Calcio
Calcio
In-depth conversations with the voices shaping culture, calcio, and society. Explore unique perspectives, personal stories, and inspiring journeys from around the world.
Shades of Azzurro: A Photographic Journey Through Italy’s Football Soul
From Venice’s campielli to the streets of Palermo: adidas and
Heart of Midlothian: The Fairytale of Tynecastle
All words and images by Guirec Munier Guirec Munier made
Brazil and the Unspoken Language of Football
Words and images: Markus Blumenfeld For Markus Blumenfeld, football is
Something Truly UNIQUE: The Identity of U Cluj
All images by Dana Maria Pop-Oprisan “Football culture in Romania
Salernitana represents that ‘old-school football’ that is slowly disappearing,
All images by Alessandra Francesca Coppola “Fighting and believing in
US Pergolettese: Football, Grit and Life on the Edge of Crema
All images by Luca Gaiera There are clubs you follow
Avellino: An Afternoon Among the Green Wolves
All words and images: Imma Rhamely Borrelli They are quieter than
The South American Diaries: Part 12. Inside the Heart of Bahian Football
All words and images by Jonas Zöller “This whole scene,
The South American Diaries: Part 11. Joga Bonito in the Air
All words and images by Jonas Zöller “The thick concrete
Trapani: Matchday and a City That Quietly Surprises You
All words and images by Luca Gaiera Trapani is one
Calcio
Words and Images: tonpotdemoutarde
In Saint-Étienne, football is rarely a solitary love. It is handed down.
For photographer tonpotdemoutarde, supporting AS Saint-Étienne was never a decision to be made — it was part of the fabric of family life. His grandfather stood on the terraces. His father followed. At six years old, he was taken to the stadium for the first time, walking into what locals don’t simply call a ground, but Le Chaudron, the cauldron.
My grandfather was a fan, my father was a fan, and he took me to the stadium when I was six years old. It was only natural for me to support Saint-Étienne. I lived in an apartment where you could hear the chants on matchdays. Every time, it amazed me. I didn’t care about the results — I just wanted to see Les Verts.
More than just a stadium, it’s Le Chaudron. You have to come and hear the two ends singing, to feel the fervour, to feel a city in unison — to truly feel a wave pushing the players from start to finish.
One of my favourite memories is ASSE vs Châteauroux in 2004. If we won, we would be Division 2 champions. The stadium was full, with a tifo stretching across the entire ground. We won thanks to a goal from Bridonneau, a defender, who scored with a scissor kick right at the end of the match. I have never heard such a deafening noise in a stadium.
I would also mention the first European matches I attended, the 100th derby victory in Lyon, and the last promotion back to Ligue 1. But more than anything, the matches spent with friends remain my greatest memories.
What makes the club special is that, despite the passing years and the results, the passion has never changed. The loyalty remains. Personally, I haven’t seen many trophies or European nights, and yet the passion is still intact.
It is also a club people can identify with — a club that has remained popular and proud of its city’s past.
And in Sainté, no one cares where you come from, how much you earn, or who you are. If you’re a fan, you’re family.
Words and Images: tonpotdemoutarde
Latest
The Hatton Sock has been created by Ivy Ellis, in partnership with CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably) and The Ricky Hatton Foundation. This is part of a body of work that Ivy Ellis continues to build, one that uses sport and culture to open up conversations that are often left unsaid.
With this release, 100% of profits will be donated to CALM and The Ricky Hatton Foundation, supporting their work in mental health awareness and suicide prevention. Three designs: The Hitman, The Pride of Hyde, and The People’s Champion — each carries something of the man they’re inspired by.
Because Ricky Hatton was never just a boxer.
Everything is Earned
There are fighters you admire. And then there are fighters who feel like one of your own. Ricky Hatton has always been the latter. Before the lights, the belts, and the Las Vegas nights, there was a lad from Hyde, working-class, Manchester through and through. Not manufactured, not polished for the spotlight, but built the hard way, in gyms where nothing is given and everything is earned.
