'%20x='0'%20y='0'%20height='100%25'%20width='100%25'%20%0A%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20%20xlink%3Ahref='data:image/jpg;base64,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'%3E%3C/image%3E%3C/svg%3E)
The Italian national anthem filled the Westfalenstadion stadium in Dortmund, the very air quivering in anticipation as the world came to a standstill, as two titans of the footballing world prepared to lock horns on the biggest stage of them all.
As the camera zoomed down from terrifying heights, and proceeded on its way to its customary appraisal of the teams lined out on the pitch, my eyes registered a quite surprising sight.
At one end of the Italian team was a man who looked like he was drinking up the atmosphere with a wholehearted cockiness that I found quite irksome.
Deprived of sleep and lying upside-down on a bean bag that had taken the brunt of my frustration after Argentina had been knocked out by this German team in the quarters, my hopes of exacting a measure of personal revenge by declaring my temporary allegiance to the Azzurri were at an all-time low.
I straighten up to see this prince singing his national anthem without even a trace of apprehension crossing his smug features, and as I bellowed out to the TV screen that he was “doomed, I tell you, doomed!!”, my eyes were subjected to the rather nauseating sight of Marco Materazzi imploring Ares, the Greek God of war, for inspiration.
I resumed my erstwhile position on the bean bag, contemplating what fresh horrors this youthful German side had to endure on the night before they could make it through.
In retrospect, they would’ve taken 11 Materazzis wielding chainsaws on the night, if only they could’ve made it through the Italian wall. The next 120 minutes saw some of the most absorbing football of the tournament, and I was still in a state of disbelief as the TV flashed scenes from a delirious Circo Massimo in Rome celebrating an unlikely victory.
As I trudged off to bed, saying good night to my distraught kid brother, I thought of the prince again. It was almost as if he knew.
Seven years on, and the prince is being beseeched by an Italy that wants to see its favorite son pull on the national team colors for one final, glorious hurray in the Brazilian sun. This is not a nostalgic public crying out for a past hero in its time of need, but one that is stunned by the continued exploits of a man now into his 22nd year in professional football.
That man can only be Francesco Totti; leader, legend and heartthrob to a Roma side that even now, looks to their hero for inspiration. To find that he duly obliges, the only subtle change being that his cocky features are now adorned by a touch of acceptance and wisdom.
For the man understands the burden he carries today; that it is a burden only the chosen have the privilege to carry. You see, that Francesco Totti is a blessed child of God is straightforward footballing logic.
But it took that World Cup win for the great man to align himself with the intentions of the Gods of fate, and accept his place in history. In a decision that was typical of the Italian obsession with the intertwined branches of romanticism and destiny, the then 30 year old announced his retirement from international football.
At the time, having attained the pinnacle of any footballer’s career, it seemed right to relinquish the chance to lesser mortals, to those encumbered by the struggles of staying in the shadows of a titan.
It proved to be a decision that helped the icon continue on his path of attaining immortality for a Roma side that has occasionally flirted with the elite, but never truly belonged with them. He sees his place in history very clearly, and is determined to take AS Roma to similar heights.
He has said that he would love to play past the age of 40, and nobody would begrudge him the chance to usher in a new era at the club, when they take to their new stadium in Tor di Valle, potentially from the 2016/17 season onwards.
For their symbol and their blood to be at the forefront of a new dawn only seems natural.
He has also made no secret of his desire to overhaul Silvio Piola’s mark of 274 Serie A goals, a mark he is shy of by a considerable 44 goals at the time of writing. That would forever cement his place as perhaps the greatest ever Serie A player, something that is sure to go a little way into making up for his hurt at never having won the Champions League with his beloved Roma.
You see, in Totti’s mind, the fates of his club and his own self are forever intertwined – one cannot survive without the other. Totti is Roma, and Roma is Totti.
His is the ultimate dream; a career spent as the guardian of your hometown club, striking all who dare to impinge on your honor.
And even if the battles have left their scars, the heart still yearns for the glory that has to be snatched from fate’s unwilling hands.
But in his relentless pursuits for his one true love, the symbol has come to see that his exploits have once again made him irresistible to his fiery mistress – the Azzurri jersey.
She has been harsh and unrelenting in her thirst, first bringing him down with that loss in the final against France at Euro 2000.
Years of punishment and mediocrity were all forgotten in that glorious summer in the land of an old enemy, as the hero returned home with many a prized scalp among his spoils. But he bid goodbye to his temptation, to settle down to a life spent in the loving arms of his boyhood love.
And now, on the threshold of a decision that could potentially ruin his lofty ambitions for his club, he finds himself enticed by the prospect of one, final fling. The harsh reality is that his body may not be able to take another tumble with much younger legs that desperately want what he has, on a stage that inspires heroics and emotion like no other.
Oh, the humanity. How cruel that even amongst the best of us who wear the tag of greatness so lightly, moments of weakness are just as pertinent.
This is a man at a crossroads the like of which he has never faced before, and one that will shape the twilight of what has been a career unlike any other.
Personally, I would love to see him make the trip down to Brazil, if only because he now has the chance to pass on the baton to a soul who is just as gifted, but so much more troubled. If there is one man who can keep Mario Balotelli on a leash purely on the strength of his personality, it is the Roma captain.
And in doing so, he may just give the Azzuri a long shot at lifting the crown again. But to what cost?
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But he has promises to keep,
And miles to go before he sleeps,
And miles to go before he sleeps.
Forgive me, Robert Frost.
