All words and images: Imma Rhamely Borrelli
They are quieter than the stories of the ultras, perhaps, but no less rich — lives shaped by football and devotion.
A December Ritual
December 8th marks the unofficial beginning of the Christmas holidays in Italy. Homes are dressed with fairy lights and mistletoe, while cities illuminate towering trees in both grand piazzas and quiet neighbourhood squares.
I, on the other hand, spend this day at the Partenio–Lombardi Stadium in Avellino for a Serie B clash between Avellino and Venezia.
Outside the Ground
The stadium’s perimeter walls tell their own story — a collage of murals and stickers, both historic and contemporary. In the car park opposite, makeshift stalls sell scarves and gadgets, while kiosks offer sandwiches and soft drinks. The air is thick with smoke, chatter, and that familiar pre-match adrenaline.
I follow the flow of supporters and enter the Tribuna Terminio. I never quite make it to my assigned seat in the press box, choosing instead the balcony. In Avellino, people are hospitable, open, and generous — something that cannot be taken for granted. They have no hesitation in making space for me, even as a foreigner with a camera slung around my neck, offering me a perfect vantage point of the pitch.
Colours from the Away End
According to official figures, around 120 Venezia supporters are present. My side-on view of the away section is partial, but close enough to hear them clearly during the brief moments when the home curva allows itself a pause. They are colourful, armed with flags, and in the first half even risk bare-chested chants. A strong showing, both in voice and presence.
The Heartbeat of the Curva Sud
The Curva Sud of Avellino, however, is a spectacle in itself. Hands rise into the air as voices thunder “LUPI!” before the flags of the various groups begin to wave in unison. It is a ritual, a collective ignition.
Watching a match from within the stands is something entirely different from viewing it from the sidelines, where attention gravitates towards technical details and tight angles. Among the fans, football becomes a collection of lives and stories.
Sunlight, Smoke, and Song
Beside me stands Mr Vincenzo, listening to live commentary through a small radio pressed to his ear. He tells me he has been coming to the stadium for forty years. He recalls journeys by train and bus, always following Avellino, always faithful, a true lupo. These encounters are only possible through proximity. They are quieter than the stories of the ultras, perhaps, but no less rich — lives shaped by football and devotion.
A generous winter sun warms the green land of Irpinia and those of us in the stands. The feeling of satisfaction I experience here — in this exact place — is complete and impossible to replicate elsewhere.
On the pitch, the match is lively. The crowd moves in rhythm with the game, voices rising and falling with every passage of play. When Avellino score, the stadium seems to shake. “Forza lupi!” shout the boys beside me, offering peanuts bought at the bar. One of them wears a faded, well-worn scarf — a living object that has clearly witnessed many afternoons like this.
Smoke bombs flare intermittently between the away section and the Curva Sud. A series of spectacular saves sends Vincenzo into rapture. He turns to me proudly: “Have you seen how beautiful my Avellino is?”
A Tense Finish
In the final minutes and added time, it becomes impossible not to put the camera aside and simply watch. The curva presses relentlessly, as does the entire stadium. Venezia score, but VAR intervenes — offside. The final whistle confirms a 1–1 draw.
At full time, the stadium becomes a wall of green scarves.
Lingering Moments
No one seems in a hurry to leave. While the away fans wait to be escorted out, the Curva Sud’s “third half” unfolds — chants of unity, freedom for ultras, and the right to travel freely. Eventually, the stewards arrive, gently urging people to clear the steps.
On my way out, I stop once more to photograph the stickers around the turnstiles. Leaving something beautiful is never easy, but memory helps soften the departure — sometimes even before the moment has fully passed.
Back in the car, as traffic inches forward and warm air fills the cabin, I begin to organise the experience in my mind, hoping to write about it with the care it deserves.
All words and images: Imma Rhamely Borrelli