That’s why people connected with him. He wasn’t just fighting for titles; he was fighting for something bigger. For his family, his city, and for everyone who saw themselves in him.
When Ricky stepped into the ring, he brought more than skill. He brought energy, noise, and belief. Nights that felt bigger than sport. And for so many, one moment will always stand out, a Manchester lad walking into the lion’s den in America to face Floyd Mayweather Jr.
Thousands made the journey across the Atlantic. Songs filled the streets of Las Vegas. And for a moment, it felt like an entire nation stood behind him. Win or lose, Ricky made people believe that where you come from doesn’t define how far you can go.
I remember that night in Las Vegas as if it were yesterday. With each passing year, it seems to carry a little more weight.
I watched the fight with some of my closest friends, gathered in the house of one of them — a friend who is no longer with us. We were all there, together, in the early hours of the morning, cheering him on. Watching a lad from Manchester, with the whole country behind him, take on Mayweather.
When I think back now, I realise that might have been one of the last times we were all in the same room like that.
And because of that, it’s a memory I’ll always hold onto.
The Strongest People Often Face Battles We Don’t See
They called him The Hitman. But to many, he was always The People’s Champion. Because he never lost that connection. He celebrated as the fans did. Spoke like them. Lived like them. And that authenticity is rare. It’s easy to support greatness; it’s much harder to feel like you’re part of it. With Hatton, people felt exactly that.
But behind the noise, the victories, and the nights under the lights, there were quieter moments too. Ricky spoke openly about his struggles, the pressures, the expectations, the comedown that can follow the highest highs. And that part of the story matters just as much.
The strongest people, the ones who seem unstoppable, can still face battles we don’t see. And that’s why this campaign matters.
It’s about recognising that behind every achievement, every cheer, every moment of greatness, there’s a human being. And sometimes, that person needs support.
If Ricky Hatton’s story tells us anything, it’s this: you can be strong, successful, and inspire millions, and still need help. There’s no weakness in that. Only honesty.
This piece is written in partnership with Ivy Ellis, CALM, and The Ricky Hatton Foundation, organisations working to ensure that no one feels like they have to face things alone.
CALM runs a free, confidential helpline and webchat, open every day from 5 pm to midnight. If you or someone you know is struggling, you can reach them on 0800 58 58 58 or visit thecalmzone.net.
Because the most important message, the one that sits at the heart of everything, is this:
Please talk.
“Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.” — Henry David Thoreau
In life, they say it’s not about the destination, but the journey. Every now and then, if you’re fortunate, both fall perfectly into place.
We left under clear skies, the kind of blue that feels rare even in a Scottish summer. The journey to Jedburgh should have taken around an hour and a half, but there was no urgency to get there. Not when the coast was calling.
A detour to North Berwick led us to The Drift, perched above the shoreline with sweeping views across the Firth of Forth. Fresh, thoughtful food, strong coffee, and a horizon that seems to go on forever. It set the tone for everything that followed.
From there, the landscape began to shift. The coastline gave way to the quiet grandeur of the Scottish Borders. Roads narrowed, towns appeared and disappeared. Passing through places like Kelso and Melrose, you’re reminded how much of this region remains quietly undiscovered, rolling farmland, historic stone buildings, and a sense of space that feels increasingly rare.
By the time we reached Jedburgh, the light had softened into that golden late-afternoon hue. There was just enough time for a fleeting visit to Mary Queen of Scots’ House, or at least, an attempt. Closing at 3 pm, we managed little more than a glimpse, a promise to return properly next time. Instead, we wandered the town, picked up coffee, and gathered supplies for the evening ahead.
Because the real destination was still waiting.
The House in the Hill
The House in the Hill lies just beyond Jedburgh, on Townfoot Hill, where the road begins to fall away from everything else. As you arrive, the house reveals itself in full, set alone in open countryside, defined by its quiet and its distance from the world below.
