Thirty-six teams playing simultaneously, just like when TV didn’t force us to watch the games in bits and pieces. And right away it’s “Excuse me, Ciotti…”

Sure, let’s hop aboard this “Goodbye, Young Men” Wednesday, as if it were Doc Brown’s DeLorean, and treat ourselves to a blast from the past. Let’s travel back in time to those distant Sunday afternoons when all the matches kicked off at the same time and TV didn’t yet have the power to force us to watch a fragmented schedule—something that only made sense at the dinner table. Aside from Sunday, the day of Mass, soccer was celebrated only on Wednesdays, which served as the sanctuary for what was most sacred: the European Cup. Its sacredness stemmed from the fact that every league had its own god, and only one. Today, a nation can even have five supposed deities. The Champions League is a pagan festival, a rave party. Only on Wednesdays and Sundays, because the week was a box of chocolates: on Sunday evenings, the TV drama; on Mondays, the big American movie; on Thursdays, Mike’s game shows; on Saturdays, variety shows.

Then the box tipped over, the chocolates got mixed up, and now, every day, we see everything: soccer, movies, game shows… But this Wednesday has something old-fashioned about it, the vintage charm of the contemporary: 36 teams playing at the same time, results piling up, the standings shifting, the feeling of hearing Ameri’s voice in your ears (“Sorry, Ciotti…”), Provenzali, Ferretti, Cucchi… No stew, just a one-time Christmas feast of a dinner, a little bit of everything—the only thing missing is the eel: Inter, Juve, Napoli, and Atalanta chasing a spot, Mou against Real, Tonali against Kvara, Osimhen against Haaland… In the end, back in the present, let’s hope to find all the Italian teams still in the running. Il Quartetto Cetra.