianchi's team if by some devilish turn of fate they threw all away at the last. The world would not be a big enough place to hide.

Well before mid-day the Spaccanapoli fell into a wildly, delightful, chaotic melee. For once the traffic jams that plagued the city failed to irk as a deafening crescendo of blazing car horns drifted high over the bay echoing far across the Peninsula. The centro storico, (Old town,) the cradle of the city, Naples ancient heart, from the Forcella to the seaport flooded with tifosi pouring onto the streets. Traffic policemen, 'La vigile,' on horseback with the black uniforms, red braid and dashing white bands across their chests smiled at the euphoria erupting around them, laughing as fellow Neapolitans wrapped Napoli scarves around the necks of their horses.

They even joined in the songs and chants by blowing on whistles adding enthusiastically if rather tunelessly to the endless chorus's. An unofficial truce was declared as the polizia joined forces with the many sicari, (cutthroats,) Spacciatore, (drug dealers) and scippiatori, (motorcycle menaces,) as well as the countless thousands of honest decent Neapolitans, in the shared hope that their football team prevailed. For one day only they would be as one.

The Neapolitan inherited fascination with fireworks and love of unnerving loud explosions would soon become apparent as they prepared to light up the Naples skyline with all manner of apocalyptic concoctions. Some legal, most not and more suited to a battlefield than for celebratory purposes. Many cast serious misgivings on the city surviving in one piece as the nightmarish, fearsome array of garish looking rockets were revealed. The more worried inhabitants crossed themselves as they prayed for protection from what was set to rain down upon them.

There was even an attempt by some enthusiastic, most possibly crazed Neapolitans to place large amounts of dynamite in the crater of Mount Vesuvius and ignite it when the festival was in full swing. Luckily at the lost moment sense prevailed, and it was decided not to provoke the raging fires that burned eternally in the mouth of the volcano. It would have been the ultimate irony and so typical of Neapolitan ill fortune, to be wiped out in a firestorm of death and destruction in their finest hour by Vesuvius blowing its top.

City walls lay plastered with pictures and tributes to those responsible for bringing joy to Naples. Their names lovingly scrawled in letters ten feet tall. Garella, Bruscolotti, Ferrara, Bagni, Ferrario, Renica, Carnevale, Di Napoli, Romano, Volpecina, Cafferelli and the allenatore, (trainer) Bianchi. Though all were admired and loved, none came even close to matching the adoration showered on the Capitano, Diego Armando Maradona. For this had become his city and people. Maradona's features were smeared on every house and shop window. Life size mosaics of Pibe De Oro decorated major vantage points around Naples, none more eye catching than that which covered the main entrance of Stazione Circumvesuviana, a railway station linking the capital with the devastated if captivating ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum.

Here Maradona shone in all his pomp, a glorious technicolour effort that showed him arched over the ball, about to wreak havoc against his opponents. The more fanatical of Neapolitan tifosi carved small, beautifully formed chapels out of stonewalls to worship their idol. Because of his exploits on the football field Diego Maradona had in many Neapolitan's eyes become even more important than the city's Patron San Gennaro and the Virgin Mary. It was a mantle he was hardly worthy of, but though never a saint, Diego Maradona had proved a savior for a people who invested their dreams in him. None more than he brought about this day of wonder.

Between the palm trees of the Piazzale Tecchio they came in their hordes towards the San Paolo. To illustrate their all consuming desire to be seen as a separate state, if not country from the despised, far away despot regimes of Turin, Milan and all points northern, the Neapolitans adopted the flags and traditional dress code of the American Confederacy dating back to the civil war between north and south. A mighty southern army of Johnny rebs dancing like madmen in the Naples sun. Forever the underdog, 'solo contro tutti,' ('alone against everyone.') But at last jubilant after handing the enemy one almighty knockout blow. Payback time on those who had given them hell since the dawn of time.

Four hours before kick off the ground was already packed. The official capacity of 86,000 was boosted by streetwise Neapolitans whose furbo, (cunning) saw them entering by all manner of untoward means. They came in disguised as policemen, mascots, first aiders, even priests and nuns. Never had the home of SSC Napoli been graced by so many members of the Holy Faith. For who on this day when the almighty had never been needed more would refuse entry to a servant of God?