Surrounded by vast, undulating hills, it carries a kind of quiet drama, something almost literary in its isolation. You half expect the wind to carry echoes of another time, as if you’ve stepped into a scene from Wuthering Heights. And yet, inside, it’s unmistakably modern.
The house balances rustic charm with contemporary comfort. Two spacious bedrooms offer understated luxury, while open-plan living spaces invite you to slow down completely. There’s a beautifully designed kitchen fitted with modern appliances, a soft, inviting lounge with a smart TV, and thoughtful touches throughout, including an inviting welcome pack filled with delicious local produce, slippers, dressing gowns, and beds you sink into without resistance.
The property is architect-designed and carefully positioned. Large areas of glazing face outward, framing the surrounding hills so that the landscape remains constant, wherever you are in the house. It operates off-grid, powered by renewable energy and supplied by natural spring water, but these elements are integrated quietly into the experience.
Inside, the house is centred around an open-plan living space that brings together the kitchen, dining, and seating areas with ease. The kitchen is fully equipped and intended to be used properly, whether for a quick meal or something more considered.
Two bedrooms sit on either side of the main space, each positioned to take in the surrounding views. The bathrooms deserve their own mention: open, airy showers that feel indulgent without excess, and a bathtub perfectly placed for long, quiet evenings, as well as a selection of carefully chosen body products. Robes, slippers, and soft, well-placed lighting complete the space, giving it a quiet sense of comfort throughout.
A suspended log burner anchors the living space, while outside, the house opens itself fully to its surroundings. A wood-fired hot tub sits low against the hillside, positioned so that nothing interrupts the view, just open land stretching out in every direction. Nearby, a rooftop seating area has been carefully designed for long, unhurried evenings or slow mornings, whether that’s dinner under a clear Borders sky or coffee as the light returns across the hills.
There’s also a barbecue and outdoor dining space, well set up for warmer months. We left it untouched this time, opting instead for something simpler.
We cooked, opened a bottle of wine, and said cheers to an unforgettable evening.
The sense of seclusion deepens as the light fades. Sitting in the warmth of the hot tub, with no sound beyond the immediate landscape, it becomes easy to lose track of time altogether. It’s a rare kind of stillness. I can’t remember the last time I felt as content as I did in that moment. As the old line goes, heaven isn’t somewhere distant; it’s as much beneath our feet as it is above us.
And then, the sky.
The stars appear in sharp detail, scattered densely across the sky in a way that feels almost unfamiliar. It’s the kind of clarity that makes you look up and stay there. On nights like this, the Northern Lights are not out of the question, another reminder of just how removed this place is from the usual pace and noise of everyday life.
The Beauty of the Borders
What makes The House in the Hill so special isn’t just the property itself, but where it sits.
The Scottish Borders have a quiet confidence—less dramatic than the Highlands perhaps, but no less compelling. It’s a region built for those willing to explore slowly. Historic towns, winding roads, open landscapes, and a deep sense of history are layered into the land.
Jedburgh, with its abbey ruins and royal connections, is just the beginning. And as we discovered, even a missed visit can become part of the story, a reason to return. Because places like this aren’t just visited once. They stay with you forever.
Our stay at House in the Hill came recommended by Make It Scotland, a travel platform dedicated entirely to uncovering the best of the country. Designed to simplify trip planning, it brings together places to stay, eat and explore, alongside local guides and seasonal inspiration that offer a more authentic way to experience Scotland.
You can find out more information about The House in the Hill by clicking here. To follow them on Instagram, click here
You can learn more about Make it Scotland by clicking here. You can also follow them on Instagram here.
You can visit Drift Cafe by clicking here. You can follow them on Instagram here.
Words and Images: Joey Corlett
A Club Hidden in Plain Sight
Reading through Chris Hylland’s seminal book Tears At La Bombonera, he dedicates a chapter to this club: “a short excursion to Excursionistas.” It was a passage that first introduced me to the existence of the club and the strange contrast in which it sits within Buenos Aires.
