An open to letter to Mario Balotelli

Mario Balotelli

Greetings, Mario Balotelli.

You’ve always juxtaposed yourself as a postman, so here’s your token of recognition – an open letter. You get to be a postman, and the first person I’d like you to deliver your mail to is yourself. Read on.

Imbecile are your antics. Preaching to children about what’s right and what’s wrong, the good Samaritan that you are. Remarking, ”Because I’m rich” when caught carrying outrageously large wads of cash in your back pocket while whizzing about town in swanky convertibles and motorcycles. Playing dart with the Manchester City youth players as targets.

Delinquent are your pyrotechnics. Incensing your step-brother and setting ablaze your million dollar mansion in Manchester with fireworks from your bathtub could earn you a trip, and maybe even a stay at Ravencroft Institute for the criminally insane. Speaking of criminals and their institutes, you seem to have quite an affinity to them, which probably explains why you broke into an all-women prison.

Idiotic is your handling of the paparazzi. Hurling tomatoes (at Serie A managers), and water balloons in press conferences are one of the manifold faux pas you have committed. Lashing out at countless reporters, accusing them of knowing nothing and waging war with the media with your ‘Why always me?’ celebration and attitude has left a bad taste in their mouth. So, you and the media are forever at loggerheads, perpetually waging war with them.

And more often than not, deplorable is your performance on the pitch. Your blasé approach, cantankerous demeanour, egotistical attitude, ostentatious shooting, non-existent work rate and laughable decision-making hardly warrant a place in any World Cup squad, let alone one brimming with as much talent as Italy.

Yet, here you are, touted as Italy’s and the World Cup’s most mercurial players. Yet, here you are, with a billion and one people’s hopes weighing on your shoulders, one of whom is me. For you Mario Balotelli are no mere mortal, oh no, you’re much, much more than that.

Only a handful, not even that, can echo what you achieve, so effortlessly and nonchalantly, on your day. No goal too small for your God-like finishing, no pass too hard for your feather-cushions disguised as feet, no defence too solid for your knife-through butter like vision, no wall too tall for your millimicron-perfect set-pieces, no distance too far for your curlers and rockets, no keeper too smart for you mind games, no team too good for you, ON YOUR DAY. And I, like half the world that secretly worships you, pray everyday for it to be your day, just like last night, when you silenced the roaring lions. Your showing against Germany almost two years before today, that sent all the world into raptures was but an inkling of what you’re capable of. But performances like that from you are few and far between, and so I pray that it is your day, everyday from last night through July. . And so do you.

Considering how rarely your ‘day’ comes, it sounds quite foolish of me to have realistic hopes of you stepping up to the task. Yet, your greatest strength lies with you, and provides all billion and one fans with a massive chunk of hope, and that is your undying love for your country.

I am proud to be Italian because I was born in Italy, I grew up in Italy, I went to school in Italy and I have worked in Italy. I'm Italian.

Cometh the time, cometh the man, they say. But you, Mario Balotelli, are no ordinary man. You, are the stuff of comic books, Super Mario, as the sobriquet goes. The time has come, Super Mario, to transform into the stuff of legend.

O Paradoxical Postman,

You, who believe not in celebrating goals and letters,

While delivering mail and scoring shoulder-netters.

O Philanthropic Pyromaniac ,

You, who enrich the poor, masquerade as Santa, and play with fire,

Incense your step-brother and that beautiful house in Cheshire.

O Paperazzi Prey,

You, who under constant duress, hate the press,

For the press loves you just as less.

O Belligerent Bambino,

You, who chase your own tail, woefully trying to put on that bib,

Fussing, fighting and falling out with players and gaffers alike, this baby in crib.

O Mancunian Milanese,

You, who go home neither to Palermo nor Ghana,

Settling in Milan, either side of Manchester, this sufferer to banana.

O Merciless Marauder,

You, who orchestrated that monumental overhaul in the theater of dreams,

That rendered a new power supreme, and the overlapping of Regimes.

O Masterful Magician,

You, who make mockery of the very laws of physics,

Inspiring awe, dropping jaw and silencing cynics.

O Gallant Giant-killer,

You, who beat that (Manuel) Golden Glove,

When, finally, push came to shove.

O Passionate patriot,

You, whose ‘Why always me?’,

Ranks only behind your undying love for Italy.

Mario Balotelli,

You, who, are Italy’s prime paladin,

And are finally among your own kind- the very best,

Watched by millions in stadium and on screen,

Step up to the ultimate test.

Yours always,

Another Baloitalian.