To have a ticket for the San Paolo was regarded in Naples as a day pass to heaven, a heart soaring glimpse into paradise. That the grim foreboding peaks of Mount Vesuvius had vanished in the misty aftermath of erupting fireworks was seen as a good omen by supersticous Neapolitans who feared greatly their volcano's evil eye. They chanted the monster's pet name of 'la buonanima,' 'the good soul,' in an unveiled attempt to appease Vesuvius's good nature. But still it maintained an aura of impending doom, the menacing glare. 'II Grande cono,')(The Great Cone.')

For Gennaro Montuori, the acknowledged leader of Napoli's most well known ultras, the CUCB, this was a day he had waited for all his life. On the eve of the showdown against Fiorentina, Montuori spoke of his hopes for all to go well both on and off the pitch. 'For eight, nine, ten years I have been leader of the Ultras. I have always been against violence and disorder in the stadia. It is too absurd. The Stadium is a theatre where you experiment in folklore. This is a stage for true supporters, for friendship. And above all too express your love of the game. We must not let football waste away. Why turn a party into a tragedy? This is an appeal we ourselves make to the rest of the Napoli fans. When we win tomorrow and claim the title the San Paolo must explode, but with joy.'

Bloodied, battered and scarred from countless confrontations with their northern foes, the foot soldiers of the CUCB, intended to stamp their own indelible mark on the day's events. For many weeks Gennaro Montuori's boys had secretly planned a spectacular display of devotion to SSC Napoli and their birthplace. They had with great care designed a banner of previously unseen size and stature bearing the green, white and red of Lo Scudetto. Montuori was determined his Ultras would command centre stage at the San Paolo by unfurling their masterpiece which would be talked about and envied by rivals for years to come. In the eyes of Gennaro Montuori, on this bella giornata for Naples, no one deserved more some much due recognition than his lads from Commando Ultra B.

The plane carrying the Fiorentina team landed at Naples International Airport to be greeted with the same warmth a back street Neapolitan butcher shows the neck of a lamb as he slits it's throat. Theirs was a mission to bring an entire city to its knees and keep the championship alive for at least another week until the final game of the season. The opportunity to complete a historic double over the champions elect after thrashing Napoli on home ground was a mouth-watering prospect for the visitors.

As Naples and its inhabitants drowned in a raging sea of overwhelming euphoria, the Viola prepared to pull the plug and leave the Neapolitans looking foolish. The immeasurable weight of a bitter rivalry down the years meant the men from Florence would never lie down in the San Paolo. Naples would not be given the title on a silver platter, the war may have been won, but there remained one last battle still to be fought.

In the Fiorentine team was a handsomely, gifted, precocious twenty-year-old called Roberto Baggio. This scraggly young kid who arrived in Florence from lowly Vicenza, looking in need of a good meal would in little time set 'la Citta dei fiori,' ablaze with his unerring sleight of foot, wonderful vision and a devastating ability from set pieces to either blast or bend the ball into the net. He enchanted the Viola tifosi who immediately took him to their hearts. A true 'fantasista.' Few doubted that Baggio possessed the natural ability to one day walk with kings of Maradona's ilk.

Comparisons with Naples finest proved inevitable, He like Pibe De Oro wore the number ten shirt, the most coveted in Italian football, and both were kings of their domain. If the Argentinian was the Southern star, then Roberto Baggio was undoubtedly the brightest of northern lights. Sporting a stylish ponytail and a flamboyant image both on the pitch and off, the nickname of II Divino Codino, ('the Divine Ponytail,') proved remarkably apt for this outrageously talented footballer. Baggio was all set to embark on an illustrious career that would hold more than its fair share of triumph and despair. But first Naples had to be dealt with.

With red lights blaring and sirens wailing, a Polizia motorcycle cavalcade escorted the Fiorentina coach, bumping and bullying through the hellish turmoil of Neapolitan traffic to the San Paolo. Alongside them, Napoli tifosi rode with a suicidal bravura on motorbikes gesturing the two-fingered salute before roaring off, chased by enraged Carabinieri. Nothing could ever compare to the utter confusion and chaos of Naples roads. In certain parts of the city there even existed traffic lights with the colour orange.

They held no purpose, except that Neapolitans felt it helped to brighten the place up! Equally Pedestrian crossings were regarded with contempt by locals, who tended to use them only to scare the living daylights out of tourists! Old men would plant their chairs on the pavements to play cards while eagerly anticipating scenes of carnage and mayhem. It was felt the best way to cross a road in Naples was to simply step out into the traffic and stare the driver down, daring them to hit you! Sometimes it worked, sometimes?