Excursionistas are based in the leafy barrio of Belgrano in the north of the capital, about a 20-minute walk from River Plate’s El Monumental. Just one block away, you’ll find Starbucks and McDonald’s, with beautiful bakeries and restaurants even closer.
Their home ground, Estadio Excursionistas, sits in surroundings that feel worlds away from the typical image of a third-division Argentine club. A golf course lies to the east, while multi-storey apartment blocks loom over the north and west sides of the stadium.
It wasn’t quite what I imagined when first reading about the club.
An Unexpected Fixture
I had hoped to visit the stadium, but the time of year I had chosen to travel to Buenos Aires meant that the lower-division seasons had already finished. I resigned myself to missing the ground.
What I had overlooked, however, was that Excursionistas had qualified for the Primera B promotion playoffs.
Earlier that day I had been touring La Bombonera. Later, while waiting for a bus back towards the centre of town, I realised I had no plans for the evening. On a whim, I opened the Futbology app to see if anything might be happening.
Refresh.
Excursionistas vs. Argentino de Merlo. Kick-off in two hours.
Suddenly, I was on my own excursion to Excursionistas.
A Slight Wardrobe Problem
On the bus journey north across Buenos Aires, there was one detail I had completely overlooked.
Argentino de Merlo plays in sky blue and white.
Thanks to my visit to Boca Juniors’ stadium earlier that day, I was wearing a blue coat with light blue shorts.
Arriving in Belgrano, the contrast with La Boca was immediate. Towering apartment blocks lined wide streets filled with cafés and storefronts. It felt like a completely different city.
Walking a few blocks towards the stadium, I spotted the queue for the ticket windows. The process was simple: tap the card, collect the physical ticket, and head through the turnstiles after a quick pat-down.
Game number eight of the trip awaited.
A Proper Argentine Ground
Despite its upscale surroundings, once inside the stadium, everything felt reassuringly familiar.
The pitch was ringed by fencing topped with coils of barbed wire. The stands were simple, functional and intimate. Whatever Belgrano might look like outside, this was still unmistakably Argentine football.
I found a seat in the tribune among a mix of supporters — young and old, men and women, and even the occasional fellow gringo groundhopper.
There were a few curious glances from nearby fans, which I initially dismissed as the usual “what’s a foreigner doing here?” look you sometimes get at lower-league matches.
Then the teams walked out.
Argentino de Merlo were wearing blue from head to toe.
The stares suddenly made more sense.
Internally I was apologising to everyone around me: “I swear I’m not an infiltrado.”
The Noise of the Popular
The popular stand was in full voice from the start.
Through the fencing, it looked like the entire barra brava had squeezed into a single terrace. Umbrellas bounced above the crowd while trompetas and bombos blasted out their relentless rhythms.
Even from the tribune, you could feel the energy rolling around the ground.
The crowd near me added their own theatre. Despite my limited Spanish, I could follow most of the jokes and jibes being exchanged.
One supporter arrived late after kick-off and was immediately greeted with a chorus of mock outrage:
“¿Dónde has estado?!” — Where have you been?
The star of the section was an older man in a flat cap who seemed to know everyone. He drifted between conversations and wasn’t shy about shouting at opposition players when they wandered too close to the fence.
The Mystery of the “Allegados”
Within minutes, Argentino de Merlo had struck the post, prompting a surprising reaction from one corner of the ground.
Normally, there are no away fans at most Argentine stadiums. But further down the pyramid, there is the curious phenomenon of the Allegados.
Roughly translated as “friends and family”, these are small sections reserved for relatives, staff and associates of the visiting team.
In theory.
In practice, as my Argentine friend and photographer Dani (@chicagoanalogico) later confirmed, it’s not uncommon for a few braver away supporters to slip in among them.
On this night, it appeared more than a few cousins and brothers had made the journey to Belgrano.
