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

All words and images by Jonas Zöller

“This whole scene, I feel, is somehow symbolic of the culture of football here. Football is family, and family is everything.“

North to Salvador

After our stop in Rio de Janeiro, we head north. Salvador de Bahia once served as a central hub for the Portuguese colonial slave trade, and its marks are still visible today. Salvador feels different from everywhere I’ve been so far. It feels like a different Brazil.

Into the Heat

When we make our way toward Arena Fonte Nova, the heat is blistering. I’ve been travelling across South America for more than two months now, and yet my skin is still so pale that I seem to get sunburned after ten minutes.

The stadium of Esporte Clube Bahia sits beside a lake, and the entire area transforms into the biggest prévia I’ve seen so far. Hundreds of stands sell fake shirts, food, and beer. We arrive early, but already thousands of people in blue and red shirts fill the area. We drift through the crowd, dive into the noise, and try whatever is offered. There’s just one problem: finding a vegetarian option is absolutely impossible. When my girlfriend asks an older woman at one of the stalls for something without meat, she gets only confused laughter from the vendor and everyone around.

The Camera Problem

As we leave the forecourt and head toward the entrance, the steward sees my camera and shakes his head. It takes me a few seconds to process what he means. Not once on this trip has anyone stopped me from taking my camera inside. I try explaining, but I don’t speak Portuguese, and too many people are pushing through the turnstiles for me to use my translator. My attempt to sneakily hand the camera to my girlfriend fails miserably.

Panic rises. After the disappointment in São Paulo, is Salvador slipping away, too? Do I part ways with the camera that has accompanied me through so many stadiums?

I step aside, trying to think clearly. A woman from security stands nearby. She must see the desperation on my face, because she asks what’s wrong and offers to keep the camera until shortly before the end of the match. I hesitate. I’m sceptical. But something in me trusts her.

We exchange numbers, and I hand her the camera. And still I’m not feeling good. So many memories are part of this camera, so many moments have been captured by it.

Inside the Arena

When we step into the stadium, my worry disappears for a few minutes. The stands are unbelievably steep and packed tight. The arena is open to one side, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The entire place seems to boil and sway, led by the Torcida Bamor. Even more than in Argentina, the torcida seems to dance to its own rhythms. The setting sun is making its way through the stadium’s open side, and for a moment, I feel like I’m part of the crowd.

A Moment of Faith

As halftime approaches, I write to the security woman again. I take a few minutes to explain how important the camera is to me. It was passed down from my grandfather. The signal is terrible, and I’m already preparing myself for the worst, trying to press this feeling down my throat.

The disappointment builds in my chest when someone suddenly taps my shoulder. I turn around and freeze. It’s her. For a moment, I can only stare. When she meets my eyes, she tells me—visibly moved—what family means to her. When she hands me my camera, relief floods through me all at once. After a tight hug, she disappears as quickly as she arrived.

This whole scene, I feel, is somehow symbolic of the culture of football here. Football is family, and family is everything.

The Explosive Finale

When the second half kicks off, I can hardly believe my luck—and it seems to rub off on the team too. Bahia equalise midway through the half, and when the winner comes in the 90th minute, the stadium explodes. People tumble over each other on the steep terraces, and the final seconds blur into euphoria. It’s not the shallow dancing to the rhythm now—it’s the pure, brutal noise that seems to soak into everyone in the arena for a moment.

A Different Kind of Connection

Later, as we wait for our Uber, adrenaline drains into gratitude. The stadium, the late winner, the camera I thought I’d lost. Maybe the thing that feels the most meaningful in this moment, though, is that I feel somehow more connected to Brazilian football now.

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