As kick off grew near Polizia and Napoli security staff turned rough in their desperate attempts to clear the pitch. Matters were hardly helped when a parachutist adorning the Napoli emblem on his chute dropped from the sky into the centre circle to rapturous applause. This was the signal for the CUCB to unravel their tour de force. Soon to enter the Guinness Book of Records, this badge of Scudetto against a striking blue azzurra background cut a magnificent spectacle.

Appreciative gasps from across the stadium rang out as its sheer scope became apparent. Entire segments of the heaving terraces disappeared beneath it. In salute fellow Neapolitans unleashed yet another devastating salvo of rockets upon the unsuspecting heavens. The stadium shuddered, many glanced worrying skywards, convinced they were about to be blown off the face of the earth. Gennaro Montuori watched from the running track encircling the pitch with tears streaming down his face. For these were his boys. It was from here that Montuori rallied the troops by loudspeaker, leading the chants, songs and organising the legendary choreography of which the Napoli tifosi were famed for. Their banners expressing with typical eloquence, biting satire and ironic humour the feelings of all Neapolitans on that day of days.

'Napoli, the Immensity of the Heavens is not enough to express our love for you!'

'The Blues, you're Beethoven's Tenth!'

'Maradona illuminates like the sun our once sad Sundays'

'After God, Diego and Napoli, long live the south!'

'Children of the sun snatch the championship from the children of the cold!'

Naples has three beautiful things. The Bay, Vesuvius and Maradona '

'In the sky of Naples there are many stars, but Maradona's shines the brightest!'

'May 87, A New Empire is Born!'

Finally the gloriously short and sweet, 'Excuse the delay!'

To a tumultuous reception worthy of their divine San Gennaro, Diego Armando Maradona led his team into the Naples sunlight. A city wept tears of joy. Maradona ducked, weaved and sprinted between the congested hordes of photographers that pursued him. Their cameras flashing only inches away from his face. The Argentinian caught sight of Napoli's physio Salvatore Carmando and in what had become a legendary, albeit theatrical pre-match ritual rushed to embrace him.

Despite being surrounded by a brawling, circus of excitable Neapolitans, all exaggerated mannerisms, flailing bodies, and utter confusion the highly supersticous Maradona made sure he and Carmando shared their quiet moment before battle commenced. Salvatore Carmando was in tears. Being Neapolitan meant the overwhelming emotions of the day took their toll upon him. He more than any knew the suffering Maradona endured with cortisone injections that had increasingly threatened to curtail his career. As the needle pierced the skin causing his entire body to writhe in agony, Maradona simply gritted his teeth and took the pain.

Carmando witnessed the affection in which teammates held Diego Maradona. Away from the prying lens of the paparazzi he was capable of remarkable, spontaneous acts of generosity and great kindness. How he risked injury on the many dust bowl surface/ football pitches across Naples playing in charity matches, much to the chagrin of his club. The hospital visits to sick children weighed down with gifts. Their faces lighting up on seeing El Pibe De Oro in the flesh. Maradona paying for an operation on a young girl whose face was horribly disfigured, insisting it not be made public. These were not the actions of a man with horns. But then there was the tail to the head. The flipside of the coin, an enigma.

Those outside Naples who tended to regard him as nothing more than a creature from the gutter were always guaranteed ample ammunition to fire the bullets. Maradona moved as if nothing ever stood in his way. An inherent hatred of all thing authoritarian saw him spark and rage against any who blocked his path. Whether it be a referee, politician, policeman or President, Diego Maradona treated all with equal contempt. He would do whatever he wanted whenever he pleased.

The outrageously decadent lifestyle away from football with nightly excesses of Cocaine, whoring and drink, hardly the preparation required for a top sportsman. But who was he hurting more than himself? The road to self-destruction lay in the mind of the beholder. Salvatore Carmando always felt he had no right to judge. Diego Maradona had more than any earned the right to follow his own path. That he still held the power to enrapture on a football pitch amazed nobody more than he. It was a sad miracle. But a miracle nonetheless.

