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Discussion Starter #1 (Edited)
Grande Torino is alive, history never fades or dies!

On this day 56 years ago in a terrible plane crash near Turin the greatest football team that the world has ever seen perished. I'm opening this thread to pave respect to our legends as every each of us around the planet is doing today.

R.i.p. Grande Toro!!! :frownani:

:proud:
 

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RIP Il Grande Toro! :cry:
 

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Turin is alive. The Great Torino is alive, too. In the mythic Filadelfia, where they ran and won, Torino played again. And so be it. HISTORY NEVER FADES OR DIES
 

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Discussion Starter #9
A report from a fan:

we remembered our "GRANDE TORINO"...

the Ultras and other supporter groups worked in the last month to let this aniversary be a special one. The gloriuos Filadelfia field where the players of Grande Torino played was until a month a nothing more than garbage.
Ultras and others brought it back to ancient glory.... a field was re-estabilished with hard work and sacrifice. To commemorate this special date, a special match was organized between old glories of Toro such as Pulici, Graziani, Sala, Pecci, Lentini and many others vs a team formed by supporters of the curva maratona. The match was played right at Filadelfia.
15.000 toro supporters joined this happening and it was a great success. The event was published on many national newspapers and also on national tv.

here are some pictures i've made....



















FORZA TORO!
 

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the thing I wrote :(
 

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Discussion Starter #19
Yuumei said:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF THE MYTHS
Red as blood, strong as Barbera, a poet called it. And never definition was truer. As that red sap of the life, made to revive hope in a defeated, starved country. As that thick wine of Piedmont,they put color and joy in faces torn to pieces by war.

They lived an era full of convulsions. Were born as subjects in a kingdom, then comrades in a tyranny and suddenly they were citizens in a republic. They knew of joy and sadness, of the deep deprivation and modest wealth of their times, were hailed by crowds and also whistled and misunderstood.

They are eighteen, and they draw near, as they used to do, walking. And it’s a walk short as a day, long as eternity and their bus, the Red Count, waits with the engine running. At midnight they will leave again, however now they have just arrived.

Those are young people’s faces, there is neither tension nor grimaces of disgust in them, the stress is not shown in the fresh faces and expressions. Alas, if we believe in the poet, they should: “To smoke meant sometimes a bit / to be amused meant laughing few / to eat we ate the cats / we were nothing, the astute one as the fool.” Yet they smile, they animately speak, they joke, they put the heads together to read a holder of newspaper.

Geniuses and figures were legion: Eusebio, calm, funambolic and brilliant, able to put a coin in his pocket with a movement of his plushy foot; Guglielmo, jokeful, always plastic, elegant and unruly, whose only rule was the greased hair-style; as Franco the eel, slalom of class and touch of kingdom of fairies. Two partners of field, business and life, making possible the impossible.

There were also classics among them. That Virgilio that could bring to Heavens with his class, but not without supporting the shoes on the most delicate part of the bullock of Piazza St. Carlo. There was also Romeo, that instead of waking up Juliet with a kiss, made the lawn tremble with his shoots. Julius, that “ came and saw” but didn't succeed in passing to the “win” or to pass the Rubicon. Also Rubens, that also without brush, traced his way with cleverness, sweat and style.

There were then the practical ones: Aldo, kind and simple as pugnacious and imposing; Giuseppe, silent and worker, has as motto “we need to be ordered”; Ezio, thoughtful and sober, didn't vernish his game, that only was used for his true job of varnish seller. The three of few words and many facts.

They could not have a group of friends of the soul that lived in the same road: Valerio the timid one, if he failed on Sundays the world would fall over him, even if he was really good as few, Mario the fighter, fierce in the game and audacious on his motorcycle, Danilo the artist, sang wonderfully and played in all places.

There were, also, the unknown. Pierino, heir of Virgilio, clever, physically dry, repertoire preferably airborne. Ruggiero, crowned of glory in France, all strength and future apply to Guglielmo’s place. Dino that could never play but that always had the illusion to be as his companions. Milo, another champion from France, left footed, quick in the wing and basis of his country.

And there was that one whose name was enough. You only had to say his name and add "and the others", and it was already done, evoked them to everybody. Captain and flag, charge and cavalcade, cloak and sword, right and left, torch and thunder in clear sky. As always, he leads the group, driving it, by a respectable looking man that turns around the fifties and that seems to be the guide of the group.

The eighteen - beautiful number and beautiful name for a team – cut through among the congregated crowd. There are murmurs, incredulous eyes, fingers that want to aim and later, as if it was sacrilege, they leave the gesture undone.

The clock points five minutes to five, afternoon, and for the first time there is silence among them. Many tense up, recognizing loved faces among the crowd, establishing a dialogue with their gaze. The heads go down as soon as the prayers start, the eyes sweet and melancholic are lifted and placed on the tombstone, they slowly read their own names, as if for the first time they saw them... and they are already fifty-six years that they complete this same ritual.

