Lombardo, Sampdoria, Chasing a Feeling

It was big enough to fit a grown man. Because it had belonged to one. As a kid, my neighbour, Andrew, was into two things; West Ham and Italian football. The bi-product of the former was a chaperone to Upton Park if my Dad was heading to the ground from work. The latter meant getting my hands on Serie A VHS season reviews and his now iconic 90’s jerseys; Inter, AC, Fiorentina, Juve. All very nice then, let alone now. But one grabbed me more than the rest – Sampdoria away (92-94).

The objective beauty of it aside, the fact their then midfielder, Atillo Lombardo, was my Dad’s hairstyle twin added an extra appeal to them. I idolised him. My mates loved him. I’m still talking about my Dad, here. But Lombardo’s presence on our TV’s every weekend during the halcyon days of the early to mid 1990’s added an extra layer of appeal to Sampdoria and earned my Dad the moniker Ron-bardo.

Coming home from my Sunday game, the smell of lamb roasting would hit me as the front door opened, condensation covered the kitchen windows and Football Italia was on the other side switching the TV on and the chance to see Sampdoria, Lombardo. If not in the televised game then in some highlights at the end.

That jersey, now worth a few quid, didn’t survive one of my Mum’s regular culls. I have no idea when it left the house, along with a few other destined classics, but I hope they made it to a good home.

Down the line, in early adulthood, I increasingly attached myself to Sampdoria. They were my Italian team. Like I still watched a lot of Italian football at that point.

I didn't. But I diligently looked out for their results displaying a kind of faux despair at a heavy defeat or relegation.

This continued into my thirties. To the extent that I bought the 2016 home jersey. I’ve barely worn it. I don’t even particularly like it. How can that be? It’s got all the right bits in all the right places but I don’t feel anything towards it.

In the final throes of 2021 I took a trip to Genoa. An interesting choice as I’d been learning Spanish for 3 years at that point. But, at the end of a difficult year, surrounded by too many ghosts of Christmas’ past, I felt the calling to Italy. Selecting the dates around a home fixture with Lazio offered me the opportunity to visit to the Luigi Ferrari and cross off a pencilled in bucket-list item.

The trip was difficult, interesting, healing. The city beautiful. I walked four hours, every day, and felt a genuine excitement as the iconic corners of the stadium materialised between apartment blocks on a glorious, sunny winter afternoon.

But the game was played on a cold Sunday night and, with barely anyone there, they fell to a 3-1 defeat against 10-men. No star names. A crap kit. A fruitless search for a certain feeling.

Talking to David Furzer-Jones, listening to his words on the weight of a jersey, how it can transport you to another time or place made it clear.

I know now I’ve never really cared for Sampdoria. I’d been using them as a conduit. Though I didn’t know it.

I didn’t go to Genoa to support them. I went to there find lamb roasts, condensation on the kitchen windows, Ron-bardo and the feeling that everything was OK when it hadn't been for so long.

Maybe I just need to replace that shirt.

JF