'Perhaps now they will love me?' The President of SSC Napoli Corrado Ferlaino bathed in the fawning, adulation of his fellow Neapolitans as they queued to pay homage. There was little chance of a car bomb ruining his evening on this May day. Only three years previous Ferlaino had been the most vilified man in the entire city. Now they stood in line to kiss his hand. From sinner to saint, the man who brought Maradona to Naples, who oversaw the Scudetto finally head south. Those same faces that once wished him dead now declaring undying love. For eighteen torturous years the embittered President endured savage abuse from Napoli tifosi who viewed his handling of their club with suspicion. Many were convinced Ferlaino was bleeding Napoli's finances dry to pay for his ailing construction businesses.

They knew well of his rumoured connections with the Camorra, but in a city where football and more importantly SSC Napoli mattered so much, this was not sufficient to save him from the wrath of the mob. Corrado Ferlaino had to deliver, to be forever on the brink of extinction and continually having to sell their best players in spite of being amongst the best-supported clubs in Italy was not good enough. Timely remainders were delivered forthwith to Ferlaino in the manner of a succession of car bombs and explosive devices detonating outside the San Paolo. Then, like magic came Maradona! And so as the President blew kisses to his adoring followers on that unforgettable one fine Neapolitan spring afternoon in May, all was forgotten, if not altogether forgiven. A story set to have a fairytale ending.

This was Naples on the early afternoon of Sunday 10th May 1987.

The Match: The rollercoaster that was SSC Napoli rolled slowly upwards before freefalling gloriously into the biggest party ever seen in southern Italy. As Neapolitan mass hysteria threatened to soar out of control in a tidal wave of, fluttering flags, ear piercing whistles and banging drums sweeping over the San Paolo, the game began. A first half hour littered with petty fouls and slack passing was illuminated only by a flashing Diego Maradona free kick that flew inches wide of the Fiorentina goal. As was expected the Viola sat back and dug in, seemingly content with just the occasional foray into Neapolitan territory. But as the roar from the delirious terraces continued unabated, almost demanding a breakthrough it inevitably occurred.

Dropping deep to the centre circle Maradona eyed Andres Carnevale with a wonderful through ball that sliced apart the Florentine rearguard. As all Naples roared him on Carnevale raced into the penalty box and clipped a fine shot past the grasping hands of Viola goalkeeper Landucci to set the stadium ablaze. If there had been doubts, they vanished forever in the fateful moment that net bulged. As ever Neapolitans celebrations swelled to hugely exotic proportions.

Carnevale sprinted across the running track with arms outstretched to share his joy with the blue tifosi, whilst Maradona fell dramatically to his knees, thanking God, kissing the turf. Tears were plenty: Gennaro Montuori sobbed uncontrollably on the sidelines. A lifetime devotion to his team finally reaping rich dividends after so much misery and despair. Behind him the Napoli ultras danced away the heartache and humiliation of yesteryear.

Determined to provide a fitting spectacle for such a grand occasion Napoli blazed forward in search of more goals. The nerves disappeared, in its place came swagger and pomp, championship football! News reaching Naples by radio of Inter going a goal down at lowly Atalanta only further increased the euphoric mood sweeping across the stadium. Chants of 'Atalanta, Atalanta' bellowed loud. It was left to the pony-tailed hero of all Florence to bring them down to earth with a bang, when on thirty-nine minutes Roberto Baggio curled a delicious twenty-five yard free kick past the Napoli goalkeeper Claudio Garella.

Suddenly it had become interesting again! Garella raged at his defensive wall that appeared to dissolve in the face of Baggio's shot. The first of many in Serie A for II Divino Codino. As the half time whistle sounded, the restless murmurings of the assembled hordes hinted as to the uncertainty of their fate. A disturbing quiet fell upon the San Paolo, though the flags still waved it was with a sense of apprehension. 1-1, it was enough, but just.
The re-emergence of the two teams for the second period sparked the crowd back to life, but there remained an uncertainty that wasn't present earlier in the day. Cheers came laced with the nagging doubt that all Neapolitans had tried so hard to block from their thoughts. That all would not go well. Naples obsession with fatalism once more coming to the fore. With nothing to lose Fiorentina opened up to cause consternation on the terraces.

The Napoli tifosi watched with hearts in mouths as their team was forced to retreat. It was akin to a drunkard turning up at a christening and drowning the baby. Roberto Baggio was magnificent, all silky skills, probing, looking for the killer pass. II Divino appeared to be enjoying himself tormenting the home defence. The raging torrents of abuse hurled upon him from all corners of the stadium seemingly inspiring Baggio to tease them a little more.