The result was a constant back-and-forth of chants and insults across the stadium — a running dialogue that the witty group around me enthusiastically joined.
A Goal Out of Nowhere
Sadly for the home fans near me, the breakthrough went the other way.
After a loose pass in midfield, Merlo’s Lucas Scarnato noticed the Excursionistas goalkeeper off his line and launched a hopeful looping effort toward goal.
The ball sailed high into the Buenos Aires night sky. As it dropped, the goalkeeper scrambled desperately back toward his line.
He failed to reach it.
For good measure, he collided with the post as the ball bounced into the net.
The reaction around me was immediate and colourful, with far stronger language than the ever-present “La concha de tu madre.”
A Long Night for the Goalkeeper
The second half brought little relief.
Excursionistas briefly pulled themselves back into the game at 2–1, but moments later disaster struck again.
A simple backpass was misjudged completely by the same unfortunate goalkeeper. Slipping as he made contact, he effectively presented the ball to the Merlo striker, who calmly rolled it into an empty net.
The scorer celebrated by gesturing to the home crowd to calm down.
A braver man than me.
Even after Merlo were reduced to ten men, the match finished 3–1 with Excursionistas clearly second best.
Authentic Fútbol
The popular stand, however, never stopped singing.
At one point the chants turned into a demand for the team to show more courage — expressed, of course, in language far less polite than that.
Despite the defeat, the evening had delivered exactly what I had hoped for: a wonderfully raw and authentic football experience in one of Buenos Aires’ most unlikely neighbourhoods.
The tie would end badly for Excursionistas. They lost the second leg 4–0, crashing out of the playoffs 7–1 on aggregate.
Hopefully, only a few Allegados were present to witness that.
There was no fairytale comeback, but there was something just as memorable: a small stadium, a passionate crowd, and a reminder that the soul of Argentine football lives far beyond the famous grounds.
All words and images by Guirec Munier
Guirec Munier made his way to Tynecastle Stadium, home of Heart of Midlothian, to witness a club who are in the midst of a dreamlike campaign, which could see them break the Old Firm monopoloy which has existed in Scotland for over 40 years.
Usually, we don’t choose our family — but we do choose our friends. In the case of Hearts, the two are one: inseparable, intertwined, beating with the same pulse beneath maroon scarves and winter skies.
As I stepped off Lothian Bus number 25 and walked up Gorgie Road towards Tynecastle Park, something unspeakable — almost unfathomable — hung in the air, as though the bricks themselves carried memory. A quiet sense of fraternity was palpable — not loud or ostentatious, but steady and enveloping, like a familiar embrace. The warmth of the Scottish people isn’t an empty phrase or a tired cliché for visitors; it reveals itself in passing words and knowing smiles — and goes beyond politeness to become something closer to communion.
To be honest, I hadn’t done my homework before heading to Hearts v Livingston. I had no idea that Heart of Midlothian is the largest fan-owned club in the UK. The atmosphere around the stadium suddenly made perfect sense, as if the stands themselves were breathing with collective ownership and pride. Hearts is a family affair — not metaphorically, but structurally, spiritually, almost genetically. And family is sacred.
Transgenerational, and with a strong feminine presence, the crowd of the Gorgie Boys resembles a photograph taken at a family reunion — slightly chaotic, deeply affectionate, wonderfully ordinary. Men, women, and children gather not merely to watch a match, but to share a slice of life, to pass down traditions, to stitch memory into the fabric of a Saturday afternoon.
All words and images by Guirec Munier
All words and images by Guirec Munier
First Sight
Standing on the footbridge spanning the railway line that separates Harrington Street from Cleethorpes Beach, my gaze falls upon a stadium nestled in a sea of terraced houses.
Love at first sight.
The exact representation of what a stadium is — or should be. A ground deeply rooted in its community, one that hasn’t sacrificed its soul on the altar of prosperity.
Blundell Park.