When people go down by the path, they got further toward the destroyed wall. That construction is a sacred place, a basilic, the resting place of the kings. There has been little changing from that unhappy afternoon: it is more sacred earth than before, it’s still basilica, but they returned it to be a point of reunion of common people.

The captain returns to register the group. They use the opposite side of the hill, by which nobody goes down. They perceive, in the distance, the smoke of gasoline of the Red Count, with the engine running, waiting for them. All looks go straight to the captain, who nods. And each of them departs toward the place they loved, where they established their house and job, where they had friends or knew love. With discretion, in silence, without interrupting the daily life of those who surround them.

Before the bell plays midnight, they return. The air is tense: as always, that day has rained in Turin. In silence, the captain counts them. There they were, everybody was there. With a gesture of his head, he exclaims "Alé", and one at the time, the eighteen fill the seats of the Red Count. They sprout some smiles of melancholy: their grandsons are grownups, the friends that remain, hair bleached, the city, renewed. But not as much as to forget them.

While the bus puts first march, someone whispers, speaking low, the end of the verses of the poet.

You won the world
At twenty, death came in
Great Turin
My strong Turin...

And a child follows with his eyes the vehicle that loses itself the fog of eternity. He keeps in his hands some figures of rough cardboard, and repeats his mantra without looking at them, while the bus turns into a point in the horizon.

Bacigalupo Ballarin Maroso; Castigliano Rigamonti; Gabetto, Menti, Martelli, Loik, Mazzola, Ossola...

Turin sleeps. The ritual is realized. The miracle is repeated The memory is perpetuated.

WHO WAS IN THE THREE ENGINED ELCE
Valerio Bacigalupo, Aldo Ballarin, Virgilio Maroso; Eusebio Castigliano, Mario Rigamonti; Guglielmo Gabetto, Romeo Menti, Danillo Martelli, Ezio Loik, Valentino Mazzola, Franco Ossola. DT and coach: Ernest Erbstein y Leslie Lievesley In the plane, the future team starters: Rubens Fadini, Emilio ‘Milo’ Bongiorni, Ruggiero Grava, Pierino Operto, Julius Schubert, Dino Ballarin; the masseur Vittorio Cortina, managers Ippolito Civalleri, Rinaldo Agnisetta, journalists Renato Casalbore, Renato Tosatti e Luigi Cavallero4 members of the crew and the organizar of that travel, Andrea Bonaiuti.

THEIR WONDERS
408 goal in the 5 claret years. 104 in 1946-47 and 125 (3,8 per game) only in 47-48, 16 points over the second, a record 65 points at home - 19/20 - ,bigger goalstorm at home, 10-0 to'Alessandria. Fastest hattrick: 3 goals in 2 minutes, Mazzola (goalscorer of the season), Vicenza - Torino 1946-47. In Azzurri, 10 players from 11 against Hungary, May 11, 1947. 93 games without defeat- 17/1/43 to 30/4/49.

SURVIVALS AND IRONIES
Three adult players were spared: Sauro Tomá, defender, wounded in his knee, stayed behind, Renato Gandolfi, goalkeeper, replaced by the brother of Ballarin and Pietro Ferraris, (+ 1991) "The Wolf" was sold in 1948 to allow Franco Ossola in the starting XI. Cruel ironies: ppl believed that Maroso had not taken the airplane and that he was spared, as gossip spread in the city, but that was quickly denied. The pilot was called Pier Luigi Meroni, same as the immortal Gigi, another torinista of tragic end. Days before, the boys of the youth team, the same that would replace the dead Champions up to the end of the championship, lived awful minutes by trouble in the airplane, returning from a juvenile championship in London. The same airplane that, later on, in fire by the crash and the impact, deformed and destroyed, saw a lot of belongings and gifts that the players brought for their families, saved from the fire. Many sent, without knowing it, their last messages from Lisbon, in postcards that arrived to their aching families from the Portugese capital shortly after the funerals. At Lisbon they had hearing with the kings of Italy in exile, without knowing that, shortly after, the needle of the royal mausoleum would end their lives. Equally, opening mr. Cortina (masseur) 's suitcase, all the medicine bottles - glass – were intact, as various bottles that players had brought... utterly unbelievable that objects of glass were preserved from the impact and, instead, not one of the players survived! The most meaningful irony was this: the Champions, the Invincible ones, went away with a defeat (4-3). The last irony of a team that "never lost", of a machine of soccer and a model of friendship. Only destiny defeated them, only the inclement sky of that day of May dominated them.
GRANDE TORINO PER SEMPRE!!

Lorena Lathrop (2005) All rights reserved
:proud: :proud: :proud:
 
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