The clock ticked down, slowly seconds turned achingly into minutes. Hails of derision from the Neapolitans each time a Viola player touched the ball and made with deadly intent for their half. The last fifteen minutes dawned and the Sixty-one-year wait was agonisingly close to being over. By now most in the San Paolo could barely watch matters on the pitch. The dying moments of the contest saw Napoli playing keep ball in an effort to wind down time. With 86,000 souls begging the referee to end their misery and the noise level rising to unheard of proportions, at 17.47, the arbitro, Pairetto duly obliged.

For a fleeting second older tifosi found themselves thinking back to seasons past. When all was black and Naples dreams of glory were ridiculed. The insults screamed out. 'Lavense,' 'Wash the steps before leaving.' 'Vesuvius we are counting on you.' ' Mafiosi.' None no longer mattered or hurt as the final whistle blew and through the golden gates of heaven Neapolitans poured. How sweet a moment for a people and city that had wished for nothing more. Held forever in contempt, scorned and laughed at, Naples now possessed the biggest put down line in Italian football history, Champions!

In a blinding, swirling mist of smoke bombs, igniting red flares and earth, shattering firecrackers, the fanatical hordes of blue tifosi commenced their long overdue victory festivities. For the first time ever the pride of Naples, SSC Napoli had earned the right to wear upon their shirt the esteemed badge of Lo Scudetto. The best of the best, the championship insignia of all Italy. On the pitch a beaming Diego Maradona gestured to his adoring subjects with a raised two-fisted salute, before vanishing beneath a mad flurry of backslapping ecstatic well-wishers.

First amongst them was Maradona's younger brother Hugo who had rushed to embrace his older sibling, almost choking him in an all clasping bearhug. It was a truly emotional moment for the man who though adopted and adored by Naples, always remained in his heart a 'porteno, '(native of Buenos Aires.) As much that Argentina's victory in the 1986 world cup was viewed in Naples as a triumph for Neapolitans, so the poor people of Villa Fiorito back in Buenos Aires equally celebrated SSC Napoli's achievements. For Diego Maradona was one of their own.

Glancing up, Maradona caught sight of teammate Giuseppe Bruscolotti making his way towards him through the adoring crowds. If the Argentinian was the talisman in the title finally coming to Naples, then Bruscolotti was undoubtedly the rock on which such foundations were built. A living legend in these parts long before Diego Maradona ever touched ground at the San Paolo, Bruscolotti had led from the front throughout the lean years. A pillar of strength for Neapolitans who despaired as their football club were repeatedly outgunned by Juventus and the Milan clubs. Or as had happened one too many times, shot down by their own hand.

The veteran defender bore the scars of past battles fighting Naples cause, both physically and mentally. His haggered, war, weary features visible for all to see, but the sickness in his heart at seeing his beloved Napoli humiliated by their many enemies not so, except to those closest to him. The courageous decision to hand El Pibe De Oro the Captain's armband in exchange for his promise to bring the Scudetto south had come to fruition. As the two came together to share a warm embrace the most hardened Neapolitans wept like babies. The heart-rending sight of this ferocious old warrior shedding tears of joy whilst clinging tightly to Maradona meant all the pain and frustration suffered over the decades was a price worth paying to witness such a moment. The young king had delivered on his word to the old master.

With Diego Maradona proudly at their helm, Napoli began a luxuriously swamping lap of honour around the San Paolo. But as hundreds joined in alongside them it resembled more a joyful stampede. A Neapolitan-cavalry charged tinged with blue and heavy doses of delirium. Supporters, photographers and reporters jostled amongst themselves in an attempt to get close to their idols. Maradona picked up a Napoli scarf from the running track and waved it above his head in the direction of the crowd, soaking up the adulation.

A banner exclaimed, 'You are as one, San Gennaromaradona!' The entire Maradona clan were present in the stadium to witness their boy's moment of triumph. His Mother watched embarrassed as tifosi bowed before her, falling to their knees. Thanking Tota for giving birth to the great 'curly one.' On reaching the relative sanctuary of the dressing room, the Capitano led all the team in a rousing rendition of the 'Oh Mama, Mama' tribute song. The Argentinian changed the verses dedicated to himself to ensure each player was serenaded individually by the others.