Grey Skies, Haddock and Anticipation
In the windswept streets of Cleethorpes, the colour of the sky seems to have rubbed off on everyday life. Grey. On this day, only Grimsby Town appear capable of brightening reality.
As the minutes tick by, Mariners supporters converge on McDonald’s on Grimsby Road and the local chippy, The Gr8 White Fish. Cleethorpes obliges: haddock and chips are on the menu.
Sated — my thumb and forefinger still greasy — I take Blundell Avenue back towards Harrington Street. There, Bradford City fans disembark from coaches specially chartered for the match and head towards the second impasse leading to the away section. In front of the wooden façade of the Main Stand, sandwiched between back gardens, four turnstiles reserved for Bantams supporters sit beneath coils of barbed wire.
From the outside, Blundell Park seems frozen in the pre-Hillsborough 1980s. From the inside as well.
An architectural gem to be preserved for some; the ugliest stadium in Britain for others. Blundell Park divides opinion.
“The Ugliest Stadium in the World”?
How can a stadium arouse such contrasting feelings?
In 2016, talkSPORT put the cat among the pigeons when it published a ranking of the worst and ugliest football stadiums in the world. Blundell Park placed a dismal second.
According to GiveMeSport, with stands of completely different sizes and lengths, the ground looks skewed and poorly conceived. In desperate need of refurbishment, with parts appearing to crumble, it is deemed unattractive and unfit for modern football. Considering it opened in 1899, they argue, it is remarkable that it is still standing.
In short, talkSPORT and GiveMeSport advocate standardisation and endorse the quiet sterility of modern football.
Character Over Comfort
Standardisation and sterility? Nothing of the sort.
Mighty Mariner, Grimsby Town’s mascot, greets me with open arms. The Main Stand — a vestige of football’s early days and the oldest stand in the English Football League — brims with character. Admittedly, the view is restricted by timber framing and wooden pillars, but what pleasure there is in sitting on a folding wooden seat on a cool spring afternoon.
To the left stands the Osmond Stand, financed by proceeds from the 1939 FA Cup semi-final at Old Trafford — an attendance record that still stands. Its L-shape, formed at the junction with the Main Stand, reflects periods of sporting success: promotions to the First Division in 1902 and 1929, and that famous 1939 cup run.
To the right, the Pontoon Stand was also built with funds raised by Grimsby Town supporters. The Findus Stand, financed by the frozen food brand that sponsored the club between 1979 and 1984 and served as a major local employer, offers a panoramic view of the Humber Estuary, where trawlers once returned laden with cod, pollock and haddock.
Even the floodlights tell a story. Standing 128 feet tall, these second-hand pylons illuminated Wolves’ first floodlit match at Molineux in 1953.
“It was the floodlights that made football magical for me — it turned football into theatre,” recalled a seven-year-old boy who attended that evening. His name was George Best.
Every element of Blundell Park carries its own narrative. Together, they crystallise the essence of the town.
A Town and Its Image
The town of Grimsby — and the bleak image that clings to it — mirrors the trajectory of its storied stadium.
The former largest fishing port in the world has indeed endured economic decline. But should we draw a line through its past to improve its present and future?
Like talkSPORT, one could imagine a tabloid peremptorily declaring that Grimsby is unfit for the modern world, that its horizons would be clearer after the arrival of bulldozers, or that Parliament should consider re-enacting the New Poor Law of 1834 for this corner of Lincolnshire.
But progress without memory is amnesia.
What Is Profit Worth?
If Grimsby Town ever decide to turn its back on more than 125 years of history by building a stadium resembling a shopping centre, the soul of the local community will have been traded for a vast car park, an unobstructed view, and shorter queues for overpriced pints.
It is not all profit, for fuck’s sake.
Blundell Park opened in the same week in September 1899 as White Hart Lane, Highfield Road, Hillsborough and Fratton Park.
Will it share the fate of the first two?
All words and images by Guirec Munier
