That final goal by Baresi

It was 27 August 1995. It was morning, and the heat was sticky and exhausting. The hillside air carried the scent of grass scorched by the sun and the sweet smell of grapes being transported in trailers hitched to tractors, mingling with the stench emanating from engines with their exhaust pipes removed.

Among the thousands of days that fade from memory, some remain etched in the mind; they do not fade away. Among the countless memories that fade, and the many that vanish, some remain there, unmoving, impervious to the passage of time. Like that 27 August 1995.

That day I’d put on my Milan shirt, the white one from our European Cup victories. My parents wouldn’t let me have the red-and-black striped one; they said it looked too much like a football shirt. I’ve never understood the point of that reply. It was a football shirt! Why shouldn’t it look like a football shirt? I was born into a family with very little interest in football. My father couldn’t care less about football; he’s always hated it. The years that have passed since then have only hardened his stance. Back then, I’d only been to the stadium once, in Udine, to watch a friendly match. I’d been taken there by the father of a friend from the seaside, who was an Inter fan, but was happy to travel well over a hundred kilometres to watch Udinese even though they were playing in Serie B.

That day I had donned my Milan shirt – the white one from our European Cup victories – because the father of another friend of mine had managed to secure three tickets for Padova v Milan. Mr G. supported Juventus, whilst my friend and I supported Milan; you make incredible sacrifices for your children. If that ticket had not been free, I would not have put on my Milan shirt that day, nor would I have waited outside the house for a quarter of an hour, all excited because I was finally going to see the team I supported – because, for my parents, paying to go to the stadium was a waste of money. I never held it against them; over time I came to understand their point of view, not least because when it came to going to watch cycling, they never said no – in fact, my father would study the stage route on road maps to time it so we could catch two or three of the riders passing by.

I remember the stadium. Padua’s Stadio Euganeo seemed enormous and beautiful to me. I returned there a few decades later and smiled at my own naivety back then. I remember the teams taking to the pitch and the thrill of seeing Dejan Savićević and Roberto Baggio side by side – the players I loved most. I even admired ‘Il Divin Codino’ when he played for Juventus, which had caused me problems with a few of my Milan-supporting mates in previous years. Then came the match: George Weah’s goal, Nicola Amoruso’s equaliser. Alexi Lalas’s long, reddish hair. Sebastiano Rossi’s shouts. The diminutive elegance of Giuseppe Galderisi, who, as my friend’s father told me, had won titles with both Juventus and Verona – and I didn’t like either Juventus or Verona.

The first half was drawing to a close and my friend and I were already looking forward to the Coca-Cola his dad had promised us, when Franco Baresi stole the ball from an opponent, started running forward, passed it to a teammate and kept running. The teammate passed it to George Weah and Franco Baresi kept running, and my friend and I looked at each other as if to say, ‘What on earth is he doing, running like that?’

Franco Baresi kept running.

We were naive and inexperienced.

George Weah lobbed the ball to the captain. The captain slowed his run and controlled it with his chest. He then controlled it with his thigh. He took a small hop. He kicked it towards the goal with a flat-footed shot of the sort that’s only really suitable for passing to teammates. He scored.

My colleague and I looked at each other in disbelief. There was a moment of silence all around us. A silence that was itself filled with disbelief. The room was filled with individuals staring at one another with their mouths agape and wide, astonished smiles. Then there was a roar like the earth’s crust cracking.

We embraced each other. All around us, numerous people were embracing each other. It was then that I realised that stadiums are, above all, places of love.

Franco Baresi had scored a goal. The man who, better than anyone else, prevented others from scoring, had scored a goal. It was unbelievable.

I’d never seen Franco Baresi score before. And yet I used to watch ‘90° minuto’ every Sunday. It had never happened. The last goal he’d scored before that was on 25 March 1990, and on 25 March 1990 I knew little or nothing about football; and if I did know anything, I don’t remember it.

On all the other occasions I’ve been to the stadium and cheered a goal, I’ve never seen such amazement. Not least because Franco Baresi never scored again. That was his last goal.

Years later, whilst cycling through Milan whilst waiting for another friend to be free to go for dinner, I bumped into Franco Baresi right in front of me.

“Captain!”, I said to him in a tone of voice so surprised and excited that it was probably rather off-putting. He looked at me with a hint of fear in his eyes, a look of surprise and a touch of embarrassment. I apologised to him for my behaviour. He replied: “Don’t worry, it’s just that I haven’t got used to it yet.”

“But come on. You’re the Captain – how come you haven’t got used to it yet?”

I explained to him that he had always felt somewhat embarrassed when people recognised him. I recounted the events of 27 August 1995 and how happy it had made me. He smiled. He noted that he still remembered that day too, because “I hadn’t scored for years; when I watched the footage again, I felt a bit embarrassed – I was celebrating rather awkwardly”.

In the years to come, I will also remember 31 July 2026, the day Franco Baresi died, the day of the Captain’s third and final farewell. The emotion is similar to that felt on 1 June 1997, the day of his last match in the Milan shirt, and on 28 October 1997, the day of his farewell match, a celebration of the footballer he once was.