Maradona grabbed a microphone off a television crew and began a series of comic interviews with all of his teammates. But when it came to Guiseppe Bruscolotti, he showed only glowing respect for El Pepe, acclaiming him, the true Capitano of Napoli.' Amidst such wonderful scenes of camaraderie and friendship the men who brought about the greatest day in the history of SSC Napoli danced, sung and laughed. All except one. Despite the grateful handshakes, bearhugs and celebratory kisses planted upon him the coach Ottavio Bianchi refused to partake, keeping a distance, alone in a crowd. In this his moment of absolute triumph, he remained stonefaced, only ever hinting at a smile.

But the dour features of Bianchi misled many, for inside burned a footballing heart that lived for SSC Napoli and the city she represented. Deep down none enjoyed winning the Scudetto more than he. Already his mind was racing ahead to the following season. Bianchi knew well the northern arisitocracy would come after them with an almighty vengeance. They would not take kindly to being humbled at the hands of Naples. It was a humiliation beyond words and could never be allowed to happen again. But Ottavio Bianchi already had a plan in mind to counteract the mighty forces being lined up against the Neapolitans. Instead of waiting for the inevitable, all out assault, SSC Napoli would attack from the off! Why wait for the enemy when you can hit them hard, early and blow them away.

Such was the noise and furore created in the San Paolo on that fateful day, Mount Vesuvius could well have blown it's mighty top and no one would have noticed or even cared. A poet once wrote of the bay of Naples, ' I want to bring you to a place where the winter is sweet and the summer is fresh. Where the sea lightly touches the land with lazy waves.' This evoked vivid images of tranquility, serenity and calm. But not on this day when the title finally came south! For though Naples could never claim to be the sanest of cities, in the early evening of 10/5,87, she truly fell into a state of madness.

Nowhere was this more so than the back streets labyrinth of the Forcella, as open trucks and cars inched bumper to bumper in slow, triumphant procession through the winding, narrow streets of the city's ancient, beating heart.

Around them flitting and buzzing like fireflies, hundreds of vespas sped manically, their drivers hooting and hollering in celebration of the greatest day any had ever experienced. All the pent up frustrations of living life under the thumb of their alleged betters in the north poured out and the Forcella went wild. Many present swore a witch's spell was cast over its inhabitants such was the crazed glint in their eyes. Courtesy of the Guiliano clan, the best wine and food was made freely available in abundance as the self styled 'protectors of the poor' moved heaven and earth to be seen in a good light on this most special of occasions. It was after all their boy who more than any brought the Scudetto south, and besides, they could easily afford it.

Unsuspecting nearby towns and villages across the Gulf of Naples found themselves under siege as joyful convoys of Napoli followers swept through their streets in a victory procession. San Francesco, Vico Equense and nearby Sorrento were all treated to a characteristic show of Neapolitan high spirits. Famed for their beautiful sunsets, lemon groves and rose gardens, the highbrow residents of Sorrento watched in utter disdain the antics of the city dwellers as ramshackle trucks crammed tight with cheering tifosi roared through Piazza Tasso, their historic town centre.

They were to be pitied, like the lunatics of an asylum allowed out for the day. Laughed at, derided, and ultimately told to just go away. Back to their garbage strewn alleyways in the Forcella. Out of sight and mind. Let them have their moment in the sun, for tomorrow normality would once more rear itself and again Neapolitans would be left with nothing but aching heads and empty lives. But they would have something far more important, the memories of a day set to go down in Naples history as amongst its most glorious ever.

A song echoed for hours, and later days, weeks and years throughout the city. An ageless Canzone called 'O surdato 'nnammurato,' (The soldier's song,') that somehow captured such a special time for all concerned. ''E mme diciste si na sera e maggio.' ('And she said yes to me on a May evening.') This more than any was the soundtrack of 'Bella Giornata,' and even today it is regarded as the defining song of those heady times.' You were my first love, oh first you'll be for me. Oh sweet life of mine.'

Napoli's historic triumph appeared to stretch far, wide and even beyond this mortal coil. On a graveyard wall, tifosi daubed the words, 'E che ve site perz!' ('What did you miss!') The next morning, written in chilling reply beneath, 'E chi ve l'ha ditt?' ('How do you know we missed it?) Dogs covered in Maradona wigs barked manically at the bedlam around them. Baying donkeys roamed free around the city with the names of Naples most hated enemies placed on placards around their necks. Napoli's unofficial club emblem, the sad-eyed, downtrodden, but always loveable 'O Ciuccio,' being used to poke fun against all who had mocked.

As the evening drew in and night fell like a cloak of darkness over the bay of Naples, hundred of Neapolitans gathered on the seafront to participate in what at first appeared a mass funeral service. To signify the end of northern dominance a temporary chapel had been erected housing wooden coffins bearing the names of SSC Napoli's sworn enemies. Turin, Verona and Milan foremost amongst those.

After a short charade of mock grieving, huge cheers erupted from the shoreline as the hated Bianconeri, Veronesi and Milanese were dragged into the ocean before being set alight by flaming hand-held torches and cast off into the darkness. As the coffins burned, drifting out on the high tide, the sky above blazed in a tumultuous kaleidoscope of vivid colour. For the Neapolitans had let fly everything at their disposal that went bang! Bengal bombs, Roman candles and the wonderfully named, potentially devastating Maradona ball were amongst those honoured with a San Gennaro blessing, then launched towards the southern stars. It began with a Culpo scuro, (detonation in the dark,) and ended with all hell breaking loose!

An almighty ensemble of firepower illuminating the heavens, exploding in a glorious cascade above the Tyrehnian Sea. Blazing red rings of fire glowed, sizzled then faded, falling away. Fireworks that crashed, fizzed, sparked and thundered before detonating into a thousand pieces, leaving spilt in their wake glistening trails of lingering sulphur lining the black sky. Below Neapolitans roared in delight at their handy work, drunk in body and spirit, totally oblivious to the dangers posed to themselves. What the hell! 'To Vesuvius, sooner or later he'll get us all!' As once forecast, night had turned to day in Naples.

Fire engines raced through the streets, dousing rubbish piles before roaring off at breakneck speed to the next emergency. Never had they experienced such a night, as their fellow Neapolitans appeared insistent on burning the city to the ground. Those who witnessed this remarkable show of near- suicidal, amateur, pyrotechnics from a safe distance on nearby Ishia and Isle of Capri shock their heads in disbelief and no less wonder at the mad antics of their lunatic neighbours from across the water. Typically, Naples appeared on the verge of being the first city in history to self-inflict total destruction on itself from the air! But on Ishia and Capri they at least looked on the bright side, for life might prove just a little more tranquil.

But where was El Rei? Away from the madding crowds that chanted his name incessantly amidst the hysterical atmosphere of downtown Naples, it was widely rumoured Diego Maradona spent the night amongst friends at a party, hosted in his honour by the Guilliano clan in the discreet surroundings of the village of Nola, on the city outskirts. So as not to alert the paparazzi, or unwanted government attention the venue was kept secret until the last moment. The guests arrived in sleek, black, stretch Limousines, surrounded by mean faced bodyguards and most prized, beautiful mistresses clinging to their arms. It was said to have been a lavish affair, even by Camorra standards. Against a backdrop of Maradona's finest goals for Napoli being replayed endlessly on large video screens, the finest women, wine and white powder money could buy was on offer to those lucky enough to be present by special invitation.

All took advantage of the Guilliano's generosity, none more than Diego Maradona who partied equally hard as the most drunken, delighted Neapolitan, enjoying the forbidden fruits of his hard earned labour. Live for today, as tomorrow is a distant dream! Many of the gangs had gambled heavily on the back of Maradona's leading Napoli to success, earning themselves huge fortunes. Neapolitans had always tended to bet with their hearts not heads when it came to their football team. Strange those whose daily existence centred on murder and extortion should act like fawning tifosi when faced with Maradona. Tipping their glasses in salute, hanging on to his every word. For this man not only earned them fortunes, the genius of El Pibe De Oro made their childhood dreams come true.

Morning came and Naples grabbed some much needed rest before throwing itself once more into Samba mood. As a new day broke only the most fanatical tifosi remained, bleary eyed, but steadfastly refusing to let go of the moment. Grasping it in their hand like a gust of wind, only to watch sadly as it slipped free, blown away on the ocean breeze. The last of the rockets were fired almost half-heartedly, lacking the thunderous impact of the previous nights extravaganza. A lone thud spat and spluttered over the bay, whilst sporadic crackles of fireworks echoed rather wearily in the distance. The city that never slept fell for once into serene slumber. Where the dark blue ocean melted into the sky, a red sun lazily rose, and Neapolitans bade a fond farewell to what had truly been bella giornata. A most beautiful day. They would never see its like again.